Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story (11 page)

“We did, but the bullfight was harsh.”

“I figured,” she quipped, stuffing two potatoes in her mouth. “This
is delicious, thanks so much for bringing it.”

“Thank Mr. Jonah over there,” I signaled to where he was sitting,
taking off his shoes. “He paid.”

“Thank you, my darling,” she blew him a kiss that made my stomach
turn with jealousy.

That night, the three of us had a bit too much to drink as we
bar hopped in the
Chueca
district, a neighborhood that caters to mostly gay
and lesbian crowds. Jonah was a hit with the boys, being constantly hit on and asked
to dance. The upside to that scenario was that we got free drinks and shots everywhere
we went. After drinking half a bottle of Patron at a dingy bar playing trance music,
I decided it’d be a good idea to get up on the stage and boogie with an adorable
gay specimen that told me my dress was pretty. I was in the middle of getting down
and dirty with the cutie when I slipped on some water and fell off the stage. I
was too tipsy to get up so I just laughed as I sat there, knees scraped and waving
my rainbow rescue flag.

Jonah and Olivia were by my side soon after, grabbing me like a rag
doll and pulling me up to a standing position.

“Are you alright?” Olivia shouted over the drums, barely able to contain
her laughter.

“Oh my God, what was that?” I was too drunk for embarrassment, but
my knees were definitely throbbing.

“Think it’s time to call it a night,” Jonah motioned toward the exit.

We grabbed three bottles of water and were back to our room like good
boys and girls by 2:00 a.m. When we arrived, I noticed the two beds were positioned
side by side, making a larger-than-life king bed. Olivia saw my confused look and
said, “Jonah and I put the beds together to make it more comfortable while you were
showering. They’re super small and since you haven’t been sleeping here, Jonah’s
been using your bed. Hope you don’t mind,” she sauntered over to the liter of water
we had bought days earlier and took a sip.

Of course I mind!

“No big deal,” I fibbed.

“Awesome,” she turned off all the lights and stripped down to her
bra and underwear, getting under the covers. Jonah went into the bathroom and put
on some shorts, prancing out shirtless as I cursed him inwardly for the hundredth
time that day. After kicking off my shoes, I took a sip from the water bottle and
plopped down on my side of the bed. Olivia didn’t want to move from her side, so
Jonah ended up lying between us. I was so tired I didn’t even bother to get under
the covers, laying on top of them as a sudden heat wave washed over me.

“Goodnight,” I said to no one in particular and shut my eyes, wondering
if I should turn the air down or if it was the alcohol that was causing me to sweat.
A few minutes later I heard Olivia snoring and I turned the other way in search
of a more comfortable position, only to find Jonah’s face a few inches from mine.
He was wide awake.

“Can’t sleep?” he whispered, our bodies facing each other.

“Just trying to get comfy over here.”

“You’ll probably be more comfortable if you take off that dress and
get in your sweatpants or something,” he chuckled. “This thing must be choking you,”
he reached around me and untied the back of my dress, his hand caressing my neck
and jaw line briefly as he pulled it away, igniting an uncontrollable fire inside
me. “Go change,” he whispered. “You’ll sleep better in PJs.”

I got up and picked out my pajamas from the closet, stumbling to the
bathroom and changing there, leaving my clothes right where they landed on the bathroom
floor. When I returned, he was still lying in the same position, his eyes wide open.

“Is that better?” he asked as I slid under the covers.

“Much,” I admitted. “You were right.”

“I usually am,” an arrogant smile spread across his face.

We lay there quietly, looking at each other as our faces practically
touched in the faint light. The current of emotions flowing through me made it hard
to think, the excessive amount of Patron shots even harder.

“I’m going to miss you,” the words came out before I could stop myself.
He inched his face closer to mine and traced my cheek softly with his hand as I
closed my eyes and inhaled. There was no point in pretending I wasn’t crazy about
him, certain he was aware of it as much as I was. The fact that Olivia lay next
to him on the other side evaded me at that very moment, as did every other rational
thought I should’ve been pondering.

“I’m going to miss you too,” he paused, continuing to trace his fingertips
down my neck, stopping, and then suddenly pulling away. “This won’t be the last
time we’ll see each other though. I’m sure of it.” I felt his breath on my face
and realized how dangerous his closeness was. I wanted nothing more than to be able
to kiss him, to hold him in the intimate way couples hold each other. Yet, life
is all about timing and, in this case, time wasn’t on our side.

“Goodnight, Jonah,” I said while finally coming to my senses. I abruptly
turned around and tried my hardest to keep myself under control. I could feel him
tossing and turning for a few hours thereafter as I lay motionless counting sheep
and praying for the sleep that never came.

Disclaimer: This chapter contains two pantless pictures. My
sincere apologies if you’re easily offended by mild nudity or a bit of cellulite
scares you. Feel free to skip, but I guarantee you’ll be missing out on half the
story.

By the time I reached 26, I’d dabbled in just about everything
within the working-girl realm. I know that makes it sound like prostitution and
drug pushing were things I took part in, but I assure you if that was the case,
this book would be different (and probably not as weird).

I was working as the manager of a predominantly African-American church
and seriously-don’t-ask-me-how-the-hell-that-happened-because-we-don’t-have-that-kind-of-time
when I decided to write a book. I often feel there’s a determining factor to every
meaningful life decision we make, and mine was basically forced on me on a Monday
as I tried to explain to a friend how I’d spilled a drink on Roberto Cavalli’s feet
the previous night. If you don’t know who Roberto Cavalli is you should a) kill
yourself or b) look him up on Google.

“How does that even happen?” Chris said to me over instant message
that fateful afternoon. “Seriously, write a book already.”

“Um,” I replied with a smiley face. “That’s a little farfetched, my
friend. That and I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

One week later, Chris opened up a blog for me, which she aptly titled,
Red Means Go
. She sent me the link in an email with a note that read, “This
is where you begin. Now write.”

And so I did.

When the whole thing started, I had no idea what the hell I
was doing. What exactly is “blogging?” How do you rule at it? What does it take
to go from blogger to successful published author? These are questions I’d still
like to know the answer to, and if you do, please inbox me immediately (
[email protected]
). In an
attempt to not disappoint, I did as instructed and began my writing quest. Convinced
everyone’s lives were just as weird my own, I surveyed other blogs and followed
their lead. I shared some recipes and love songs and other stupid shit people do
on blogs while gaining 12 followers (mostly friends who didn’t have a choice and
my mom, who doesn’t speak English nor owns a computer).

As soon as I unleashed my inner weirdo, the little blog that could
surprisingly gained momentum. Google decided I was interesting enough to bestow
the “Blog of Note” crown upon me a few months into it (which I thought was awesome
but really means you’re Internet famous for like a day). I figured it was only a
matter of time until a literary agent stumbled upon my blog and
Bam!
Famosity, bitches.

One uneventful Miami night I was having a conversation via text
with a friend who lives in California.

Me: Dude, I’ve had two bags of garbage sitting by my front
door for over a day. It’s starting to smell.

Dustin: So throw it away, douchebag.

Me: I don’t have any pants on.

Dustin: Who the hell wears pants to throw away garbage? It’s
almost midnight over there. Not like anyone will know.

Me: Okay.

Sometime later . . .

Me: I did it. Hope my gay neighbor didn’t catch me or he’ll
call the board on me. Yet again.

Dustin: Wait. You do this on a regular basis? What kind of
a freak *are* you?

Me: No . . . they called the board on me last time
because I enjoy 2:00 a.m. cookie runs to my fridge. Naked.

Dustin: Is your fridge in the middle of the street?

Me: Very funny. My apartment has those stupid floor-to-ceiling
sliding doors and you can see into my place. Anyhow, I’m just abstaining from pissing
him off, but I had to throw away the garbage and, dude, I wasn’t going to put on
pants just for that.

Dustin: No way! Garbage is definitely not worthy of pants.
I take my pants off before taking out the trash all the time.

Me: Is all I’m sayin’.

Dustin: In fact, I have trash to dispose of now and I’m gonna
take off my pants, just so you know I’m not lying.

Me: How in the world would I know?

Dustin: Wait.

After two minutes:

Me: Are you kidding me?

Dustin: Do I look like I’m joking?

Me: You’re not wearing pants, hell if I know.

Dustin: So are you. Send me a picture.

Me: I’m trying to be famous, so if this ever makes it on the
Internet, I’ll kill you.

Dustin: How do you think people get famous, Annah, by keeping
their pants on?

Such a great point, Dustin.

You would think after posting a semi-nude picture for the general
public to see, I’d be the most famous writer in the world or something, but I totally
wasn’t. I did continue to write and it seemed people liked me enough to visit the
blog and leave nice comments, except for some freak named “Anonymous” who still
plagues me to this day with hate mail and little gems such as this initial one:

“Oh my Lord, you such a fucking prostitute. I can’t believe
the shit you put up here. You are a DISGRACE. You claim to make fun of stupid slutty
chicks, but you are really just one of them yourself. All you care about is getting
drunk and seeing how many guys you can tease with your “playful sexuality,” and
the fact that you have 2000 followers to try to pretend they’re you’re friends.
Classy. You are either a huge whore, or the biggest tease that’s ever set foot on
this planet. I don’t like you
(REALLY, I HADN’T NOTICED).
And I’m sure that
a lot of people you know in real life are disgusted by you. Get the fuck out of
here, you bitch, or you will be destroyed. FUCK YOU.”

Yikes! I confess that even though I was scared, Anonymous didn’t
destroy me, and I continued to tease people with my “playful sexuality” over the
Internet. One morning, I woke up to a voicemail from a Liz Tracy, which kind of
sounds like Dick Tracey and something exciting is about to happen, so I called her
right away. A few weeks later there it was, an article written in the
Miami New
Times
about me, ensuring my impending famosity. Nothing came of that except
my friends being really proud they knew someone famous and my parents asking why
there was a pantless picture of me online. A few months later, another journalist
reached out to me and wrote a piece for
Brickell Magazine
on my awesomeness;
I was in print and positively certain that this time, for sure, I’d be famous.

There’s this scene in Julie & Julia in which they publish
an editorial on Julie and her cooking blog for the
New York Times
, then she
gets home and has 42,000 messages from agents just dying to spar gladiator-style
for a chance to represent her. No one sparred for me that day. In fact, no one even
called. But in my pitiful defense I did get to go to a fancy party thrown in my
honor by
Brickell Magazine
. It was sponsored by my favorite vodka and they
had fancy sandwiches without the crust and chicken kabobs plus those little butter
cookies with the merengue on top, which in a way is almost as good as being famous.

Almost.

Possibly unnecessary sidenote: After finishing this chapter, I
realized I’d lost my phone before saving the picture of me at my fancy famosity
party. No need to worry, though, because I did what any normal person would and
reenacted the scene for your viewing pleasure. You should totally feel special because
I made chicken kabobs at home, went to the hotel where they threw the soiree, and
took the above picture. So maybe it was a little awkward when people saw me pull
chicken and peppers on a stick from my purse, but that’s just the kind of girl I
am, true to her art and all. That and once the novelty of my weirdness wore off
and everyone resumed their evening, I turned my back to those fools and went to
town on that motherfucking kabob. Some would venture to say it tasted like chicken.

I say, it tasted like famosity.