Life As I Blow It (19 page)

I started to think that maybe this relationship was going to be a good influence on me. I had been panicking for months that my career hadn't taken off yet. I wasn't sure if I wanted a family … but the career, I knew that was what I wanted. Now I was with someone who seemed to know how to make things happen for himself, and maybe that would rub off on me.

A couple of months into my relationship with Ira, I got an email from Marc. It was the first I'd heard back since sending him that email about the commercial. My heart skipped a beat when I saw his name, and my hands shook a little as I read the email. It said that he was going to be in L.A. for two nights and he wanted to get together. I felt like I was doing something wrong even reading the email, but I had to see him.

After hours of laboring over how to handle it, I settled on talking to Ira about Marc's visit. I decided that if I told him what was going on, it was okay for me to do it. I'd see Marc, I'd tell him that I had a boyfriend, and we'd just have a nice meal as friends. I was in an adult relationship and this was an adult situation that needed to be handled with an adult attitude. I shoved aside the urge to lie about the whole thing, meet Marc in a hotel, and fuck his brains out.

Ira handled the conversation pretty well. He said that if I wanted to see Marc then I should see him. He acted tough, but I could tell that it was bothering him. To make matters worse, the same night that I was going to be able to see Marc, Ira and I had plans to go to a friend's party.

“If that's the only night you can see him, I can just go to
the party by myself,” he said graciously. “No problem!” But the look on his face told me it was a problem.

As I was getting ready to meet Marc, I felt like I was going to throw up. I was nervous and excited and guilty. When I started to obsess about what to wear, I realized that seeing him was a bad idea. I obviously had some unsettled feelings for him. One drink and I might end up convincing myself it wouldn't be cheating if he just went down on me for a few minutes.

If I wanted the relationship with Ira to work I was going to need to let this night go. I called Marc, told him I was sorry that I couldn't make dinner, and drove to meet my boyfriend at the birthday party. The look of relief on Ira's face when I walked in the door was all I needed to know that I had made the right decision.

For several years of my life I dreaded every December, knowing I'd have to go home for Christmas and try to make it seem like things were great in Los Angeles. Maybe they
were
okay; I wouldn't know because I had set my expectations so high for when I'd be doing what. All I knew was that I didn't want my family to think I'd made a bad decision. And I didn't want to have to run into any of the annoying, pissy girls I went to high school with in Wal-Mart and answer their barrage of questions.

“Why are you living in California if all you're doing is serving Jack-and-Cokes?” the last girl I'd run into had asked.

“Well, I'm just doing that for now. You have to have a night job so you can go to auditions and stuff,” I said in an attempt to defend myself.

“Well, why don't you forget about that little fantasy of
yours and come back! You can get a job easily. They have bars here, you know!”

“I know, your husband is in one every night,” I said with a smile and walked off. “Oh, and if you're looking for the Slim-Fast, try aisle five.” I didn't actually say that last part, but I wish I had. I was just trying to impress you, the reader.

My birthday is also in December. The year I was with Ira I spent Christmas in Arkansas but came home in time to spend my twenty-fifth birthday with him. When it struck midnight and it was officially my birthday, Ira lit up. He smiled and kissed me and told me happy birthday. I started crying.

“Oh my God, you're crying! Oh, shit, what did I do? Should I leave?”

Ira was three years older than me, but I was his first real girlfriend. He had no idea how to handle female emotions.

“You didn't do anything!” I cried. “You're perfect! It's just—I'm such a loser. I'm twenty-five and I have to wear a vest and a bow tie to work every day. I can't believe you're even with me.”

Ira held me and told me how silly I was.

“Twenty-five is so young, Sarah. You don't have to have everything figured out yet.”

“You have everything figured out. I bet you even did when you were my age.”

“I don't have anything figured out, except that I love you.”

A huge sense of relief washed over me. His words made me smile, so I allowed my boyfriend to make me feel better. He took me to dinner that night at the Palm, which is a famous
old restaurant in Hollywood. It was pretty expensive in comparison to places I had been eating at with my Mirabelle money. I couldn't believe when you ordered a steak all you got was the steak. In Arkansas that would have come with a baked potato, vegetable, AND you could add a house salad for a dollar. Here you had to order all of the sides separately and they were like eight dollars each. I ordered up a storm and reminded myself to tell my grandpa how
not
cheap Ira was—at least for that night. Usually he was actually kind of cheap.

There was a several-week phase that he stayed home every night to work on something, so we barely saw each other. He preferred I didn't sleep over, so that he didn't “lose focus.” So I went out with my friends more than I had in a while. I drank lots, then when he'd ask me about my night I'd tell him I'd gotten home early and had only had a couple of drinks. I appreciated that he worked hard. I worked hard at trying to get my career going, too. But I've always believed you also have to have fun. Otherwise what's the point? Maybe Ira didn't know how to do both. He seemed to go to such an extreme when in “work mode.” And I felt really left out.

Whatever my insecurities were, they were magnified by the feeling that I wasn't good enough or doing enough. Now it was like it felt with Kevin, but this time the guy wasn't judging me. I was judging myself.

Once again I wasn't the same person when I was with my boyfriend as I was when I was without him. Before, I'd stay over and I would wake up and make breakfast for him and watch TV with him and feel that “couple” thing that I assumed was like being married. If marriage were as simple as bacon and eggs and a
Friends
rerun, I'd be a fucking expert.
But now I felt shut out and I was getting restless. I decided that I didn't know what I was thinking before, but twenty-five was way too young to be tied down.

We broke up on July 2. Don't ask why I remember that. I thought it was an incredibly romantic split because we both cried. A couple of days later I decided I needed to have fun so I went to Chris Franjola's annual July Fourth party. This party was a mess. It was at his apartment complex pool—which is always gross. There was a ton of drinking, bad cheese dip, and lots of good hair band music. For some reason when Chris and his roommate thought of July Fourth, they thought of Mötley Crüe. Normally I'd be really on board with that, but since Mötley Crüe was the band Ira and I had bonded over, the sound of Vince Neil's voice devastated me. “Don't Go Away Mad” still does. That's just a good fucking song.

I hadn't told many people that we'd broken up. I don't always like to talk about stuff right away. I find it easier to keep shit to myself so that I can control when difficult subjects surface. When you tell people you're going through something, they tend to follow up by asking how you're dealing with that something. If you were having a good day on said subject, then their question just ruined it. The words “How are you?” can pack a mean punch.

Being newly single can quickly go from the feeling of “Fuck yeah” to “Oh, fuck” after a handful of drinks. Suddenly I was finding myself not having the fun I usually had at a party. If anybody kissed or held hands I wanted to drown them in the sad, dirty pool. If anybody wanted to know where Ira was, I found myself breaking my own rules and spilling my guts about our breakup, which was a buzzkill for them and screwed up any future party invites for me.
When the speakers started blaring “Girls, Girls, Girls” my emotions took over.

I stumbled to the street, not sober, to find my car.
I should probably go talk to Ira
, I thought. I was wearing a bikini and a wrap around my waist, and it was 9
P.M.
, but I didn't have enough time to change my clothes and fix my life at the same time.

I ran into this guy Zack, who I worked with at Mirabelle. He was a cute Southern guy who I always liked flirting with.

“Where you goin' darlin'?” he asked.

I mumbled something along the lines of “Do you think I'm pretty?” then we made out. I've always been a sucker for a guy with a Southern accent.

I realized what I was doing about the same time his hand was headed down my pants. Getting fingered by a co-worker on the street while wearing a bikini was probably not going to make me feel better. I wiggled out of his grasp and managed to get in my car without further groping.

“Are you sure you should be driving?” Zack yelled through the window.

“I should definitely not be,” I slurred, and then I got out and called a taxi, which I still have on speed dial.

There was no time to sober up. All I could think was:
I have to find Ira, he's my soul mate. Oh my God, how didn't I see that before? It was meant to be
. I figured he was at his apartment working on a script—it was the Fourth of July, after all.

On the way to his place, I had a really good idea:
Flowers. Who doesn't love flowers?
I marveled at my own genius. I asked the taxi driver, who had already suggested to me that I just go home rather than to my ex-boyfriend's house, to
make a quick stop at a Ralph's grocery store. He reluctantly obliged. I was dead set on getting some roses to take with me. I would explain to Ira that I was silly to think I needed to be single, and that a relationship with him, no matter how stagnant, was exactly what I wanted. After all,
he
wasn't boring;
I
just needed to settle down.
I'm fucking twenty-five
, I reminded myself.
It's time to get my shit together
.

I walked into Ralph's in my bikini. My eyes were red and blurry with tears, so I asked someone where the flowers were. I was standing right next to them.

“Great, thanks. Now just show me where the checkout lane is and I'll be on my way.”

When the cab pulled up to Ira's apartment I noticed that all the lights were off. I asked the driver to wait for me. He rolled his eyes and said, “Okay, but I can't watch.” Then he looked away. That should have been my first hint.

I hoped Ira wasn't in bed. I had practiced my speech on the way over, and I'd hate for the only person ever to hear it to be Akim, the taxi driver. Several knocks on the door and I started to panic. Shit, he was asleep. I looked at my cellphone to check the time. Ten o'clock. Why was he in bed so early?

Oh, maybe he's out
, I realized. He'd probably decided to have some fun on the Fourth and let his writing take a day off. Good for him!
Maybe if he'd done that with me we wouldn't be in this mess
.

Ira was so adult that he actually had a nice apartment. It was one of the fancy ones with a front
and
back door, something I couldn't afford yet. I decided that since he wasn't home, his back porch was a good location to leave the roses. I didn't have a pen but I figured,
No need for a note, he'll know who they're from
.

I played out the whole scenario in my head. Ira was at a disappointing party. He would have seen couples, just like I had. He'd be feeling sad and missing me, just like I had him. He would decide “fuck it” and have two apple martinis instead of one. Feeling pretty buzzed, he wouldn't be able to take the party anymore so he'd call a cab and go home. He'd go in through the back door—he never did—but in this case he would because that's where my roses were.
He'll just know
.

Akim drove me home, pretending the whole time to agree I had handled this whole thing perfectly. He was polite enough to realize the damage was done, so why make me feel worse? I also had given him a huge tip.

The next morning I woke up and my head hurt. I don't know if it hurt from the alcohol, the crying, or both. I walked into the bathroom to get some aspirin and noticed I was still in my bikini. I had a quick flashback to leaving the roses. I grabbed my phone to make sure I hadn't missed a call. I had not.

Thoughts of what he might have done the night before flooded my head. Did he hook up with a girl? Did he stay out late and he's still asleep? Did he find my roses and now he and his roommate are laughing at me for being so pathetic?

Humiliation washed over me. I don't care how many people say, “Men like flowers too!” There's no excuse for a girl leaving a guy roses. A simple phone call would have been sufficient if I had wanted to talk.

I rolled out of bed and drove in a panic to his apartment, still wearing the bikini. That could not have been good. It was still damp from the pool. I definitely remembered reading something in health class about that causing female issues.
But I didn't have time to change once again. I realized that Ira might not have come home the night before, or maybe he used the front door. My roses might still be on the back step. I could go get them, take them away without his ever knowing I had left them, and call him that night like a reasonable human being.

I pulled up to the street behind Ira's place because from there I could get a clear shot of his back porch. I had figured that out at a different low point in our relationship. I peered through my window and saw that the roses were gone.
Fuck me in the face
.

He'd come home. He'd gotten the roses. And he hadn't called.