Chapter Three
The Uber slowed to a stop in front of a nondescript warehouse-type building tucked in the middle of the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
I checked the map on my phone again, just to be sure this was actually the right address and not some setup for a sex-trafficking situation having to do with one of the ships docked just a few feet away.
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, either sensing my hesitation or silently wondering whether I needed a minute to process my life choices.
“This is it?” I asked, my breath fogging up the cold window as I pressed my cheek against it, craning my neck to get a better look at my surroundings. “Rooftop Reds?”
“This is it,” he confirmed, though he seemed less than comfortable letting me out somewhere so deserted.
I appreciated his concern and lingered for an extra minute or so in the car, scanning the street for any indication we were in the right place.
Then I spotted them: a pack of thirtysomething women marching up the sidewalk in their questionable-for-February stilettos, talking and laughing as they headed toward the same nondescript building.
“Yup, looks like this is it,” I replied, but not before giving him a generous tip.
I wrenched my coat closed against my chest and hurried toward the door to follow the line of ladies going inside.
We piled into the elevator and relished the warmth emanating from being packed in so tightly.
The woman closest to the front pressed for the top floor, and a few seconds later, we spilled out into a glass-enclosed atrium leading to an expansive rooftop vineyard, where attendees were already sipping from stem glasses, mingling under heat lamps inside the cozy tent.
By the registration area, they’d set up an easel holding a large poster of my headshot and a sign that read Guest Speaker: Elliot West, host of Love Is a Four-Letter Word.
“Hi there, do you have your QR code for your ticket?” a woman in a bright-red dress with even brighter red lipstick asked from behind the check-in table.
“Actually, I’m Elliot West, the speaker for tonight’s—”
“Oh, yes, of course! Sorry about that, I should have realized. I mean, your face is right there.” She chuckled as she gestured to the poster. “The event is completely sold out. You must have some truly stellar advice to share for us hopeless romantics.”
“Sure, though I’d say my brand leans a little more toward cold hard reality than fairy tale.”
She waited a beat, as if she thought I might be joking, and when she realized I wasn’t, she cleared her throat and continued.
“Well, anyway, here are your drink tickets. Six tastings are included. You can purchase bottles afterward. There are raffle baskets full of gift cards and goodies from over thirty local businesses. All proceeds are going toward the Brooklyn Food Pantry. Such a good cause. And then don’t forget to check out our merch table and to sign up for a calligraphy name print or a head massage or a mini mani. So many great things to try.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And, um . . . for my book reading? Where do you want me?”
“Right,” she said, glancing toward the tent, where chairs were arranged in neat rows. “We’ve got the podium all set up and ready for you outside. Cassidy, our event coordinator, will meet you there.”
I took the envelope, the red drink tickets poking out the top, and thanked her before heading over to the bar that was elaborately decorated in glittery pink hearts and other Valentine’s Day decor.
Finding some space at the end of the counter, I scanned the list of cleverly named tasting options displayed on an acrylic stand.
And when a handsome man, wiping the fingerprints from a bell-shaped wineglass, came over to ask what I’d be having, I ordered the “Hello, Merlot” flight of three full-bodied reds.
“Here you go,” the bartender said, setting out the three glasses. “Like any great relationship, these blends start light and get more intense as you go.”
“As long as they remain intense and don’t turn toxic like many bad relationships, I should be good.”
“Touché,” he said while he focused on pouring the exact amount for the tasting in each glass.
I glanced at my watch and knocked back all three samples in just a few gulps.
The bartender’s eyes widened slightly. “Maybe I should have also mentioned that a good red is meant to be savored.”
“I’ll remember that next time . . . when I’m not the guest speaker,” I said, motioning toward the tent, where some of the attendees were starting to find their seats.
“Oh, you’re the one giving the talk? The radio host who totally trashes love and guys, right?”
“I don’t trash love. I’m just very vocal on how much of a losing scheme the whole thing is.”
He cocked his head to the side with clear skepticism. “Hmm . . . I hear your shtick is a bit more fiery than that. Think I’ll need a security escort out of here? Armored car?”
“Well, I guess we’ll see.” I shrugged with a wink, tossed a few singles into his tip jar, grabbed my clutch and notes from the chair beside me, and headed outside. I’d made it about five steps onto the rooftop when a woman with a clipboard and a headset zeroed in on me.
“Elliot! There you are. I’m Cassidy, so nice to finally meet you.
I’ve been a longtime fan. When we announced you were headlining our little Galentine’s Day event, we were completely sold out in under an hour.
A record,” she gushed. “If there’s anything you need, just wave me down.
I have water set up on the stage for you next to your seat and a glass of our best cab.
Your agent mentioned you like reds when we confirmed your booking. ”
I lifted my brows, impressed.
“It’s a wine tasting, my dear. It’d be an actual sin if you didn’t join in on the fun.
” Cassidy walked me to where they’d set up the seating in front of a small stage framed with twinkling lights.
I took a seat in front of the crowd and sipped my water, excited to do what I did best: offer facts-first-feelings-later-style advice.
It sometimes wasn’t easy for women to hear, let alone accept, but that didn’t make it any less true.
Cassidy stepped forward to introduce me.
“Ladies, please help me welcome Elliot West to the stage.” She glanced down to the phone in her hand as she read, “Ms. West rose to fame hosting the highest-rated collegiate radio show in history at Brown University before moving to our local airwaves, where she now hosts Love Is a Four-Letter Word, a no-holds-barred talk show that gives a sassy take on love in the modern world. Elliot just signed a six-figure deal with Simon & Schuster for her book Love Is Dead, Let’s Have Brunch, which combines anecdotes from her own life, wild stories shared by listeners on her show, and her signature no-nonsense rules on dating—excerpts of which she’ll be reading after some Q and A.
Now, without any further ado, the maven of ‘swipe left’ wisdom, Elliot West! ”
I stood up and gave a dramatic curtsy to Cassidy and a wave to the wide-eyed crowd.
“What a wonderful introduction. Hello, everyone, and thank you for joining me on Galentine’s Day.
I applaud all of you for turning this holiday into a celebration of friendship and wine, two things you can actually depend on. ”
Titters and peals of laughter resounded from the audience.
“Like my radio show, I’d love to open up this first segment to Q and A from the audience.” I glanced out into the sea of faces. “Who has a burning question about love, dating, or sex? I’m armed and ready,” I said and lifted my glass of cab with a flourish.
A woman in the front row of the folding chairs shot her hand up like we were in a high school classroom.
I pointed to her with a grin. “Go ahead, you’ve got the floor.”
“Hi, Elliot. I’m Lauren. Big-time fan, longtime listener,” said the petite woman with prominent bangs that hung over her eyes.
“Hey, Lauren. Thanks so much for coming out tonight. So what have you got for me?”
“I was wondering, what are your thoughts on second chances?”
I scrunched my face. “I mean, are we talking about, Hey, honey, you forgot to take out the garbage again, or Sure, Todd, of course, you can cheat on me for a second time?!”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
“Look,” I continued, “I do believe in second chances . . . just not in relationships. Second chances are for restaurants with mediocre service and forgetting your grandmother’s birthday, not for people who have already shown you who they are and how little they respect you.
Once a cheater, always a cheater isn’t a cliché for nuthin’.
I mean, my Fifth Commandment clearly states Thou shalt not chase what does not choose you. ”
Another hand shot up, and I pointed at a woman in a chic beret who was practically on the edge of her seat. “You, in the cute hat. Go ahead.”
Pink Beret stood up. “What’s the worst dating advice you’ve ever heard?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” I set my glass down to make air quotes as I said in a mocking voice, “‘Just communicate.’”
The crowd reacted instantly with groans, laughter, even a dramatic gasp from somewhere in the back.
“No, really,” I continued, holding up a hand.
“I get it—in theory, communication is the key to any great relationship. But let’s be honest, when a guy says, ‘I’m just really bad at communicating,’ what he actually means is, ‘I don’t like talking about feelings, and if you make me, I will shrivel up like an unwatered ficus.
’ And you all know Commandment Number Six states Thou shalt not water dead plants. Emotionally dead or otherwise!”
Laughter erupted around the space. Someone near the front clinked her wineglass against her friend’s in solidarity.
Another woman near the back raised her hand as the chuckles ebbed, and I pointed to her to continue.
“Oh, me?” She popped out of her chair and said, “Hi, Elliot. I’m Kamila from Brooklyn Heights. I’m such a fan!”