Your Big Break (3 page)

I sigh. “Give me a couple of days. I'll see what I can do.”

 
 
People always talk about the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But what's just as common are the Five Stages of Breakup Hell: nervous breakdown, sour grapes, rebounding, backsliding, and letting go.

It's not just a cliché: Breaking up
is
hard to do. And forget about the recovery rule—that the relationship mourning period lasts one month for every year you were together. That's totally untrue. More often than not, people get it backward, taking one
year
to recover from a one-month fling. There's no reliable way to measure when a broken heart will mend. Even at stage five, when the dumpee sadly accepts the inevitable, they never
completely
get over it. Some part of them will always be connected to the person who broke their heart.

Since Garrett dumped me, I've become a real pro at ending love affairs.

2

We Need to Talk

It's eight o'clock Thursday, and I'm standing in my parents' large, stucco kitchen, drinking red wine and watching Mom make Cajun food. My family doesn't have a lot of traditions, but this is one of the few: We get together every other Thursday for a sit-down dinner of spicy food. My brother is usually missing in action until the very last second—he opts to hang out upstairs and watch TV instead of socializing. He rushes down just in time to eat, stuffs his face, and then bolts.

“We need to talk,” Mom says.

I cringe because, really, has anything good ever followed that statement?

“Wait, let me guess. You burned the jambalaya, and we're having pizza for dinner,” I joke.

“I'm concerned about you, Dani.”

“Concerned?” I repeat, running my fingers through my shoulder-length blond hair. I study her face as she stirs the rice. It amazes me sometimes how much my mother and I look alike. We're both short and slim, with good skin, green eyes, and wheat-colored hair. If it's true what they say—that your mother is a mirror image of what you'll look like when you're older—then I'm pretty lucky. My mom has held up very well over the years.

She stops stirring the rice. “You're twenty-eight years old, Dani. In two years, you'll be thirty. Thirty!”

“Gee, Mom, thanks for reminding me.”

“When I was thirty, I was married with two children, a house, and a successful career. You're still living in that tiny apartment in Cambridge, fumbling around, trying to get your life in order.”

“My life's in order,” I grumble, gulping down my glass of wine and pouring myself a fresh one. The truth is, in a lot of ways I'm lucky. Your Big Break Inc. may not be the most serene place to work, but the pay is really good. And I desperately need the salary—not only did Garrett leave me with a broken heart, he left me with a drained bank account as well. I'm still paying off the debt I incurred while mourning our breakup.

“No, it isn't. Dani, you try to pretend like you're happy, but I can tell you're not. These are the best years of your life. You're in your prime!” Mom says. “You're supposed to be out having a good time, meeting people, living it up. In a few years, you'll be too old to have fun.”

“You have the social life of a senior citizen,” Mom says, smiling wryly.

I gasp. “Do you want me to be immature?”

“I just want you to live it up a little.”

“What about Sean?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “At least I have my own apartment; Sean's twenty-five and he still lives at home. And he only works part-time at Blockbuster.”

“Your brother is about to start medical school,” she counters. “He's saving his money.”

My brother has been “about to start medical school” ever since he graduated from Northeastern two years ago. As far as I can tell, all he does is loaf around the house, playing video games and watching TiVo.

Fortunately, my dad wanders into the room before things get hairy. “Hey, hon,” he says, pecking me on the cheek. Seeing my pained expression, he adds, “You driving her nuts again, Beth?”

“Just showing a little motherly concern.”

“Yeah, I know how overbearing your ‘concern' can be.”

“Just doing my job,” Mom says, looking tense.

“Mind if I borrow Dani for a minute?” Dad winks at me. “I've got a couple of boxes in the car. I could use some help bringing them in.”

Mom waves us away. “Sure, Paul, that's perfectly fine.” I can tell she's irritated that Dad interrupted her rant, but I'm relieved to make it out of there alive.

“You doing okay?” Dad asks as I follow him outside.

“Yeah, I'm doing pretty well. Aside from the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Oh, your mom?” He shrugs. “She's been kind of stressed lately.”

I nod. “I know. Plus, she's turning fifty-five.”

Dad opens the trunk of his Audi and begins pulling out large filing boxes.

Six months ago, my mother retired from her position as a corporate trainer and strategic analyst. I say “retired” as though she had a choice in the matter. She didn't. The board of directors wanted to bring in “new blood.” In the process, several people, my mom included, were let go via early retirement. Mom hasn't quite been the same since it happened.

Dad hands me a box. “Thanks for helping out.”

“What is all this?” I ask, hoisting the box in my arms.

“Clients' files.” Dad grunts, slamming the car trunk shut. “I've really fallen behind—it's going to take me all night to go through these.” Even before my family moved to Boston ten years ago, my dad was a total workaholic. He puts in long days as a financial analyst at Merriwether Payne Investments, and frequently stays at the office till all hours of the night.

We trudge up the front steps and into the house, carrying the boxes to Dad's small workspace off the living room.

“I could help you sort through these if you'd like,” I offer.

“Oh, no.” He shakes his head. “I'm not putting you to work.” He slings an arm across my shoulders and smiles. “What do you say you and I go catch a few minutes of the Bruins game before dinner?”

It's not often that Dad makes time for me. He's usually too busy working to hang out. Lately, this seems to be changing. “Sounds like a plan.”

We're halfway to the den when Mom yells, “Paul! Get in here a sec. This jambalaya's a little . . . crispy.”

“Oh, brother. Duty calls,” Dad quips, jogging off into the kitchen.

“Looks like we'll be having pizza after all,” I quip.

 
 
Fridays are generally slow at Your Big Break Inc. People like to get their relationship-ending done and over with early in the week, or else they go for one last weekend of sex before calling it quits.

“Dani, are you familiar with the term ‘binding arbitration'?” my boss Craig asks, planting himself in front of my desk. “Did you guys have that down in Louisiana?”

Craig thinks everything south of Washington, D.C., is made up of swamps, dude ranches, and farmland. Never mind the fact that I've been living in Boston for more than a decade, or that New Orleans—where I was born and bred—is a bustling metropolis. I toy with him. “Is that one of them fancy legal shindigs you have here in the big city?”

“Dani!” He sounds ready to explode.

I laugh and gesture to the chair opposite my desk. “Have a seat.” He thinks it over for a minute, his brow furrowing rapidly, then plops down. “All right, Craig, yes, I know what binding arbitration is. Why?”

“You know Evan Hirschbaum?”

It's a rhetorical question, but I nod. Evan Hirschbaum is our biggest client. He practically single-handedly keeps us in business.

“Well, Mr. Hirschbaum was in the middle of binding arbitration this morning when Sophie Kennison—the girl he hired you to dump last week—barged in and started screaming obscenities at him. It threw him off so badly, he nearly blew the case.” Craig smirks. “Though, of course, he didn't.”

“Of course.”

Craig looks at me. “Be straight with me, Dani. Did you or did you not inform Sophie Kennison that Mr. Hirschbaum no longer wants to see her?”

“Yes, I did the deed last Monday.” I sigh. “She was pretty devastated.”

Devastated
doesn't even begin to describe it. Sophie didn't stop crying for two hours. I wound up pigging out on Häagen-Dazs with her in an attempt to smooth things over. I don't know how much more client heartache my waistline can handle.

“Well, apparently, the breakup didn't take.”

“Apparently,” I agree.

“At any rate, Evan's deeply upset about what happened, Dani.”

Oh, brother.
I suppress a laugh. Try as I might, I can't imagine Evan Hirschbaum shedding a tear over anything, much less one of his disposable girlfriends. The guy's rock-solid, through and through. “I'm sorry to hear that.” Sometimes it seems like all I ever do is say I'm sorry. I say it to my boss, to our clients, and, especially, to the people I break up with. Maybe that's what my business card should read:
Danielle M., Professional Apologizer.

“You'd better get down there,” Craig instructs.

“Get down where?”

“Sophie's apartment. The address is in your file, right?”

“You mean Sophie's not still at the law offices?”

“No, of course not.” Craig shakes his head. “Evan kicked her to da curb.”

Craig has a habit of picking up slang that sounds ridiculous coming from a middle-aged Irish-American guy. At our office Christmas party, he kept slapping his hands together and exclaiming “True dat!” every time someone made a statement he agreed with. I often feel embarrassed for him. The poor guy means well. He founded Your Big Break Inc. four years ago after his wife left him for a fledgling musician. Craig used to be a traveling salesman, but he returned home one day to find a “Dear Craig” letter taped to the refrigerator. His ex-wife drained his bank account and broke his heart. Craig hasn't been the same since.

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “Sophie Kennison burst into a closed proceeding today and shouted out a string of cusswords. Yet the arbitrator let her go? She's not in any legal trouble or anything?” I don't know much about legal matters, but that doesn't sound right.

Craig throws up his hands. “Who knows? I'm not clued in to how the legal system works. Mr. Hirschbaum can explain it better. Speaking of which”—he rises from his chair and points to my phone—“you'd better square things away with him before you go see Sophie.”

“I'll make it my top priority.”

“That's the spirit! You're going to have to do your damn best here, Dani,” he says, turning to go. “When I talked to Mr. Hirschbaum this morning, he was furious. It's going to take a real—”

“Don't worry, Craig,” I say, cutting him off. “I'll kiss his ass.”

He smiles. It's exactly what he wants to hear.

3

It's Not You, It's Me It'S Not You, It's Me

Evan Hirschbaum is quite possibly the world's most prolific dater.

As I sit in the reception area of Hirschbaum, Davis, and Klein: Attorneys at Law in the John Hancock Tower downtown, I mull over his never-ending list of exes.

There is, of course, Sophie Kennison, who I'm here to discuss. Last month, it was Holly O'Henry. Before her, Shiri Friedman. And let's not forget Annie Shields, Heather Canatella, and Tina Graber. Beyond that, my memory gets fuzzy. After a while, Evan's gal pals start to blend together. They all have similar professions (wannabe actress/model/singer), similar appearances (drop-dead gorgeous) and similar shelf lives (six weeks, max). Evan keeps Your Big Break Inc. on retainer, which basically means we—usually me—remain at his beck and call.

I've been waiting in the reception area for nearly forty-five minutes. I pass the time flipping through outdated issues of
The
New Yorker
and sending text messages to my best friend, Krista Bruce, on my cell phone. Krista is the business manager for a small catering company in downtown Boston. We make plans to grab dinner at The Cheesecake Factory tonight after work, and then I put my cell phone away. I glance down at my watch again. I'm giving Evan fifteen more minutes, and then I'm bailing. I'd hoped to schmooze him via phone, but Evan's secretary instructed me to come to the office. “This isn't the sort of thing Mr. Hirschbaum is comfortable discussing over the phone,” she snapped.

Which was news to me.

Evan and I conducted most of our business via phone. We'd met in person only once before.

I flip open my briefcase and pull out my Franklin Covey day planner and make a quick note:
Call Lucy about Cape Cod wedding w/ Jason
. I grimace. That's going to be a tough one. Lucy is going to be pretty peeved when I ask her to see Jason one last time. I should have given him a flat no, but something in his face—
desperation?
—really stung me. I just couldn't bear to see him so upset. My stomach growls. It's almost 2 p.m., and I haven't had lunch. I'll have to grab a quick sandwich at Au Bon Pain on my way to Sophie Kennison's apartment. I stand up and approach the receptionist's desk to tell her I'm leaving.

She clicks off from a call. “You can go on back now.”

I head down the hall past a seemingly endless array of conference rooms and tiny cubicles. I don't see one person who looks genuinely happy. I make my way to Evan's gigantic office and rap lightly on the door. His head's buried in a file.