Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend (25 page)

“Yeah, well, I would have been more confident of that if there had been a ring on that tree stump, and I told him so, right then and there.”

“You
did?
” I replied, aghast. Rebecca wasn't one to mince words, I was discovering, especially on the marriage issue.

“I did,” she said, then downed the rest of her drink. “I was so damn mad, I even took that damn Cuisinart and fired it into the bushes!” She laughed mirthlessly. “All that got me was this horrible poison ivy.” She sighed, then explained, “He looked so hurt after I sent that Cuisinart sailing, I felt bad, so I waded through the brush to find it and walked right into this…this plague! Now I
wonder why I even bothered. How dare
he
act all hurt! As if
I
had somehow missed the point of the whole weekend. I mean, we've been together two years, for chrissakes!”

I smiled sadly. Two years. It really didn't mean anything in the whole scheme of things. After all, Derrick and I had been together two years. And maybe I had a few more two-year relationships in my future. The thought depressed me.

“I'm not getting any younger,” Rebecca said. “Now that I'm starting to meet some of my career goals…” She paused, as if realizing how this might sound to me, then blundered on. “I want to get started on some of my other goals. Like marriage. A family.”

The little life plan she laid out made me painfully aware of how behind I was on all of my own goals. I sighed and almost—
almost
—confessed to the recent demise of my relationship with Derrick. But then I felt a ball of emotion gathering in my throat and stopped myself. I was too vulnerable after that last damning phone call. I would probably start bawling. And the last thing I wanted to do was cry in front of Rebecca. Especially when I heard her next words.

“Well, now that Nash finally has a clue about what
should
be happening with us,” Rebecca continued, “I expect he'll start shopping for a ring.” Then she frowned. “Maybe I should leave more of those photos of engagement rings I borrowed from the magazine around again. I mean, he clearly didn't notice them the first time. After all, I wouldn't want him getting me a ring I didn't like—like one of those horrible heart-shaped diamonds. I mean, there are some things I just won't wear. Not even for love.”

“I suppose,” I said, but I could no longer focus on the conversation. My mind had moved on to contemplate Derrick and all he hadn't done for me. Not even for love.

 

Confession: My self-image has become painfully dependent on the sight of the blinking red light on my answering machine.

 

The weekend came without one message from anyone of the male persuasion, not even my father, whom I couldn't bring myself to call back. Of course, Derrick wouldn't call. He could always be
counted on to stick to his promises, and if he said he wasn't going to call, I was pretty damn sure he wouldn't. As predicted, Max didn't call, either. Though I told myself I expected him to blow me off, his rejection still stung. What was so wrong with me? I wondered as I shored myself against another Saturday night at home. I had already called Alyssa, mostly to check in on Lulu, who'd had a successful surgery last Thursday was already recovering at home, but also because I felt the pinch of loneliness. After reporting that Lulu was fine, only a bit sore and uncomfortable, Alyssa declared that she and Richard were staying in to tend to her that night. “You can come over if you want,” she added as an afterthought, but I was too depressed even to contemplate spending an evening with Alyssa and Richard. Besides, Lulu didn't need my negativity while she was trying to recover.

I called Jade, too, only to discover she and Enrico were going out dancing. Of course, I was invited to come along, but the thought of shaking myself nonsensically on a dance floor, especially after I had just stuffed myself full of the last of the Skinny Scoop, did not appeal to me at all.

So here I was, alone again on Saturday night. I tried to turn it into a positive. With the thought that I might get some work done, I opened up my computer. And as I sat there trying to figure out how to make my disastrous proposal for the Older Bride Issue more wedding-friendly, I resorted to an old procrastination technique of mine that I used whenever I wanted to avoid writing. I started scanning through some of my old files, starting with one I had simply titled Notes. I discovered, with surprise, that it was actually a very tentative beginning to that novel I once thought I'd write. As the title of the file indicated, it was mostly scraps of information on characters the book might contain, scenes I imagined would work. As I skimmed through, I came to a section where I had actually started to flesh out a scene. It was only a few paragraphs about a woman who was sitting before her mirror, making up her face before she went out. But as I read it, I was drawn in. And when I got to the end of the final paragraph, the strangest thing happened. I began to type, filling in the rest of the scene. What she
wore, where she was going. Before I knew it, I had written three pages.

Feeling inordinately pleased with myself, I shut my computer and took a soothing bath. By the time I closed my eyes to go to sleep that night, I felt a satisfaction I hadn't known since graduate school, when I finished the collection of short stories for my master's thesis. I was writing again. Really writing. It was as if I was starting over as the person I most wanted to be.

 

Confession: Okay, okay—I wasn't totally content. Not until the phone rang…

 

Like a sign from God that I was finally on the way to my new life, the phone rang Sunday night, breaking the silence I had spent a good portion of the weekend in. I had done some more writing and, I will admit, quite a bit more cleaning. Since I was in the midst of carefully going over the five pages I had eked out, I decided not to answer, letting the machine pick up.

At the sound of Max Van Gelder's voice, I froze.

“Emma? It's Max. Remember me?” Chuckle. “Sorry I haven't been in touch. Got this last-minute assignment I couldn't turn down.
Rolling Stone Magazine.
” Another chuckle, this one sounding a bit smug.

Well, la-dee-da, I thought, though my insides were racing with excitement.

“Anyway, I wondered if you wanted to get together this week. Give me a call. My number is 555-7684. Hope to hear from you. Take care.”

Shell-shocked, I immediately got up from my computer and began a little jig. He called! Max Van Gelder called!

Unwilling to celebrate this victory alone—and wanting to keep myself from immediately dialing his number—I called Jade.

“Hello?” she answered in a throaty voice.

“Are you sleeping?” I asked in disbelief. It was only eight-thirty.

“No, no. Just resting. Enrico left about an hour ago and I'm
exhausted,” she replied, the satisfaction of a well-pleasured woman in her voice.

“He called,” I burst out.

“Who called?”

“Max. Max Van Gelder. The writer I met at the
Bone
party we went to?”

“Took him long enough. What did he say?”

“He's been on deadline—got a last-minute assignment from
Rolling Stone.
”

“Hmm,” she said, her tone indicating that she was vaguely impressed. “So what did he want?”

“He wants to get together!” I replied, refusing to let her dampen my spirits.

“Huh. So he calls on a Sunday night? He's gonna need some training. You didn't make plans yet, did you?”

“Plans? No, no. He left a message. I have his
number.
”

“Don't call him back—”

“Jade!”

“I don't mean
ever,
I just mean don't call him back right away. Make him wait. He made
you
wait.”

Waiting, I knew, was going to be a lot harder on me. “How long?”

“At least until Wednesday. Then you can make plans for the weekend.”

“He said this week. He wants to get together this week—”

“Emma, listen to me, honey. We're not talking about what
he
wants. You start giving in to that from date two and you're finished. Make him jump through a few hoops.”

She was right, I realized. I needed to get a grip. It was just that I had been so sure I would never hear from him again, the sound of his voice had thrown me into a state of temporary insanity. Now that I had regained some measure of control, I said, “You know what the strangest part of this is? He called right while I was in the middle of…of…writing. It's like it was a sign or something. I mean, he's a writer. I want to be a writer.”

“You
are
a writer, Emma.”

“Yeah, well, to be honest I haven't been doing a whole lot of writing lately. Outside of
Bridal Best
anyway.”

“Doesn't mean anything. Just because a musician isn't in a band doesn't mean he can't play the guitar.”

“When did you turn into the philosopher?”

“Good sex will do that to a woman. You'll see.”

“It's not like I haven't had good sex, Jade. Derrick and I—”

“Oh, no,
no.
Let's not go there. Derrick and you are
over.
”

“Okay, okay.”

“Don't yes me. Now, do you have any good underwear? If not, you need to hit Victoria's Secret this week.”

“It's not like I'm going to sleep with him on the second date—”

“You never know. Besides, I'm thinking it might do you a world of good. Remember, sex is—”

“—the single girl's Prozac. I know. I know.” But the thought of sleeping with Max—of sleeping with anyone other than Derrick—was utterly frightening all of sudden. And absolutely thrilling. “I better hit the gym this week.”

“That's fine, but do it for
you.
You don't
need
it. You look great.”

“When was the last time you saw me naked?” I replied, running my hand over my abdomen.

“I don't need to see you naked to know you're in good shape. I'm a clothes stylist, remember?”

I smiled. Maybe I
was
beautiful. I certainly felt it at the moment, with Max's message still blinking on my machine and the thought of returning his call churning my stomach with anticipation. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jade.”

“Yeah, well. What are friends for?”

 

Confession: I am suddenly boy crazy. And I barely have a boy in my life.

 

Monday afternoon at work, after I had banged out version two of my proposal and proofed it three times, I handed it in to Patricia. I wasn't totally sure it was now what my editor-in-chief was looking for, but I felt a sudden strange indifference. It wasn't my novel,
after all. My novel. The one I had worked on over the weekend. The one I would casually drop into my next conversation with Max, whenever I decided to call him back. After all, he was a writer. He would understand.

I called Alyssa when I got home, to check on Lulu's progress and to keep myself from calling Max back too soon. Plus, since Lulu had made it safely through her surgery, I had to keep a careful eye on Alyssa. Now that I had regained my sanity, I wanted to take back all the encouragement I had given her on sleeping with Jason. And I had reason to worry on that count. When I had tried her at the office earlier today, I'd learned she'd taken the day off—allegedly to run Lulu into the vet. I tried to contain my panic, so as not to alarm her secretary, but I was worried. Even more so since I hadn't heard back from Lys all day.

Her voice was exuberant as she breathed a cheery hello into my ear.

“What's going on?” I asked, hoping she wasn't in some kind of pheromone high after spending the afternoon with Dr. Jason Carruthers.

“I'm in love,” she declared.

Oh God. It was worse than I thought.

“And I have you to thank, Emma. I am so glad I waited until after Lulu's surgery before I—I…you know…”

“Alyssa,” I began to protest, “obviously, you're feeling vulnerable after the surgery. You
can't
be in love with Jason—”

She laughed. “Emma, it's not Jason I'm in love with, it's Richard!”

My heart leaped with hope. “Okay, back up. Start from the beginning.”

“Well, you know Lulu came home Saturday to recover.”

“Yeah, how is she doing?”

“Oh, she's fine. Better than ever.”

“Good,” I said, then waited for her to go on with whatever revelation had occurred that had knocked the sense back into her.

“She was really uncomfortable all day Saturday, so Richard and I decided to give her some of the painkillers Jason prescribed to help her sleep that night.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We crashed about eleven on Saturday night. We were both exhausted after caring for Lulu all day, and she seemed to be resting comfortably, so we figured it was okay for us to go to bed.”

“Right,” I said, still wondering where the in-love part came in.

“About one-thirty in the morning, Richard jumps out of bed. Turns out, he heard a strange noise coming from the kitchen, where we had set up Lulu's bed.”

“Was she all right?”

“No, she was vomiting uncontrollably. And every time Richard and I tried to help her or comfort her, she just whined and threw up again. I was never so scared in my life.”

“So what did you do?”

“What else could I do? I called Jason.”

“And?” Suddenly I was envisioning Jason in Alyssa and Richard's living room at 2:00 a.m., poised to save Lulu's life and carry off Alyssa.

“He wasn't around. I got his answering service.”

Aha. So Mr. Wonderful had finally shown his true colors. “Is that right?”