A Year Straight (14 page)

On the way back to his house, I fretted and tried to let go of bad thoughts.
Just be in the moment, Elena.
Living in the present is not my forte, and neither is juggling two lattes and a dog leash. I held my head high, looking cool in my shades, and
added an extra spring to my step.
I've got this.
I did my best to ignore some guys yelling something to me from a parking lot, but when they persisted, I looked over and they were pointing at my feet. The leash had wrapped twice around Louie and once around my ankle. I was seconds away from either taking a nosedive or decapitating the dog. I thanked them, twisted my way out of the web I'd created, and humbly plodded the few remaining blocks to Paul's house.

Paul awoke upon our arrival, gave me a kiss, and took his latte into the shower with him. Then I had an idea. I enticed Louie onto the couch through a series of kissy sounds, whistles, and the fake out of treats in my hand.
Come here, dammit.
I wanted Louie to lie with me on the couch so that Paul would emerge from the shower to an irresistible scene. Aw, look at my new little family, he'd think. Louie finally jumped up onto the couch and I spooned him.
This is just the cutest!
I waited, pleased with myself. I was sure to win both of their hearts. And then, out of nowhere, Louie turned to me and let out a terrifying growl, baring his razor-sharp fangs inches from my face. I hurled myself up over the back of the couch. My heart was pounding. It came out of nowhere, Louie's rage. My legs felt like Jell-O, so I shut myself in the den and crawled to the computer to check my email. Looking busy was almost as good as looking cute.

Paul and I spent nearly every night of the following week together. After work, I'd head over to the restaurant,
where he'd serve me a pot of tea to sip on while he closed up. We'd head to his house afterward and he'd say things like, “If I accidentally got you pregnant, that wouldn't be the worst thing.” And I'd say, “At our wedding, we'll play Ben Harper” (Paul's favorite musician). Louie and I got along great as long as I didn't try to cuddle with him on the couch. Paul confided in me, sharing all his childhood woes, and I listened while holding his hand. At the end of the week, I left for a four-day trip to visit a friend on Maui. Paul drove me to the airport, and when I was getting out of the car, Louie cried.

“Don't worry, you'll see her again,” Paul said, patting Louie on the head and leaning over to kiss me.

Maui was a euphoric long weekend of learning to surf and leaving things everywhere. I was so in love with Paul, I forgot my carry-on luggage on the plane. My head was in the clouds. I called him twice during my trip, and each time we talked, you could practically see our smiles through the phone.

“You're a goner,” my friend said when I hung up the phone.

“I know!”

 

 

WHEN I RETURNED to L.A., I couldn't wait to see Paul. I called him and his voice mail picked up. I was disappointed, but as I was leaving a message, he called me back on the other line.

“I just missed your call. Are you home yet?” He sounded
excited to see me, too. We chatted for a few minutes and then he had to leave for work. I was a little curious why he didn't ask me to stop by the restaurant, but I figured it was a given. And then my phone rang again. That must be him, I thought, calling to remind me to visit him. It was TJ.

“Aloha!”

“Jackass, when you are done gallivanting all over the country, you need to come home and explain yourself. I can't keep making excuses for you. You know I have no imagination.”

“Excuses?”

“Every time someone asks where you've been, I break into a cold sweat.”

“Tell them I'm at work on the West Coast. It's quite simple.”

“Yeah, but someone told someone else that someone told them that they saw you with some guy somewhere.”

“Some guy somewhere? That could have been anyone.”

“Exactly. At the rate you're whoring it up.”

“Listen, dumbass, I have a serious question for you. You know the waiter I told you about?”

“The one who was flirting with all the other girls at the bar?”

“Do you have to remind me of that ? It's different with us.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I just got back to town after not seeing him for four days, and when we talked on the phone just now, he didn't suggest I come see him at work tonight. Is that weird?”

“Do not go there.”

“Why not? He even called me right back after missing my call the first time around.”

“Trust me. Just don't.”

“Ugh. Whatever. Tell me what else is going on. Give me some gossip.”

“Most of it's about you.”

“All righty then. Well, I have to get ready to go see him at work.”

“I wouldn't if I were you.”

I was nervous walking into the restaurant to surprise Paul. TJ had planted a seed of doubt in me, but it wasn't enough to outweigh the confidence I had in Our Connection.

Paul smiled when he saw me. I walked over and gave him a hug.

“Did you cut your hair?” I asked, fluffing the front of it.

“No.”

“Oh, well you look cuter for some reason. It must be because I missed you.”

I sat at a table, and he brought over a pot of tea. I sipped it and watched as he sailed around the room, dropping off plates here and there, chatting with customers. Then he came over, pulled me up out of my seat, and led me into the area at the back of the bar.
Yes! Another supply closet make-out session!
He sat me down on an empty stool.

“Listen, I'm calling this off,” he said. “While you were gone, I went on a date and I didn't miss you.” I laughed.

“I'm sorry. Please don't be mad,” he said. I laughed harder. He maintained a serious expression.

“You're kidding, right?” I asked, my laughter gradually shifting into short gasps for air.

“I wish I were. Please don't hate me.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am. Don't be mad, okay?”

“Uh... I'm not mad... I'm, confused,” I said, the shock of it hitting me.

“So am I,” he said.

I sat there staring at him, almost laughing again. So am I? What does that even mean? The moment felt surreal, like when I was knocked in the head by a softball in middle school. Everything went quiet and peaceful for a few seconds, and then came the wave of searing pain. I slid off my stool, looked him in the eye, and said, “Okay.” I shrugged my shoulders, smirked at him, and walked out of the restaurant, resisting every urge to look back. My feet felt heavy, like I was wading through mud. I calmly walked to my rental car, got the keys out of my bag, opened the door to the back seat (where the windows were tinted), sat down, shut the door, and sobbed. And then I called my mom. It was 4: 00 a.m. her time.

“Honey, what happened? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, M-m-mom, I p-promise,” I strained to form words while hyperventilating. “B-b-but. Paul said he w-w-went on a date with s-someone else and he d-didn't miss meeeheeehheee.”

“Okay, which one is Paul, dear?”

“Mommm! The waiterrrrrr!”

“Right, I'm sorry. It's late here. Or early.” The last my mom had heard, I was planning my wedding with Paul. But I couldn't blame her for not keeping up. “Okay, honey. Breathe. God I hate men.”

“Me, t-tooooooooo!” My mom sat on the other end of the phone for half an hour while I cried.

“Be careful driving, and call me when you get home, please.”

“Okay, Mom. I m-miss you.”

Then I called TJ, who was less consoling.

“Unless you're dying, call me back in six hours. There's a
Knight Rider
marathon on.”

“I shouldn't have worn this shirt! I shouldn't have worn this shirt!” I forced the sentences out through more sobs.

“Uh oh. I told you not to go there.”

“You're not helping!”

“Okay, tell me what happened.” I could hear TJ rustling around on the other end of the phone, most likely sitting up in bed and piling up the pillows behind her. She was a good friend. I told her the story.

“He's a dick, and it's better you found out now rather than three years from now, when you have a kid together or something.”

“I know, b-but wahhhhhhhh...”

“Listen. Delete his number from your phone right now. Never contact him again, do you hear me? And come home. I miss you.”

“You do?”

“I do. Now tell me, which shirt did you wear?”

“I hate you.”

“I'm going back to my show now. Hang in there and whatever you do, don't call him.”

There was no reasoning with me. It didn't matter what my mom or TJ or Megan tried to tell me.

“You're better off without him.”

“You deserve someone way better.”

“Elena, he's an actor.”

There is no capacity for logic in the brain of the brokenhearted, consumed by thoughts of What I Could Have Done Differently. We tear ourselves apart, dissecting every decision that led up to the unfortunate outcome. I shouldn't have worn that shirt. I shouldn't have called. I should have played harder to get. I should have worn my hair down. I should have worn my hair up. I should have worn my favorite jeans/dress/ jacket/hat/lucky necklace/short skirt/booby shirt. And then we call in the troops.

“What now?” TJ said, answering on the first ring.

“Be honest. Do I look better without bangs?”

 

 

THE TRUTH IS, when you finally meet the right person, you can do everything wrong and you'll still end up together. Amy had done everything “wrong” on our first date. The sun was out, the windows were down, and we were both giddy driving to the café to have tea when a guy cut us off at an intersection. Amy leaned across me, stuck her arm out the window, flipped the guy off, and screamed, “Fuck youuuuuu!” while somehow still steering the car. I sat calmly and quietly in my passenger seat while she gathered herself and apologized for her outburst. Later, in the midst of a passionate conversation at the café, she stood up abruptly and said, “I should take off. I have to finish up some work for my class tomorrow.” Then she put on her jacket, dropped some cash on the table, and ran out of the café, leaving me sitting there alone to wonder what the heck went wrong and how I was going to get home. Six months later, we were living together.

As I drifted off to sleep, I consoled myself by recalling bits of wisdom imparted by my surfing instructor, which I vowed to apply to my love life as well: “Always check out the surf break before you paddle out. Watch which way the current is going so you don't get swept away. And don't be afraid. When it feels right, you'll know.” I held on to his words like a life preserver.

I
'd always fancied myself one of those brokenhearted women you'd find slouched in front of the TV, sobbing through
Steel Magnolias
while wolfing down an entire pizza. I mean, that's what I did for fun, so wouldn't I turn to my usual comforts in a time of need? Rather, I lost my appetite, reluctantly crunching on cornflakes and quinoa crackers that I forced down with tea. Food brought me no fulfillment. I ate to live, which for an Italian girl is not living at all.

I felt like I'd had the wind knocked out of me, like when I went through my Mary Lou Retton phase in third grade, attempting front flips in the living room, landing flat on my back gasping for air. So I decided to go for a walk at Runyon Canyon, the windiest place I could find.

Exercise has always been the least of my interests. But they say it's the best thing for you when all you want to do is remain in the fetal position with a milk shake and a bendy
straw. How maddening. I pulled into the parking lot, propped my foot up on the back bumper, and tightened the laces on my sneakers in which I intended to walk, not run. I felt like an actor in a montage scene, heroically conquering her gloomy blues and reentering the harsh but beautiful world. In my imaginary movie, I was being cheered on. Armed with my iPod, Kleen Kanteen, and a travel pack of tissues, I headed for the jogging path. I crossed through the gate, ready to launch into my victory lap.
I can do this!
And then I stopped dead in my tracks. There were dogs everywhere.

Blasting Ben Harper from my headphones, I took a deep breath. And then a step. Then another. And another. I braved my way past the Yorkshire terriers and yellow labs. I took another deep breath. And another. Walking felt good. I considered changing the music. I knew Ben Harper was not the best soundtrack for my makeover montage, but I was taking baby steps. And then the tears returned. I walked and cried, shocked that there could possibly be more tears to shed, and walked and cried some more. Real actors sprinted past me in a waft of coconut-scented sunscreen and perfume. All the while, Ben crooned in the background: “When your whole world is shaken from all the risks we have taken.”

I walked until I was dripping with sweat and tears. People stared at me like I was an alien. I probably looked like one. And suddenly I was crying from a different place, for all the little darts in my heart.

Age five: My classmate Tina didn't invite me to her Easter egg hunt.

Age eight: One day, out of the blue and outside of our YMCA after-school routine, my boyfriend, Warren, playfully pushed Vicki Amendoli around the gymnasium in the race car tire rather than me.

Age nine: A deep betrayal by a family friend. An arrow, not a dart.

Age eleven: During English class, my friend Missy wrote notes back and forth with the boy I liked. The notes, which I later retrieved from the garbage can of our empty classroom, said mean things like, “Elena should shave her mustache,” in the graceful flowing script I recognized as my friend's. My heart crumpled like the paper I held in my shaking hands. I ran to the bathroom to inspect my trembling upper lip.