Reality Jane (12 page)

“Do you really want to pig out on gajillion-calorie chocolates? You won’t get Craig back that way!” It was her attempt at tenderness and understanding. “Not that you’d want him.”

I lunged for the box of chocolates, tossed one truffle in my mouth, and smashed another into Toni’s chest. We burst into giggles, but mine were mixed with tears and self-pity.

“Get in the shower,” she said, swiping chocolate crumbs from her t-shirt, acting mad but chuckling under her breath. “I’ll drive you to the airport. But you have to hurry. You barely have two hours.”

I reluctantly grabbed my robe and another truffle, and made my way to the shower in my underwear.

“I just can’t believe it’s over,” I said to Toni as we pulled up to the airport in her silver convertible.

“Forget him. Just go have fun!” Toni said defiantly.

Other than the three hours this morning when I’d locked myself in my bedroom, refusing to budge, Toni had been consoling me for the past 24 hours—she’d even slept in my chair.

“It’s a new start for you. Forget about that ass,” she ordered. “I always knew Craig was the wrong guy.”

“He is, isn’t he?” I said woefully, wiping the tears from my eyes while forcing myself to believe it. “Totally wrong.”

Deep down, I knew he was wrong for me; I just didn’t want it to be true. I was too caught up in the idea of having an action-hero for a boyfriend. Being attached to someone so profoundly cool was supposed to make
me
profoundly cool: It Girl and It Boy together forever. My very own Hollywood.

“Do you think it’s because I gained a few pounds while he was in the Himalayas?” I said self-consciously.

I knew I’d truly changed when turning down an In-’N-’Out burger had become a source of pride, not loss, and I had convinced myself that I actually enjoyed my Tic Tac renaissance. This was all pre-Craig break-up. Now, all I could think was:
Bring it on—the See’s, the burgers, the friggin’ carbs.

“You haven’t gained weight! You’re athletic! Now, I swear, if you don’t go to France and have meaningless sex with some hot crew dude, I will personally swim the Atlantic and flog you,” Toni said, stroking my hair, trying to make me feel better.

“
Flog
?” I said. “Seriously, did you just use the word
flog
?” Toni had finally made me smile.

“Shut up,” she said. “Remember, these big-scale reality crews are all hedonists. They party and mack down the minute the cameras are off. I should know,” she snickered, “and I want you in there!”

Before her six months on
Purrfect Life
, Toni had worked on
Heavenly Hotel
as a PA, where there was intensive behind the scenes hoochie-coochie, including Toni and one of the male contestants. She made her move after he got the boot. But it was still considered a giant no-no. Naturally, Toni got away with
it. That and more made her an expert.

“Remember, Jane, any guy who breaks up with you because his career takes precedence is a self-centered shit-ball. That bastard will wake up one day regretting it all,” Toni announced with utter certainty while yanking my bags from the trunk.

“But it happened so fast. I felt sideswiped,” I said pathetically.

After Karl and Naomi presented me with what felt like the opportunity of a lifetime, I immediately called Craig to share the news. He was excited for me, until I told him I’d be away for five weeks and couldn’t complete his expedition pitch. He barely let me explain when he said, “We need to talk.” The entire ride to his condo, I contemplated how I might juggle writing his pitch, packing my bags, and the first few days of the production.

When I finally arrived, he told me that with me going away, and his career needs booming, maybe we should take a hiatus. “At this stage, I need to go after my calling and you yours,” he muttered, all the while unable to make eye contact. Then, placing the final nail in the proverbial coffin, he said, “Besides, Jane, sometimes I think you’re too good for me,” which really meant, “I’m too good for you.”

It was the perfect, impossible-to-rebut clincher for any breakup. You would have to be a real dishrag to hang on after that! So I did what any self-respecting woman would do: wept profusely until mascara dripped from my chin, swiped it off, and pranced out the door with a “you’ll regret this!”

“Love you!” Toni called, as her car began pulling away from the airport. “Text me when you get there!”

Determined to start anew, or at least hoping to, I waved and rolled my bags through the airport doors.

“I hear Dagmar was named after a 1920s sports car.”

“My cousin from Canada told me that
Dag
means milk and
mar
means maid—and they speak German there. That makes her a milkmaid, not a sports car,” the California girl said with a forced laugh.

“Whatever. She’s on top of the world. And we’re along for the ride.”
Big sigh.
“Now, how about that Dominic?”

“I think he’s a homo.”
Another laugh
. “Remind me why we’re not aboard their private jet.”

A chorus of giggles. My new colleagues. A cynical pretty boy in a body-cinching button-down and ass-scrunching emo jeans that no sane person would wear for travel, and the fit, trim California girl in navel-baring skinny cargos, flip-flops, and a t-shirt that read, “Stop staring. My boobs are shy!” These people made me nervous. Their seats reclined so far that their freshly coiffed domes were practically in my lap. I couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

Surprisingly, their chitchat was proving therapeutic. Other people’s lives as lame as mine? Maybe they’d just been dumped too. It was less than 48 hours since I’d been expelled to the depths of sexual purgatory by the offspring of a Greek god. The dreaded self-loathing virus was threatening to infect my brain, sending me into fits of self-analysis:
Almost 30 and no prospects. Unwanted by anyone. Will die an old maid. Friends all married. Friends’ younger sisters all married. Should never have dumped Sheldon, the only guy who loved me. Never mind. I was 19. Pathetic. Gotta find someone my own size. . . Ramone?

I could either throw myself off the bus, or throw myself into work.

“Hey, when you’re that rich and that bored, the only thing left to do is to star in your own reality show,” the pretty boy droned. “Why just be rich when you can be famous too?”

“I’m tired of all those whores,” California Girl said, smacking her gum.

“Aw, come here, Snookums. Maybe one day, you and I will have our own reality show,” Pretty Boy said, planting a sloppy kiss on California Girl. That was the capper.

Then, as if the plane ride from LA to Paris wasn’t bad enough, we were given a measly two minutes to stretch our legs and grab our luggage before being shuffled onto a bus leaking diesel and another five hours of ass-numbing travel. Between that and a six-hour layover in Chicago, there wasn’t a blood cell in my body game enough to finish the trip. Now I was
witnessing body fluid exchanges, and not my own, inches from my face.

The driver made a sudden turn off the highway and began to drive along a winding road. A sign read “Beaujolais” in bright colors, inviting tourists to whet their palettes. The sight of the countryside seemed to brighten my mood. I lowered the window for a whiff and was hit by a blast of fresh air.

If I’m going to be dumped, best to be dumped on my way to France!
I thought, inching out of my depression.

Around every bend, glorious green countryside unfolded like a postcard. I soaked it all in, thinking, praying, hoping that this was a sign—some kind of turning point. My head bobbed out the window like a slobbering sheepdog as wind-tears beaded across my temple. I was surprised—I actually was enjoying myself.

“It’s friggin’ cold, man. Where’s that draft coming from?” Shy Boobs reached for her sweater and emphatically wrapped it around herself.

“Sorry,” I said. “After all that recycled plane air, you know—”

Plop
. I fell back into my seat, disappointed, and reached for my book,
Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway
, cursing myself for not having brought cooler reading material like
The Shack
or
Purple Jesus
—might has well have been lugging around my vision board.

Self-help books signaled the end of the rope for me:
I was officially desperate, or desperately single, or desperately poor, or desperately desperate, or all of the above
. Toni would have skinned my hide! I hid the book cover with my thighs as I pressed my knees against Shy Boobs’ seat, wondering why, in two short days, I’d gone from deliriously happy for landing the coolest reality gig since
Amazing Race
, garnering bragging rights for the next five decades with an “I toured Europe with Dagmar and Dominic,” to. . . just me, my cheesy books, and some crazy reality show with pretentious, shallow LA types who think Canadians speak German.

Rather than torture myself, I decided it was time to pee. I made my way past rows of crew members and quietly plopped down in a seat to wait for the lavatory user to vacate. The
thought of peeing into a hole on the floor of a moving vehicle frightened me. Didn’t the French invent the word “toilet”? I tried not to think about it and watched the backs of people’s heads instead.

Behind my sunglasses, I noticed, past a seatback, an arm that looked delectable. I could always tell if a man was hot just from the sight of a single body part. Yes, even a toe. In this case, it was the way his t-shirt wrapped around his bicep, the shape of the bicep, the rib of the sleeve, the breadth of the forearm— not too big, not too small—and the hands. A man’s hands were everything. I tried to listen to his conversation to see if his mind was anywhere near as beautiful as his hands.

“Surfing is a cerebral sport. It’s not a testosterone fest, that’s for sure.”

“Dude, do you get laid all the time?” his friend interrupted.

“That’s not what it’s about. Sounds corny, but it’s about being one with nature. The wave sweeps you into a swirling blue universe, like sliding across the ocean’s fingers, just a board and your body.”

“Heavy,” his friend snickered. “Chicks dig surfers. You gotta take me with you next time.”

Surfer Boy continued his ethereal ride, oblivious to the doofus beside him. “Early mornings, I just sit there on my board, dolphins swimming beside me, sometimes pelicans plunging for nearby fish, and I wait for the sun to rise out of the horizon. Truth be told, there’s nothing I’d rather do.”

“Even sex?”

“Even sex.”

“Whoa,” I said, half out loud. What are the odds? Handsome
and
deep!

And by
deep
, I meant compared to Craig and the other LA wannabes. Thanks to Toni’s own revolving door of dates and male acquaintances, I’d developed some good insight into this topic. Good-looking men were tough enough to handle during the best of times, but put that same guy in LA, and all of a sudden he’s getting manicures, testing cover-up makeup for an emergency pimple, wearing glamour shades, and snubbing man staples like chicken wings and pizza.

Ka-crunch
! The bus hit a pothole and sent me barreling face-first into the seat behind Surfer Boy.

“You okay?” he said, turning to see what calamity had befallen him, his athletic man hand reaching out to grab me as I avoided a death drop to the floor.

“Beautiful,” I said out loud while staring into his startlingly clear blue eyes, my brain having seeped out my ear canal.

“Huh?” he said with a half smile, eyebrows twisted into a question mark.

Crap!
“No, I meant beautiful, like I
feel
beautiful. You know, fine. I feel fine. I’m all good. Life is good. And here we are in beautiful France and uh. . . look at that. It’s open. Thanks for the nice hand. I mean, the hand. I’ll, uh, see you around. Thanks. See yah. Bye.”

I stammered off just in time to catch the door to la toilette as it swung open and cracked me in the nose. “Double crap!” I said, hurriedly shutting the door.

I felt my nose tingling. With great care, I pulled my pants to my ankles and squatted over the hole, pressing my palms into the walls for support, swooping over the five-inch diameter potty hole like a hovercraft in a typhoon.