Home Is Burning (33 page)

“Yeah, I know. Nothing a bunch of alcohol can't cure though, right?” I really said.

“Alcohol is actually a depressant. How much are you drinking?” she asked.

“Not that much. Maybe like a bottle of wine and a few beers a night,” I said.

“That's over forty drinks a week,” she said.

“Is that too many or too few?” I asked.

“Too many. Way too many.” She prescribed me some Wellbutrin for the depression and advised I not mix it with alcohol.

I eventually decided that I could save my relationship with Abby if I really focused on it. I didn't want to lose the person I truly loved over this whole mess. I'm not the type who is built to fall out of love easily. I couldn't handle a full breakup right now. I asked Abby if I could come visit her in Berkeley so we could sort some stuff out face-to-face. I was tired of our relationship existing in this mysterious state. She agreed.

I booked a flight and planned our weekend. My goal was to win her back and get her to fall in love with me again. I made us reservations for Friday at a spa in San Francisco called the Nob Hill Spa. Here's what its Web site said about it:

Retreat to an alluring sanctuary of indulgence and pampering at The Huntington Hotel—renowned among the best San Francisco spa hotels. Treat yourself to personalized service, rejuvenating massages and treatments, and captivating skyline views at our Nob Hill Spa. Follow a therapeutic steam or sauna with a refreshing swim in the mesmerizing infinity pool. Unwind in the fireside lounge, ideal for personal reflection. Select from a stellar complement of services … including massages, facials, body treatments, and manicures and pedicures. Let go of your stress and worry—and discover an incomparable oasis named by the
San Francisco Chronicle
as “one of the most luxurious spaces in the city.”

It seemed like the sort of place that could help you win a girl back who didn't want to be with you anymore, or at least that's what I thought.

As the trip got closer and closer, I could tell Abby really didn't want me to come, but I didn't care. I had to see her. I remember telling everyone that I felt like I was flying off to my own execution—that I was setting myself up for something very painful and awful to happen. If this had been a slasher movie, you'd be going, “No, no. Don't do that. Don't go in there.”

I still went. I landed in Oakland.

We had agreed that she would pick me up, so I was expecting her there at Oakland's awful airport in her shitty Volvo, but she was a no-show. She left me standing curbside with my sad little bags. I figured that I shouldn't go to her house, since she clearly didn't want to see me, so I called a few friends. They agreed that I could stay with them in San Francisco. I took BART into the city.

I called Abby a few times, but she didn't answer. I got drunk and went to bed around 9 p.m. And by “went to bed,” I mean I passed out from too much alcohol.

The next morning, I awoke hungover, feeling like my soul and spirit were completely broken—I had hit a genuine rock bottom. I actually wanted to be back home with my dad. He was dying, but he still had a way of making me feel like everything was going to be all right. Instead, I was off in the Bay Area getting my heart all sorts of broken.

Abby was still not answering her phone. It was clear she didn't want to be reasonable or humane about this whole breaking-my-heart thing. She was off cowering in Berkeley, probably scared that I'd show up at her place. So what did I do? I decided to go out to Berkeley and show up at her place. Might as well make this painful for both of us. It wasn't fair that she got the easy way out.

Plus, I had this magical spa day planned. Remember? Today was the big day.

I started to justify my stupid behavior. Maybe her phone wasn't working. Maybe she couldn't find her charger. Maybe she had forgotten when my flight was landing. Maybe she loved me so much that she had planned an “I love you so much, Dan” surprise parade and party out in Berkeley, I thought.

I popped a Wellbutrin and headed to Berkeley. I got off the Berkeley BART only to realize that no “I love you so much, Dan” surprise parade was planned. I went to Abby's house. God, I felt like a stalker, or some sort of criminal. I felt dirty and trashy, like a loser. But I didn't know what to do or how to get some answers or conversation out of Abby, since she was clearly handling the breakup by just ignoring me.

I knocked on her door. She wasn't home. I called her, and she finally answered. She had been at the gym. I told her that surprise! I was in the neighborhood; that I wanted to talk to her. She agreed. We ran into each other on the street while still on the phone with each other. She was in her workout clothes. At least she hadn't lied about that.

The first thing she said to me was “You smell like booze.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Oh, and thanks for picking me up from the airport.”

“Sorry, I had homework…” she said, avoiding eye contact.

I started to picture her side of the story as she sniffed the leftover booze on me. “So Dan just showed up, out of nowhere. He had clearly been drinking. Isn't he a weirdo stalker fuck?”

As we walked back to her place, Abby started yammering on and on and on about how she had gotten a B in one of her classes even though she had worked really, really, really hard. I wanted to tell her that I really didn't give a fuck about her B grade. I wanted to tell her to get a real problem, like the dying of a father or something. I tried to empathize with her and talk about how horrible it was that some evil professor would do that to her, but I was too distracted to not sound sarcastic and callous. I wanted to figure out what the fuck was up.

I pictured her side of the story, again. “I told Dan about my B—which I was really upset about—and he didn't even seem to care. He's such a selfish fuck.”

We got back to her house. I honestly didn't know what to expect. She was still going on and on about her grade. She was clearly just delaying because she didn't want to have the hard and awkward breakup conversation.

We got into her room. I sat on her bed, half expecting sex. I finally interrupted her and asked, “So what's going on here?”

“With my B?” she asked.

“No, with us. I mean, I know you're upset about your grade, but can we talk about us for a minute? I flew out here because I thought we were going to figure this all out.”

“Yeah, but I don't think there's anything for us to figure out. I'm not your girlfriend. We should date other people,” she said, finally being blunt.

Boom. There it was. Until now, I had been holding out hope that we'd fix things and go back to the good life we had together. But it was official. We were done. The “break” had made way to the actual breakup.

Even though the logical part of me knew it was coming, everything hit all at once. Life was awful. Life was shit. I didn't know what to do or say, so I did something pretty awful. I turned into a crazy maniac. I grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her onto the bed and held her there for a second. I then got up and thought about breaking her computer, but didn't.

I snapped out of it, thankfully.

I was instantly ashamed. I had lost control. To this day, I wish I could have that moment back. I didn't hurt her. It was just one of those moments when you want to grab someone who's not acting like themselves and shake them in hopes that they'll snap out of it and return to being who you knew them to be. But you just imagine doing that. I actually did it.

She was instantly terrified. I pictured her side of the story again. “Dan barged into my room and threw me around after I broke up with him. He's a violent and abusive motherfucker.”

I had officially scared the shit out of her. She started to overreact. She was now crying and talking about calling the police. I imagined the police coming and me explaining what was happening from my perspective. “Well, Officer, first let me mention that my dad's dying back home in Utah. Abby and I had been dating for five years. She suddenly wanted space. We agreed on that. But she stopped answering my questions and never gave any sort of explanation as to what the status of our relationship was, to use a Facebook term. So I flew out here after she agreed to talk to me, and then she didn't pick me up at the airport, and I finally got here, and then she went on and on about some stupid-ass grade, then I asked her what was up with us, and she officially broke it off with me, so I sort of lost my shit for a half second and gently pushed her onto the bed.”

“You're arrested, you crazy fuck,” I imagined the police officer saying as he drew his gun.

I instantly apologized for scaring her and told her that I was just frustrated because I had flown all the way out here for information she could have given me over the phone. I was tired of being dicked around like this after a five-year relationship. I felt I deserved better. I was sorry. My pushing her remains a very shameful low point in my life.

I sat on her bed, still half expecting sex. She continued to cry and told me to get away from her. I did, but I still wanted to talk. She suggested that we go for a walk so we could be in public where I couldn't push her down on a bed.

We walked around Berkeley, our old stomping grounds—the location where we fell in love. I was absolutely devastated. I was in shock. We didn't really talk. When we did, I just tried to make her feel guilty and awful, which is a really great way to win a girl back.

Abby's father was really into Buddhism, and was one of the best people I've ever met—the type who would never do anything to deliberately hurt someone. I often used his perfect soul against Abby.

“So, what does your dad think about you dumping me while my dad's dying? Pretty disappointed in you?” I asked.

“Yep, really disappointed,” Abby said, playing along.

“Yeah, I bet. He's a good person, so I bet he'd be disappointed by his own daughter doing something so heartless and shitty,” I said, digging myself deeper and deeper.

“Yep, I'm a horrible person. I have no soul,” she replied sarcastically.

I started to get emotional, almost crying. “Can't we just wait until my dad dies and then deal with this?” I pleaded. “The son of a bitch probably has like two more months. Can't you manage two more months of me being a miserable fuck?”

“I want to date other people now,” she said wagging her perfect ass back and forth—an ass that I then imagined a bunch of cum-easy San Francisco yuppies enjoying. I knew that Abby would have an easy time finding someone else, whereas it would be a struggle for me. I mean, who would want to take on the responsibility of dating a fat, depressed budding alcoholic with an offbeat sense of humor? At least they probably wouldn't have to deal with in-laws, given the state of my dying parents.

*   *   *

As we walked around, I remembered that I had set up a spa day for us. I told her that I had ordered us surprise massages at the Nob Hill Spa, originally hoping they would be “Yay, we didn't break up” massages. We were supposed to be there by 2 p.m., but I guessed since we had just broken up that we weren't going. I took out my cell phone to cancel. “I got us nonrefundable massages, but I'm going to cancel,” I said.

She stopped my dialing, the first time she had touched me since I started my crazy march on Berkeley. “Well, we can still go if you want,” she said.

Still go? Are you fucking kidding me?

I didn't really know what to do, but I knew that I still wanted to ask her questions and spend time with her. I was still sort of in denial and holding out hope that she'd change her mind or something. Maybe the spa-day trick will actually work and she'll remember why she fell in love with me, I thought. God, I'm such a desperate and pathetic piece of shit, I also thought.

So I told her that we should still go, that we shouldn't let some stupid little breakup of a five-year-long relationship ruin our day.

We got into her car and headed into San Francisco, like some sort of happy couple. I didn't talk on the way there. I just stared out the window, fantasizing about jumping off the Bay Bridge. That'd be a good way to get her back, right? Jumping off a bridge? Boy, would she feel like shit if I did something that stupid and dramatic, right? As we drove she kept on saying that I was acting strange and sad.

“How the fuck am I supposed to act?” I wanted to say. Instead, I said nothing.

We arrived in the city, found some parking next to Grace Cathedral—one of those two-hour-time-limit spots—and walked to the Nob Hill Spa.

We arrived at their alluring sanctuary ready to be indulged and pampered. I gave the attendant our names and awkwardly mentioned that we just broke up, so we wanted masseuses who would be a bit easy on us. Our massages weren't for a little bit, so we were encouraged to enjoy the captivating skyline views or go for a refreshing swim. We did.

Breakups are weird because often the person getting broken up with starts basically acting insane, exhibiting horrible displays of self-pity and jealousy. Love is scary because of how crazy it can make you. It's totally irrational because it's not likely the other person's going to say, “Your insane behavior is making me feel like we're a perfect match! I really want to get back together with you!” It does the opposite. It pushes the other person further and further away and gives them more and more reasons to not be with you. “Hey, I just was thinking about slitting my wrists.” “Oh, really. That's hot. I totally want to fuck you and have a family with you.”

So, as we swam in Nob Hill Spa's mesmerizing infinity pool, I started acting like an insane person in order to get Abby back. I started loading water into my mouth and spraying it her way. Abby might be in control of this breakup, but she's at least going to get a little bit of pool water in her face, my crazy head thought, expecting her to say, “I love you,” in return.