The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir (18 page)

I sighed to release the squeezing feeling in my chest. “No, that's okay. I guess I'll just go to bed.”

“Tyler's a dick and Shane didn't call me either. Call me tomorrow and we'll go shopping,” Valerie said before hanging up.

I stared into the mirror and slowly reached up to take each earring from my lobes. I pulled the make-up remover from the cabinet and wiped away the earthy colors from my face. As if on rewind, each movement undid my preparations for the date.

Finally stripped bare, I pulled an old T-shirt of Kevin's from the closet, slipped it over my head, and I snapped off the lights. I didn't want to look in the mirror anymore. I slid between the sheets and tucked an arm under my pillow. Sleep came quickly: always a great escape.

My cell phone rang, vibrating against the nightstand. I rolled over and scrambled for it. The digital clock showed five minutes after midnight.

“Hullo?” I sat up, slightly disoriented.

“Hey, I just got your message.”

I instantly came awake at the sound of Tyler's voice.

“I left my phone in the car when I stopped off to grab something to eat. I ran into the guys from the band, so we had some beers. We can still meet up for an hour if you want.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. He was kidding, right? There was no way he could possibly be serious…

The audacity of his statement left me speechless for a moment. Then I just wanted to scream obscenities and poke sharp pins into a leather-jacketed Tyler voodoo doll.

My words, when they finally came out, were well modulated. “You are totally rude and inconsiderate. I can't believe you stood me up
on my birthday
and then call me acting like it's no big deal. You're an asshole.” I stressed each word carefully. “Don't-ever-call-me-again.” I hung up without waiting for a response.

I wonder if there is a rule book for guys about how to treat girls like shit?

part three

the

transition

fortune cookie wisdom

Sunday, June 9

Bonita, Valerie, and I stepped into the sunlight from the dimness of the movie theater and reached for our sunglasses. Bonita donned her frameless Gucci, and Valerie, a pair of tortoise shell, flea-market specials.

“I see you have new sunglasses,” Bonita peered at Valerie.

“So how long did it take you to lose the last pair?” I took my Black Fly sunglasses off the top of my head and put them on.

“Three days.”

Bonita and I laughed.

“Laugh all you want,” Valerie said. “That's why I don't buy expensive sunglasses.”

We walked down the aisle of shops and cafés. Valerie pushed through the door to a fast food Chinese place and we all stood looking at the trays of food behind the glass buffet. After making our selections, we perched on stools at a high table.

“So what did you think about the movie?” Bonita dipped her plastic spoon into her hot and sour soup.

I rubbed my chopsticks together to shave off the splinters. “I thought Diane Lane's performance was amazing.”

“That French guy was hot,” Valerie said.

“The movie made such a huge statement about choices. I liked the part when they flashed back to the taxi scene.” Pinching a piece of spicy eggplant, I guided it to my mouth with the chopsticks and talked around it. “If she would've just gotten into the taxi instead of going up to that guy's apartment, none of it would have happened.”

Bonita shook her head. “She had everything. A great husband. A family. And she sacrificed it all.”

“For incredibly hot sex,” Valerie added.

“I don't think it was worth it.” I twisted the cap off my bottled water and took a sip.

“Euuuuwww.” Bonita's face contorted as she pulled a straight, black hair out of her soup. The strand continued to unfold from the liquid until Bonita held a dripping hair about a foot long. “Sick. I think I'm going to vomit.” She gingerly wiped her fingertips on a napkin.

“It's just protein.” I laughed and took a bite of my tofu.

“Let's get out of here and go shopping.” Valerie stabbed her fork into her chow mein and stood up.

On the way out the door, I grabbed a fortune cookie from the basket and unwrapped it. I snapped the crescent in half and pulled the thin rectangle of paper from between the crisp pieces. I read the words to my fortune:
In life, you will settle satisfactorily.

What the hell does that mean? Settle? I have The List. I want what I want.
I don't settle
.

“What did it say?” Bonita asked.

“Nothing. It was stupid.” I crumpled the paper between my fingertips and dropped the tiny wad into a trash bin.

After returning home, I flopped across the bed to take a nap before work.

My cell phone rang: “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead.” The display on the screen showed the call coming from Valerie's cell. “Miss me already?” I asked.

“Hey, do you want to go to a Wines Around the World party with me tonight?”

“I have to be ready to go on stage by nine and don't get off work until two.”

“Call off work. I heard there'll be a ton of single guys,” she said.

“There will be a ton of single guys at the club who are paying my bills.”

I rolled onto my back and balled the pillow under my head.

She sighed. “Try thinking long term. Are they all doctors and attorneys and rich corporate guys?” she asked, sarcasm lacing her tone.

“So, where is it and how did you get invited?”

“Kari, the chick who works at the Nordstrom makeup counter who is friends with that foot fetish guy I dated, well, she has a friend named Lana who's a real estate agent.” Valerie tried valiantly to make the six degrees of separation make sense.

“That still doesn't explain how you got invited.”

“I'm not finished. I guess Lana throws wine parties at her house in Laguna Niguel, so Kari invited me and said I could invite someone, so I'm inviting you and Bonita.”

“I dunno, it's not really my scene. You know I don't drink, and even when I did, I hated wine. It's a waste of good grapes. So, what's the point?”

“The point is—I want you to go with me because it'll be fun.”

Lana turned out to be a friendly Hungarian woman with tomato red hair and a thick accent. The guests were typical Orange County status mongers: rich guys and the gold-digging women trying to land them. The conversation revolved around wine, international travel, and poorly concealed bragging about luxury cars, investments, and expensive houses. I didn't have anything to contribute and didn't find the conversation interesting, so I sat quietly and looked around the room. Then the man sitting to my right turned to me and asked what I did for a living.

At that moment, I needed to decide exactly how interesting I wanted the conversation to become. I could say I was a freelance copywriter and also mention my unfinished book. Or I could play the shock card. Valerie and Bonita looked at each other and then looked at me. They knew my answer would depend on my mood.

I was bored.

“I'm a topless dancer,” I deadpanned.

The reaction at the table was distinctly divided. The men leaned forward, brimming with curiosity. The women wore the same expression you would expect from cats that had been held down and drenched with a garden hose.

I fielded a few questions and that opened a discussion about women, men, and sexual expectations. A debate started about whether a woman owed a man anything if he bought her a drink in a nightclub. I sat back and listened as the conversation evolved.

The evening finally held some promise to be moderately entertaining.

the one that got away

Saturday, June 15

Josh and I maneuvered through the throng of people toward a little Mexican cantina to have lunch. The shops and cafés by the Rancho Santa Margarita Lake overflowed with brisk weekend business.

I saw a flash of blondeness when a tall guy in a white tank shirt broke through the crowd and wrapped me in a bear hug.

Startled, I stepped back from his embrace. “Ryan! Hi…how are you?” I noticed a tribal tattoo covering the inside of one forearm. A new addition since I saw him a year ago.

I turned to indicate my curious teen. “This is my son, Josh.”

“Hey, nice to meet you.” Ryan pulled off his sunglasses and extended his hand, pumping Josh's arm enthusiastically.

“So, what have you been up to? Did you ever end up marrying that golf guy?” Ryan asked.

His question pinpricked my heart. “No, he dumped me,” I said with as much nonchalance as I could manage.

I looked to Josh's face to see if he seemed convinced that I was no longer affected by the break-up. It was a hard read; he was busy studying Ryan. I saw his eyes travel from Ryan's soul patch and small goatee, down to his lean-muscled arms.

“Does that mean I get another chance?” Ryan suddenly seemed so serious. He held me, unblinking, in his gaze. “My friends call you ‘The One That Got Away,’” he said.

I looked at Josh and noticed his eyebrows raised, but I couldn't read his expression.

“You're the one who never showed up at traffic school.” I couldn't resist the dig. “So, I guess I should call you ‘The One That I Never Heard From Again.’” I smiled to let him know I was teasing.

“I know. It's a long story. It's stupid, really.” He looked at Josh and then back a me. “Can I take you both to lunch?”

Ryan could be intense and I wasn't sure I was ready for it. Five years ago, when we flirted at the idea of starting a relationship, I was. Certainly not now. But Ryan
was
only offering lunch. “Okay,” I said with a shrug. “When?”

“How about right now?” He smiled and put an arm around my shoulder.

Standing there, with his arm around me, it just seemed too soon. Lunch seemed too, I don't know, too—right now.

I pulled away from Ryan. “Actually, we just ate.” I flashed Josh a look when his mouth dropped open in protest. “But I'll give you my number and you can call me.”

I scrambled to find a pen at the bottom of my purse, scribbled my number on the back of a gas receipt, and handed it to Ryan.

He bent and planted a quick kiss on my cheek. “Okay, well, it was great seeing you again. I'll call you.” He aimed a wave in Josh's direction. “It was nice to finally meet you.”

After Ryan loped away, Josh turned to me. “Why did you say we already ate? I'm starving. And we coulda got free food.”

“Maybe some other time,” I said.

I saw Josh weigh my statement. He knew my “some other time” loosely translated meant: “It's not going to happen.”

“He seemed nice. I think you should go out with him,” Josh said.

“We'll see.” That was as much of a commitment as I could make at the moment.

call the exterminator—this house has renters

Saturday, June 22

The display on the computer switched from 6:59 a.m. to 7:00 a.m. I had decided to get an early start. I scanned the classified section of the Pennysaver online and jotted the rental house information on a notepad. Nine days until the end of the lease and I still hadn't found a place.

I clicked the drop-down menu and changed the search area from Orange County to Los Angeles County. Maybe it was time to move up there. If I moved close to the golf course where Kevin worked, I could casually bump into him somewhere. Maybe at a stoplight. Or at the grocery store. Or if I found out where he lived and happened to jog by… Jog? I don't jog. I hate jogging. Oh, m'god. I'm a stalker. It's true. I'm an opera-loving bunny boiler exactly like Glenn Close in the movie
Fatal Attraction
.

Okay, so maybe following Kevin to Los Angeles wasn't exactly a good idea. Can you say
restraining order,
boys and girls? A manic laugh burst from my lips. Okay, that is sooo not an option.

I gathered my keys, purse, and the notepad. Time to go house hunting. What a pain in the ass. Finding the best rental was like finding a lump of cheese hidden in a suburban maze. I despised dealing with the Nazi home owner's associations that fine you for not having a saucer under a potted plant on your porch, and the gated Stepford communities full of soccer moms in pink velour tracksuits minding your business instead of their own.