Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend (29 page)

“Have a good night!” he insisted cheerfully as I took my bag and walked dejectedly out the door.

I couldn't go home like this, I realized as I turned toward my building once more. I needed
something
to lift my spirits.

As if on autopilot, I headed for Heavenly Dee-lites, and was filled with dismay when I saw the Closed sign hanging in the door. Then alarm bells went off in my head when I saw
him
standing just inside, turning the key in the lock. I tried to back away, but it was too late—he saw me. The Skinny Scoop man of my recent
seduction fantasies. Except that he looked even more irresistible, in a clean T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans.

Spotting me, he opened the door. “Hi,” he said. “I was just locking up, but if you need anything—”

Suddenly I remembered my rumpled hair, my makeup-free face. Thank God I had at least opted for lipstick.

“Uh…no, I'm—”

“Hey,” he said suddenly, his beautiful face filled with recognition, that sexy mouth turning up into a smile. “Double Mocha Chip, right?”

I was mortified. He remembered me. He remembered my flavor. Which probably meant that he remembered I had purchased a whole
gallon
of the stuff mere weeks ago. “Uh, yeah.” I replied, numbly. There was no way to get out of this gracefully now. Smiling weakly, I admitted, “You guessed it.”

“I have a feeling you're in need of a refill,” he said, opening the door invitingly. “Come on in. It'll only take a minute.”

I nodded and stepped over the threshold, my senses on full alert. After all, by inviting me in at closing time, the Skinny Scoop man was coming dangerously close to fulfilling my recent seduction fantasy. I felt heat rising to my face as a sudden image of us going at it against the freezer case filled my mind. “Just a pint,” I said weakly once he faced me again from a safe distance behind the counter.

“You got it,” he said, reaching into the glass freezer between us.

Nice forearms,
I thought as I watched him dig through the containers in search of the Double Mocha. I thought of Jade and her love of this particular part of the male anatomy. That's right—he's more Jade's type anyway. Whom was I kidding? Clearly I would have nothing in common with this guy anyway. After all, he was a…a…stock boy. Or something. Not that Jade would have anything in common with him, either, but that didn't matter to
her.

The beautifully tanned hand attached to the beefy forearm finally found the Double Mocha Chip, plucked it out of the case and plopped it in a bag. “There you go,” he said, handing it over. “That will be two-seventy-five.”

I dug around in my pocket, pulled out a five and handed it to him, my fingers grazing his. That's when I felt it. That tiny electric zing that I had read about but never actually encountered in real life.

Maybe I didn't need to have anything in common with the Skinny Scoop man. Maybe I just needed—

I banished the thought as he handed me back my change, and I noticed the nonchalance with which he performed the function. No way would a guy like this even be interested in me. He was pure sex, while I…

I didn't know what I was anymore. “Thanks,” I replied, pocketing the change and giving him a meager smile.

“Hey, no problem,” he replied, flashing me one of those amazing smiles once again.

God, I wanted to have sex with him. But, instead, I turned myself around and marched out the door. What had I become, some kind of sex-crazed maniac? Suddenly Jade's whole M.O. was thrown into relief. Maybe this was what happened to you when the love of your life brutally dumped you, destroying all your belief in soulmates and true love. Maybe you just roamed the city streets, in search of drink and debauchery….

“See you soon,” he called out as I made my way through the door.

I swallowed. Hard. Maybe I
would
see him soon. And not just for Skinny Scoop.

By the time I got home and was safely under the covers, the pint of Skinny Scoop in my hands and my spoon poised as I contemplated the Saturday night pickings, the thought of a life of promiscuity and restlessness filled me with sorrow. I dug into the pint, spooned in my first mouthful and swallowed, the sweetness less than the anticipated balm to my wounded, threadbare soul. I stared numbly at the TV screen, settling on a channel that had some mindless sitcom on, as I realized that all the good TV was reserved for nights when people were expected to be home. Like any other night but Saturday. And just when I thought I had finally managed to achieve the numbness of couch potatodom, the sitcom I had tuned into broke for a commercial, and I watched, horrified, as the most
beautiful blond woman I had ever seen stepped into an elevator with an incredibly handsome man, their mouths coming dangerously close as a tube of brightly packaged toothpaste flashed up on the screen.

Close-Up.

Oh God. It was even worse than I'd thought, I realized as I took in Carrie's winning smile, her generous breasts and narrow waist.

Derrick had found someone else. And she was perfect.

Confession: I begin to question my own sanity.

 

B
y the time my phone did ring, it was Sunday morning and I was in a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.

It was Jade. “You're sleeping?”

“No, no, I'm up,” I lied, glad to hear a familiar voice after an evening filled with my own torturous thoughts.

“Meet me at Joe Jr.'s?” she said, naming our favorite diner, conveniently located down the street from me. “Half an hour?”

“Okay,” I said, then hung up and glanced at the clock: 10:00 a.m. There had to be something wrong. There was no way Jade could be up so early on a Sunday morning otherwise.

As was my habit, I arrived at Joe's a few minutes before Jade, and was greeted by the cheerful staff. Joe Jr.'s was a family-owned diner, and if you went there often enough, you became a member of the family. Right now I was ready to trade in my own family for this one.

Jade arrived shortly afterward. Once we had slid into a booth and ordered coffee, I asked, “What's going on?”

“It's over,” she said, smiling gratefully at the young waiter as he filled our coffee cups.

“Over?”

“Enrico and me.”

My heart pinged oddly. “What happened?” I demanded.

“Fucking guy shows up at my apartment last night with this bulging knapsack,” she began as she tore open sugar packets and dumped them into her coffee. “At first, I'm not thinking anything. I mean, I told him he could stay over, so I figured he had a change of clothes in there. Well, I'm putting my lipstick on and getting ready to walk out the door, when he pulls out a…a…bathrobe!”

I was confused. “I don't get it.”

“Neither does he, apparently. He tells me he figured he could keep his robe here, so he'd have it whenever he stays over. Then he proceeds to go hang it on the back of my bathroom door!”

Uh-oh. Enrico was getting territorial. “God, he might as well have peed all over the place. What did you do?”

“What else could I do? I told him to stuff that terry-cloth nightmare right back in his bag.”

“Ouch. Poor Enrico.”

“Poor Enrico nothing. Poor
me!
I mean, everything was going great, we were having amazing sex, good times. And then he has to go getting all boyfriendy on me.”

“So you broke up with him?”

“What else could I do?”

“I don't know, Jade. Maybe you could have just told him to take his little bathrobe home and carry on as you were before.”

“Oh, I tried. Believe me. But he was so furious that I didn't want his robe hanging around my place, he started accusing me of sleeping with other guys.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, the whole night was a mess. Not even his bathrobe survived.” She smiled somewhat guiltily. “After I yanked it off the hook and tried to hand it back to him, we got into a tug-of-war and…well, the sleeve kinda came off.” She cringed. “I feel a little bad about that. Maybe I'll have my contact at Ralph Lauren send him a replacement.”

Now I was sure her tryst with Enrico truly was over, as it was Jade's habit to load up her man with gifts just before she gave him the heave-ho. It was as if she felt a hidden guilt at ending things. Even Michael, asshole that he was, had gotten six new CDs. And
Carl, who lasted no more than a month, got a weight-training belt. “So what now?”

“Nothing. Like I said, it's over.”

At that moment, Alex, our usual waiter, came over. “Hello, ladies. What can I get for you today?”

Without hesitation, Jade rattled off a version of an omelet with extras that had enough fat and carbohydrates to make her blood stop moving in her veins. When the waiter turned to me, I nodded numbly. “I'll have the same.”

Once he was gone, I asked Jade, “Do you think something is wrong with us?”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “What?”

“I mean, neither one of us seems to be able to maintain a relationship.”

“For your information, Emma, I am not looking for a relationship. And the demise of
your
relationship had nothing to do with
you.
”

I studied her for a minute, wondering how much truth there was behind her statement that she didn't want a relationship. After the Ted episode, I was convinced it was only a matter of her meeting the right guy. But this was a subject I couldn't broach with Jade without getting my head bit off. So instead I said, “Max never called me.”

“The writer guy?”

“Yeah.” I studied her face, waiting for her to show some sign that she thought there was something wrong with me, too.

“That's New York men for you. The good ones aren't really available. And the others are so needy, all they really want is someone to replace their mothers.”

“Maybe
I'm
the needy one. Maybe Max saw that. I didn't tell you this, but I drank four drinks on our first date. In about as many hours.”

“And?” she replied, as if this statement meant nothing.

“That's not normal. I mean, he even commented on it.”

“He did?”

“Yeah,” I said, embarrassed. “And then he seemed really disappointed when I acted more sedate and drank Merlot on date num
ber two. Not that that stopped me from acting like some drunken girl and sleeping with him.”

“Maybe you just wanted to get laid.”

“Maybe I'm just a mess,” I replied. Then, with a resigned sigh, I blurted out, “My father's in a rehab.”

“Oh, Emma. Not again,” she said, her face full of sympathy.

“I'm beginning to wonder if maybe my whole family is fucked up—including me. I mean, I did drink a lot that first date, and Max—”

“Uh-uh. Don't go there, Emma.” Jade shook her head. “If I know you, you were nervous as hell when you went out with Max. I mean, he looked pretty intimidating to me, the way he looked down his nose at everyone and everything. A lot of people drink too much when they're nervous. Besides, it doesn't sound to me like you drank all that much on the second date. Sounds more like Max was just being your typical guy looking to get laid and hoping to grease your wheels by plying you with drinks.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn't worry so much if my father didn't have such a…a problem with it. These things are hereditary, you know.”

Jade sighed, then leaned back in her seat. “You're determined to find some reason why no man in the world will want you. I'm telling you, Emma, there's nothing wrong with you. You're intelligent and beautiful, and the only reason Derrick left was because he got a job offer. There's no explanation for the Max thing. There never is. Look at Ted. We had a great time together, and he's disappeared off the face of the earth.”

As our order arrived and as Jade and I dug into the fatty concoction of eggs, cheese and ham, I wondered if she was kidding herself about men being the real problem and not us. After all,
she
had just thrown a man out of her life for bringing a bathrobe over, for chrissakes. Could it be we were just the innocent victims of the New York City dating scene? Or were we part of the problem?

 

Confession: It is now public knowledge: I am a complete and utter failure.

 

By Monday morning I was a mess, especially since Sunday night—the very night Max had called me last week—passed with
out a word from him. The phone remained silent, except for one poor fool who had haplessly dialed my number in error and had his head bitten off by me for not being anyone I desperately needed to hear from. Like Max. Or Derrick, for that matter. Not that I expected to hear from
him
again. And that thought hurt even more than Max's indifference ever could.

Now I plodded numbly along the subway platform, hating the crowds that surged and swarmed around me and suddenly understanding why Sartre had said, “Hell is other people.” After boarding the train, I stood among the sweaty throngs, gazing blindly up at a hemorrhoid ad while I analyzed my date with Max for the sixteenth time.

Somehow this gloomy Monday morning, all the minute details that led to this moment of desolation seemed glaringly apparent. The way he'd maneuvered me up to his neighborhood, probably with the sole aim of getting me into his apartment at some appropriate moment. That damn Bart Freely movie, after which he'd waxed poetic on the virtues of solitude. The way he plied me with drinks I didn't want, probably in the hope that I would be drunk enough for him to work his seductive magic.

Turns out he didn't even need to do that. I hadn't been drunk, I'd been lonely. And desperately missing Derrick, though I was loath to admit that, even to myself.

By the time I got to the office, I was too depressed to register the significance of the hum of excited chatter going on behind the cubicle walls. Too numb to see Marcy Keller hovering, hoping to get my attention as I walked into my own cubicle and clicked on my computer. When I turned around and caught her looming in the doorway, I simply brushed past her, muttering something about coffee. I didn't want to deal with whatever gossip she had to share. And, frankly, I didn't care, even if the rumor turned out to be that
Bridal Best
was about to fold and that all our jobs were on the line. I took a dejected kind of satisfaction in picturing myself cleaning out my office drawers and, later, after I'd worked through what little savings I had, being tossed out of my tiny rent-stabilized nightmare. The thought gave me a momentary sense of freedom.
Until I realized that unemployment and eviction would only mean one thing: moving home—at the age of thirty-one—to my mother.

Once I returned to my cube, coffee in hand, I discovered an e-mail from Caroline in my in-box, beckoning me to her office, “at your earliest convenience.”

Since anything was better than dealing with the mounds of paper that sat waiting for immediate attention in my in-box, I set my coffee down on the desk and headed down the hall to Caroline's office.

“Emma! Thanks for coming by,” she said when I knocked softly on her open door. “Come in,” she encouraged. “And close the door behind you.”

Uh-oh. Something was up. And judging by her expression, which seemed poised to send condolences to yours truly, it wasn't good. Still, I did as I was told, then sat in the seat before her, waiting for the ax to fall.

Caroline smoothed her hands, somewhat anxiously I thought, over her rounded abdomen. “First, I want you to know that at
Bridal Best
we truly value your contribution as a writer and as an editor.” Then she smiled. “You've written some of the strongest articles this magazine has published in the past few years.”

Pretty heavy-duty compliment, I thought, and couldn't help but feel proud. Then suspicious. God,
was
I getting fired?

“Second, I want to emphasize how very
competitive
the choices were for the new senior features editor.”

A sense of foreboding filled me. I knew what was coming now.

“Unfortunately, however, we could only choose one candidate,” she continued, a pained expression filling her features, “and that candidate was Rebecca Sanders.”

It amazed me how hollow I felt, how without feeling I was when she said the words I both expected and feared. And aside from the rush of heat and emotion that filled my head and clogged my ears, I think I was quite poised as I heard myself thank her for the opportunity to apply for the position and express my belief (I did believe it, right?) that Rebecca would do a fine job.

Caroline went on to explain that though we both were strong candidates, Rebecca had had management experience at her last job.
“I think that's what gave her the edge, Emma. After all, the senior features editor is largely a
management
position,” she said, looking at me carefully as she emphasized the word. Then she smiled as I gazed at her, trying to make out whatever secret message she was trying to send me and coming up empty.

Caroline was still beaming me that sad little smile as I nodded at her, then stood and turned to walk on somewhat stilted legs to her door. She stopped me once I had my hand on the knob, calling out my name in a soft, sympathetic voice that might have induced tears if I hadn't managed to squash anything resembling emotion down into the pit of my stomach.

“Emma,” she began. “I know that right now this might seem like a terrible blow, but you might consider what other options are available to you. You're a very strong writer. Not everyone has that gift. Not even the senior features editors.”

I looked at her uncomprehendingly. Was she trying to encourage me to look for another job? Maybe she didn't even want me on her staff anymore, much less as a peer. Oh God.

She smiled again, this time encouragingly. “Look, you can come and talk to me anytime. About anything. Your writing. Future plans. I'm here for you.”

“Thanks,” I said in a half whisper, then opened the door and stumbled blindly out into the hall.

Reality hit like the blast of cool air I felt once I stood out in the corridor, my wounds bared for all the world at
Bridal Best
to see. I noted Lucretia peering out over her cube and Nancy making somewhat slow progress to the photocopier, her gaze on me. And of course there was Marcy Keller, hovering by the water cooler, just waiting for me to walk by and break down, telling her everything. I decided right then and there I would not show Marcy—nor anyone else—that I cared. And with this decision, I suddenly wasn't sure if I
did
care. After all, did I really want to be senior features editor at a magazine that wouldn't even acknowledge the existence of women like me—hopelessly single and with no future prospects of registering for more china and cookware than was humanly necessary? Fuck them. They weren't getting a piece of me.

I brushed by Nancy, nodded curtly at Lucretia as she ducked
away once more and smiled bravely at Marcy as I passed her without a word. I even managed to sit looking strong and unruffled less than an hour later at the editorial meeting, when Patricia proudly announced her choice for the new senior features editor. And as Rebecca stood beaming before us, I smiled and applauded just as wildly as the rest of my colleagues. But I didn't dare lower my gaze to look anyone directly in the eye. I didn't dare let anyone know what I really felt.