She recognized the label on the bottle of wine — it was a pinot grigio she’d bought at Trader Joe’s on more than one occasion. It made sense that he’d shop there, since one of the original TJ’s locations was just up the street on Eagle Rock Boulevard.
Once everything was laid out and he’d poured a decent measure of wine into each of their glasses, Caleb lifted his wine glass toward her. “Better luck next time.”
There was a sentiment she could get behind. “To better luck.”
They clinked glasses — well, plastic, actually, because she realized the stemless drinkware they held was acrylic, probably a souvenir from some sort of wine festival or something like that — and she took a decent swallow of wine. Yes, that was much better. Already she could feel the tight little knot of tension at the
