The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir (24 page)

On the drive home, I wondered if he would actually show up. I couldn't decide if I really wanted to have sex with him and chance falling back into that codependent relationship—at least, that's what my therapist called it.

As I turned the corner onto my street, I saw his lifted Chevy parked along the curb in front of the house. Ryan climbed out of the truck and wordlessly followed me inside. He walked ahead of me into my bedroom and I closed the door behind us—out of habit rather than necessity.

I was glad Josh went to a sleepover with Valerie's kids. If the encounter with Ryan turned out the way I hoped, we'd be lucky not to wake the dead.

The light above the backyard wall cast a soft illumination into the room through the sheers covering the sliding glass door. It was dim, but not dark. I studied Ryan in the half-light. Neither of us moved nor spoke.

Ryan closed the gap between us in two strides. He scooped me up with his hands cupped around the back of my thighs and crushed me against the door.

His body straddled between my legs, he kissed me full on the mouth. His tongue teased and probed. It was sexy as hell and I returned his kiss. I could feel his hardness pressing against me and my body automatically responded. He carried me over to the bed, my thighs wrapped around his waist.

Ryan pulled me off of him and threw me onto the bed. I stared up at him as he began un-belting his jeans.

He paused with his hand on his zipper. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?” he said.

Tires screeched to a halt inside my head. What a barnyard sex buzz kill.

I sat up and clicked on the nightstand lamp. “I knew you couldn't do this, this was a bad idea, I think you should go home.”

“I'm sorry. I won't say anything.” Ryan climbed onto the bed with me and reached to turn off the lamp.

I rolled off the other side of the bed and paced the room. “I'm serious. This was a totally stupid idea, I should've known it wouldn't work.”

I could've kicked myself for being such an idiot.

“Okay, here's the deal. It's almost three o'clock, so you have two choices. You can leave now, or you can sleep for a few hours and leave before the sun comes up,” I said, “But no sex.”

I hoped he'd choose to go. I only offered the second option because it was so late and I knew he'd been drinking.

“I want to spend one last night with you.” His eyes implored me to agree.

We climbed into the bed and Ryan moved close, wrapping his arm over my torso. He kissed my shoulder and spooned against my back. In a matter of minutes, I was asleep.

When I awoke in the morning, he was gone.

part four

finding

annette

the plan

Saturday, October 12

It's official: dating sucks. And I'm going to be single for the rest of my life. But I'm okay with that.

Now, it was time to plan my future around self-actualization, personal growth, enriching my life with exciting experiences, learning new skills and crafts, and taking up a hobby. My therapist said I should focus on something productive like that.

I could take a bellydancing class; I'd always wanted to try that. Handwriting analysis might be interesting. Or knitting.

I flipped through the community recreation brochure. The class title jumped off the page. Why didn't I think of it sooner? Golf lessons. Perfect.

Kevin always wanted me to learn to play. If I took golf lessons, I could turn pro. Join the LPGA Tour. And be in the perfect position to bump into Kevin at a tournament. Maybe he'd even see me on
ESPN
or the cover of
Sports Illustrated
. By then, enough time would have passed, we'd both be more settled, and it would be the perfect way to get back together.

It was all so absolutely and completely perfect. I could go on with my life without obsessing about Kevin and then sometime—maybe ten or fifteen years from now, our separate futures would merge again.

I tore the registration sheet out of the catalog and began filling in the paperwork. The class was scheduled to start in a month. That would give me plenty of time to buy all the clubs and accessory crap I'd need.

Golf lessons. What a great idea.

the rise of a matriarchal society

Tuesday, October 15

We were all flopped across floor pillows on Valerie's living room carpet while the kids played video games in the adjoining family room. Bonita and Valerie nursed their glasses of Merlot.

“I think I'm going to fire my therapist.” I rattled the juice-tinted ice cubes in my glass. “Well, not really
fire
her. I just don't think I need to go there anymore.”

Bonita winced, making an air sucking sound through her teeth. “Do you really think that's a good idea?”

I shrugged. “She never really told me anything I didn't already know. So, why spend money talking to a stranger about random shit I can figure out for myself?”

Valerie peered over her glass. “I kinda like the idea of paying someone to listen to me talk. Then they don't have any choice, they have to.”

“If you're going to try dating again, don't you think it would be better to have a professional around to help you?” Bonita asked.

“I'm done dating—for a while anyway,” I said.

Valerie snorted. “Yeah, we'll see how long that lasts.”

“I'm serious,” I said. “Dating is such a pain in the ass. I think I'll just stay single for the rest of my life.”

“Then you can be queen of your own castle.” Bonita was rapidly approaching a full kosher pickling. She wandered out of the room to uncork another bottle.

“Yeah, queen.” I warmed to the idea. “If I were queen, I'd pass a law where every guy would have his penile dimensions tattooed on his forehead with ink that glows under the black lights in a nightclub.” I poured more cranberry juice into my glass from the pitcher on the coffee table.

“Too small, throw him back,” chimed Bonita from the kitchen.

“It would revolutionize the entire dating process.” Valerie laughed and sucked the last of the Merlot from the bottom of the bottle. “They always check out the size of our boobs, we should be able to check out their packages.”

“Wait, wait.” Bonita poked her head back into the room and suppressed a small hiccup. “We should create a commune for suburban divorcees.”

“Hellooo… That would actually require me to get married and divorced first,” I said.

“And we can have male sex slaves like those tribes of Amazon women. And we won't have to shave our legs,” Valerie said.

“Val, you never shave your legs anyway. You could braid the hair and put beads in it.” I reached for her furry leg.

She quickly shifted to pull away. “What's the point? No one sees them but you two anyway.”

Bonita returned to the room and lowered herself to the floor. She rolled onto her back, lifted her feet toward the ceiling, and contemplated her bare toes. “I need a pedicure. Let's all get one this weekend.”

“Seriously,” Valerie said, “we should just move in together. After the kids go off to college, we should buy some land and build three cottages on it.”

“We can grow old together,” Bonita said.

I lifted my glass in a toast. “To a celibate, man-free life of slumber parties, pedicures, and hairy legs.”

It seemed as good a future plan as any other.

birth of the elect

The Break-Up One-Year Anniversary
Wednesday, October 23

A giant tent filled the expansion lot alongside the Orange County Performing Arts Center. We stepped through the wood shavings scattered on the ground and sat on one of the bales of straw set out like couches in the open area near the entrance.

I looked around while Mom read the program. Theatre Zingaro: a French equestrian performance troupe. I thought the tickets would make a good early birthday present for her.

“It says here,” she turned the page, “that this is their third time in the United States. They flew twenty-three horses all the way from a Paris suburb called Aubervilliers.” Mom sat engrossed in the information, her short, gray curls peeking above the edge of the brochure.

I may as well have been in France. I was at least a continent away in my mind. Mom and I were at the show to celebrate her sixty-first birthday, and I guess, unofficially, my one-year anniversary of The Break-Up.

After a year, it wasn't like I thought about Kevin every day. At least that torment had passed, though I didn't remember exactly when.

People began moving into the tent, so we rose and followed. The tickets were good. Our seats were in the row closest to the partition of the circular arena: an unobstructed view.

The performance of
Triptk
began to the strains of Stravinsky's “The Rite of Spring.” Unfolding before us, there was the beginning of a new life, a struggle fraught with birth pangs. The symbolism was not lost on me when foals played out their capriciousness in a lost paradise.

After the intermission, a male and female struggled with each other in a dance between the ossified and the tender. In the end, a lone, cloaked rider sat motionless on a prancing steed as darkness descended. The final lingering wind of the clarinet haunted my thoughts.

While the audience filed out of the tent, Mom and I sat quietly in our seats.

“What's the weather like where you are?” she asked. “You weren't even paying attention.”

“I was too,” I said, still absorbed in the spell of the performance. “I felt like the story mirrored everything in my life. Ryan. Kevin. Where I'm going with my future.”

The look on Mom's face said she clearly didn't see how I could make that connection to any symbolism in the show. Trying to express my thoughts about it made my heart feel heavy. “Today is the anniversary of The Break-Up and I can't believe it's been an entire year since he left.”

“I wondered if that was bothering you,” she said.

“I decided that I'm not going to date anymore. I need to do my own thing—alone. Ryan was a mistake. And if he hadn't been so persistent, it never would've gone as far as it did.”

I studied Mom's face to read any unspoken thoughts. She seemed to be weighing her next words.

“You can't control what other people choose for their lives. Ryan wanted all of your love. It's very much like what you wanted Kevin to give you, but he couldn't.”

Her logic was always delivered with brutal honesty. It had a certain clarity that came from wisdom and objectivity. But knowing that didn't make it any easier to hear.

She was right though. My relationship with Ryan was a mirror image of my relationship with Kevin. Kevin must've felt that being with me was settling for less than what he wanted. I didn't want to settle in my life and I couldn't blame him for feeling the same way.

dating dilemma

Friday, October 25

The music pulsed. It was a typical Friday night: groups of guys gathered to drink beer, watch the shows, and flirt with the dancers. A single three-minute set on stage could easily yield from $75 to $100 in tips, but with forty girls on the rotation list, a stage set only came around once every two hours. The big money was from the private dances. Five in a row brought in $100 in fifteen minutes.

I glanced across the crowded club, looking for my next meal ticket. My breath caught in my chest. The roar of blood coursing through my body drowned out the voice of the DJ announcing the drink specials and the next girl on stage. I walked hesitantly toward the bar.

His blonde hair, the shape of his face, the outline of his body—Kevin. It startled me to run into him like this. I never expected to see him again and couldn't imagine why he would show up at the club.

Should I say hello? A sinking feeling buckled my stomach.

He looked briefly in my direction, yet nothing registered on his face. He turned back to his drink.

As I got closer, I realized the guy had a fuller face and broader shoulders. Even sitting on the barstool, I could see he was taller. It wasn't Kevin. An involuntary exhale drained the tension from my body. I didn't need to worry about being friendly and thinking up something casual to say.

In that single, terror-stricken moment, I had discovered a new medical breakthrough: contact lenses would prevent heart attacks.

I walked past the blonde guy at the bar.

“Excuse me, are you okay?” He reached out to touch my arm. “You were looking at me as if you were frightened.”

“Sorry. I thought you were someone I used to know.”

“My name is Steven.” He held out his hand and I shook it. “I'm sure I would have remembered you if we had met before,” he said.

“I'm Beth. It's nice to meet you.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” He flagged his hand to summon the bartender.

“No, thanks. I don't drink.” I knew as soon as I said it that my response was a dead end, so I tried to rescue the moment. “I'm like a camel. I know I should drink more water, but I hate water, I know it's good for my organs and my skin, but it doesn't taste like anything—so, what do you like to do for fun?”

It was always so much easier to talk to cute guys in flirty stripper-speak. With Steven, there was something about him that made me stumble and feel like I was in a ridiculous struggle to create a normal conversation.

Steven looked mildly amused by my rambling. “I enjoy traveling. I just came back from a mountain biking trip in Utah, and I'm leaving for San Francisco tomorrow for a couple days.”

I leaned against the bar railing. “I've never been to San Francisco. But I like sourdough bread.”

Because clearly, my discerning palate more than makes up for my lack of worldliness and my inane comments. God, he must think I'm such a dork.

“Would you like to go with me?” His offer sounded genuine and friendly.

For some reason, I had an immediate urge to say,
Sure, why not!
Something about his gentle manner made me feel like I would be safe with him. It sure sounded like a great adventure: hop on a plane for a weekend in San Francisco with a perfect stranger. But then, again, it also sounded like a great way to end up with my body chunked in twelve different Ziploc freezer baggies.

“Are you sure you're not a serial killer?” I studied his face closely.

“Not that I know of.” Steven chuckled and shook his head.

Would he actually tell me if he really was?

“Because that would be my luck.”

“You can be most assured that I am definitely not a serial killer.”

“I figured you probably weren't. I think I'm a good judge of character…” I smiled at him playfully. “…but I'm going to have to pass on the San Francisco trip.”

“That's too bad. I think we would've had fun. May I have your number so I can take you out to lunch sometime?”

Hmmm…dilemma.

“Well, I'm not really dating right now,” I said. “I'm just sort of focusing on… other things. But I guess you can call me and we can talk on the phone.”