Emily's Reasons Why Not (19 page)

He walks to the kitchen sink to wash his hands and I remember the nights I spent alone wondering if I was just insecure or he was a total pig. Nights spent wanting to kill him, wanting to see him, wanting to torture him! Wanting to have him back. Wondering, why? Why didn’t it work? More important, was it me?

Now I am two promotions into getting my ass out of corporate America. I am finally at a place in my life, with $34,000 saved, when I may actually be able to buy my own home. I have paid off my Sallie Mae student loan, stopped putting 51-40 oil into the Mustang only to watch it leak out onto the driveway, became a functioning adult, and upgraded to the Land Rover.

I have driven the curvy road of relationships past men, boys, and a nongender. I have grown. Grown as a person, grown as a professional, grown as a woman. I am stronger and smarter and able to see right from wrong. Then why? Why can’t I walk away from this one guy? Is there always one bad boy in our lives that we just can’t say no to? Is this the ultimate test? Let’s see how much Emily has really grown? This is a test of my character to stay strong and flex my self-preservation skills. Or is it a test to forgive?

Reason #1
:
If it feels like a test, it probably will be
.

He turns off the water and dries his hands on my kitchen towels. I can’t help but think that he’s here. Let the past lie. Forgive and forget. We are both different now. Isn’t timing everything? Wait. Wait. Stop.

Reason #2
:
If there was a reason you left, remember what it was. At some point, if you take them back, they will leave you or you’ll leave them AGAIN and probably for the same reasons you left in the first place
.

In this case I can’t remember … was it his failure to commit or my good sense to walk away before I got bludgeoned? I remember my fear.

But he looks soooo good, so honest, so open, so “belonging” in my kitchen.

“So what,” I finally ask, “are you really doing here?”

“We’re in town playing the Dodgers.”

“Really? So you just thought you’d drop by?” I say, getting back into the sarcasm that saved me from so many painful situations all throughout my growing-up years. The sarcasm that is intended to block the obvious, that I may be wavering.

Good. Good ploy. Stay strong. Stay focused. Stay witty and in the game. My banter is my private ninety-five-mile-perhour fastball flying at his head. Duck. Or is it a curve that will break over the plate, making him look like an absolute idiot when he hits the dirt on a called strike?

The pitch I am about to throw, however, may be hittable. He sees it out of my hand, picks up the rotation of the stitches on the ball, and starts his swing. “I just needed to see you. To tell you a few things I should have probably said before you walked, RAN out of my life. I figured you didn’t want the answers to your questions then, but what I didn’t figure was that I’d think about you, and miss you, every day.”

I give him a “suuurrrre, suuurrrre” eye roll.

He’s unwavering. “I missed talking to you. I missed the way you laughed with your little snort at the end. I missed the way you made me feel better. But I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I tried to explain everything at that time. I guess I just needed to come and tell you that I know what happened when you were at my apartment and that it wasn’t what you thought.”

What I thought was that he had his penis in ten other girls. He swings and misses. I cock my head, changing my expression to a “likely-story” look as he walks past me and sits on
the arm of the overstuffed couch in my living room. He digs his toe in and taps the plate with a rhythmic waggle. “Okay, it was what you thought, but it wasn’t. Em, when I met you I was … well, you moved me. We were so much alike. But I had other stuff in my life.”

“Stuff?” I question.

I’m not a questioner, but there it is. I sound like my neighbor Beverly. He made me do it. Oh, I hate that tone coming out of my mouth. I never want to hear it again.

“Yes, stuff. I had broken up with a girl, Molly, about two weeks before I met you in Pittsburgh, the girl whose picture and card were in my bag. She was calling all the time. It was messy. I should have told you more. And while we’re at it, Hillary, the woman who you left the note to … hmm, what was it, “call on her cell phone,” IS MY SISTER. Look, you’re smart and sexy and I wasn’t completely honest, but I was honest about how I felt. And I’m sorry if it hurt you.”

I stand eyeing the plate. Rock back, glove and ball over my head, kick my leg up, knowing that I am about to throw him the heat and drive toward home. “Okay, I got it, so you were lonely and although I seemed to be perfect for you I just wasn’t enough. But I thought I was, so really I was the fool, and that was a year ago! Got it. Thanks. That makes me feel better about me. But what do you want now? Forgiveness? You got it. I gave it to you when we became, hmm, friends. Acceptance? Fine. But if you want back in, forget it. The game for us is over. For the season, hell, for your whole career with me as far as I’m concerned.”

He nods, shakes his head a little, stands, and picks an old Ernie Banks autographed baseball off the mantle above the fireplace.

“Boy, you make it tough. Still guarded, I see. Look at it from my side.” He’s changing his stance. “Did we ever once discuss whether we were seeing other people? Did we ever talk about monogamy?”

God, how could I be so mad and still want to kiss him?

“And Em, oh, by the way, why are you so angry now and nice in your e-mails?”

We both stand there a good five seconds looking each other in the eye. I start with one long breath.

“In the e-mails I am here in the safety of my home with my dog and you are lingering but not imposing. You’re in the air, but you’re not making a mark. I can’t smell your Hugo Boss cologne in an e-mail. And to answer your question, no, you never officially said you weren’t rolling in your double feather bed with other women, but Reese, the calls, talks, cards, flowers … all those things say you’re not calling, talking, and sending flowers to the other women you are screwing.”

Fastball down the middle. I had a point, a point men tend to forget: actions speak louder than words. He knows I have him on that one.

He shakes his head. “I wasn’t, Jesus.” His eyes meet mine. “I missed you a lot.” He pulls a piece of grass off my T-shirt. It makes the hairs on my arm stand on end. “You still have your fire,” he laughs, almost resolved that I am not
budging. “I just came by to see if maybe you wanted to come to the game or see if we could get a drink. Whatever you want.”

His boyish charm almost has me. I stand silently, giving him nothing. I run my hand over Sam’s tail wagging back and forth as he stands, panting, watching the classic duel. More silence from me.

“Maybe it was a mistake to come, but I still needed to explain to you.” He backs up toward the door. “Okay, well, then, I’ll go,” he says, walking out onto my porch.

He’s at the warning track. It could be. He might be. Goooinggg aall theee WAY! Gone.

Reason #3
:
If and when a guy who completely wrecked you shows up again and wants back in, he must be willing to work extra hard to get you back. He can’t just slip away like a shadow at dusk. He must be tenacious, must prove that he will never, never, never do whatever he did again and that this time it will be different
.

Reese didn’t know how to work hard at getting me back, he worked at one thing, hitting a ball. His whole life hung on that single struggle, and women came easily. Way too easily for a relationship. He’d never struggled a day in his life for a woman, love, sex, or happiness. There had never been a slump in any of those categories. For him, if it didn’t happen in L.A., his luck was bound to change in Phoenix or Atlanta. He’d get a hit in San Diego or Florida. All he needed was another
at bat or seven and he was bound to hit one out of the park. I was a split-finger fastball and he was expecting a slider.

Quick sidebar, almost a reason but not quite …if the man you want has 50,000 people cheering him every night, if men want to be him and women want to sleep with him, get out easily and quickly because at some point, sometime, somewhere
you
will not be easy anymore, as relationships take work. And work is nothing a ballplayer is willing to do OFF the field.

I watch him walk away. Stay strong, Emily. Do the right thing. SHUT THE DOOR. My internal warning system is on overload. Every fiber in my body is trembling and my palms are sweaty. My heart is racing …I can’t control it. I can’t stop myself. I STILL want him soooo much.

“I won’t come to the game, but …”

He turns around.

“I’ll have lunch with you tomorrow.”

“How about a late dinner or drinks tonight?” he says with those damned dimples blazing.

“Can’t. I have a date.” A lie.

“Ree-he-heallllllyyyy.”

“Yep. So, lunch?”

“I’ll take it.”

And just like that we were in extra innings.

I arrive at Dr. D.’s office, almost afraid to tell him.

“You’re giddy,” Dr. D. studies my face.

“Not giddy. More excited, with hints of fear and embarrassment.”

“Interesting choice of adjectives.”

Dr. D. seems to know what I am thinking, seems to know what I am realizing, that Reese has the skill set to trick me with the faux promise of picket fences and love everlasting. Should I tell Dr. D. and hope that he goes easy on me, or should I avoid the whole subject of Reese? Well, I don’t think it can hurt, telling him.

At what point did I start to believe that Dr. D. was judging me instead of helping me, and more important, why did I care what he thought in the first place?

“I am going to have lunch with Reese tomorrow.” Jesus, I am embarrassed. “Before you start in on me, let me just say, he is
the guy
. Okay? The ultimate flutter. Now, I realize that may not sound all that healthy and maybe it isn’t. Maybe it is, God, or maybe it was bad timing, or maybe … I dunno know. But it is bigger than him or me or therapy. There is still something about the way I feel when the phone rings. It’s been over a year since we broke up, and every time the phone rings I still hope that it is him. It’s the way I feel when I get an e-mail from him or see him online. It’s the way I feel when I wake up at two
A.M
. and his arms engulf me, the way they make me feel safe, the way that I know he is in the room before I ever see him. It is either fate or chemistry or a fucking cliff that I am about to jump off, but I have to have lunch with him.”

“Have lunch, then. Why are you looking for approval?”

I raise my eyebrow. “Approval? I am not looking for approval.”

“Yes, you are. You are looking for me, your doctor, to tell you that it is okay for you to go back when you and I both know it isn’t.”

My tone changes, as if I can somehow take criticism about myself, but not Reese. I counterattack, “Maybe I am just looking for signs of life in you. Signs that you may actually, after all these sessions, understand what I mean by
the flutter.”

“Emily, whether I understand your flutter or not is unimportant. I understand what you want and I understand the lengths that you will go
not
to get it. I’m not telling you that Reese is not the guy. I am saying that the odds aren’t good. I am here to listen, advise, and help you, not validate what your flutter means.” He takes off his glasses. “But just so you and I are clear, I do have a pulse, I do notice and hear you. I am vitally aware of how you understand and can tap into your hope for love, and that is rare. I understand that you are special, that you’re busting at the seams with energy and that a bright shining light spills from your eyes and draws people to you. But ultimately, you are still just a gentle little girl who wants someone to love you.” He slides his glasses back on. “Oh yes, Emily, I am alive and very clear on what you are saying now, what you have said up to this point, and, if your behavior continues in this manner, what we will be talking about when you are forty and still single.”

At that moment he gave me a lump in my throat, and I wanted to officially break up with Dr. D., although he did not know it. I smiled faintly at what he had said and decided not to fight him. I changed the subject and he let me.

I continued on about the fact that I had given my resignation at the company and had registered my new PR company’s domain and Web site. Tomorrow, after my lunch with Reese, I would be meeting with my corporate leasing agent to look for a small office space for my new company, Sanders Entertainment Media Strategies Group. It was a leap, a leap JJ was taking with me. We were only a group of three, but a group nonetheless.

When I drove away from the office I knew that it was Reese or therapy with Dr. D., as the two could never coincide under the harmonious and perfect union that I wanted my life to be. It made me sad.

I head to Beverly Hot Springs at ten in the morning for a cucumber-body-salt scrub that will loofah off any dead skin and leave me with a sixteen-year-old glow. I lay naked on the table while a large Korean woman scrubs me with what feels like wet burlap and smells like cucumbers. I daydream about what my life with Reese will be like. I am naming the children in my head when something on my calf begins to itch. The scrubbing continues and the itch moves up the back of my knees to my thigh. I reach back and scratch. The Korean woman flings me onto my side and begins to scrub my elbow The itching intensifies until I can’t take it anymore. I sit up, only to discover that I am head-to-toe covered in hives. I grab the water hose and start squirting my arms and legs as the older Korean owner comes scurrying in the back and yells at the woman who has been scrubbing me, “I tell you, you have to change the loofah and scrubs in between.” I am
suddenly mortified, as they now are yelling in Korean at each other and I am standing naked, scratching, two hours before my date.

I try desperately not to think about the fact that somebody’s dead skin is all over me as the older Korean woman leads me into the cold dip pool and submerges me until I am convinced that I have hypothermia. I am torn between freezing to death and scratching to death. Forty-five minutes later, as I am still itchy, fully showered and slathered and ready for my date, I find myself writing a check for $120 to cover the bacteria scrub.