The Breakup Club Part 13
"Actually, I did have a date tonight," I said, holding my breath. "Or I was supposed to. I got stood up." It all came backthe antic.i.p.ation. The waiting out in the cold. For forty-five minutes. The finally giving up and leaving. The having no one to call. I leaned back against the sofa, stared up at the ceiling and took a deep breath.
He was silent for a moment. "You okay?"
I'll be okay.
"There are good guys out there, Rox," he said. "a.s.sholes too. But don't worry. The good guys outnumber the jerks."
"I know. I had one of them."
Silence.
"Well, I'd better get going," I said. "Thanks for calling, Robbie. For being so understanding. It's more than I deserve from you."
"No, it's not," he said, and hung up.
"There's no elevator?" my mother muttered into the intercom at ten o'clock sharp the next morning. "I have to walk up five flights of stairs?"
"Well, four, really," I said, and buzzed open the downstairs door.
The apartment was one of those old tenements, five stories, four apartments to a floor. Despite the two hours I'd spent scouring last night, getting out my aggression and disappointment over my date with a sponge and a duster, I couldn't make it look shiny and new no matter how much Pine-Sol and Pledge I used.
I heard my mother trudging up the steps. She was forty-six years old, taught senior aerobics, was in excellent physical shape and had no reason to huff and puff except to try to make me feel guilty.
I opened the door and saw the top of springy too-blond hair as she rounded the stairwell below. She wore a royal-blue pantsuit and carried a large shopping bag.
She stopped on the landing to the fifth floor, looked at me in the doorway and froze. "You look like my little girl," she said, touching her hand to her heart. "You look like you did when you were fifteen."
I laughed and ran to her and we hugged. "Before p.u.b.erty and bleach and perms and s.e.xy clothes." I took the shopping bag and led her inside. She looked around, her forehead wrinkled.
"You're sleeping in the living room?" she asked when I showed her my makeshift bedroom. "This is where you're sleeping? The living room?"
"I have a door," I said, pointing to the two folding screens from Pier 1 Imports that separated my bed from the living-room sofa.
She shook her head. "This isn't living. This isn't how an adult lives."
"Mom, this is how twenty-somethings live in Manhattan. Rents are high. You make do."
I loved my makeshift bedroom. I loved my lumpy futon. I loved the stack of ma.n.u.scripts and Bold Books that lay on my bedside table. I loved the entire apartment, from the tiny white bathroom with its uneven floor tiles, to the tiny galley kitchen that you couldn't even turn around in. I loved sitting on the windowsill of my "bedroom area" at night, looking out at the night skywell, at the apartment buildings across the street, really. At the twinkling lights promising everything. In every light there was potential.
"I don't get this at all," my mother said with the accompanying head shake. "You could be living in a gorgeous three-family house in Bay Ridge with nice furniture and a handsome husband who loves you. You could be sleeping on three-hundred-thread-count sheets that your aunt Maureen bought you from the registry. Do you know that Robbie won't return the gifts yet because he believes in you?"
"Believes in me?" I asked. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning that he knows you'll come home. He knows you need a few weeks to get this Manhattan thing out of your system."
Argh! "Mom, this isn't a pa.s.sing fad. It's not something I'm trying out. This is my life."
My life. Warts and all. I wasn't going to let one no-show of a date send me running home to my mommy and Robbie. No way.
Tears came to her eyes and she put a hand on my arm. "No, Roxy. Your life is in Brooklyn. With Robbie. You're twenty-five years old. You should be married and taking care of a husband and a house."
"Mom, do you really believe that?" I asked. Did she? "You do realize this is the twenty-first century?"
She ignored me and pursed her lips in the direction of the kitchen. "Is that a c.o.c.kroach crawling up the wall of the kitchen?"
I followed her eyes. "It's just a scuff mark, Mom."
She threw up her hands and set the shopping bag on my bed and dug in. "I brought you some things from your apartment."
I wasn't about to tell her I didn't want anything. I wasn't sure I didn't. I'd left some things behind that would give me incredible comfort. Little things, like my Pat the Bunny alarm clock that I'd had since I was seven.
She set a picture of me and Robbie on my bedside table. That wasn't what I had in mind. Roxy & Robbie 4 Evah was written in script across the gold ceramic frame I'd bought at one of those make-your-own-frame places in the mall. The picture was from our engagement party.
"That's it?" I asked.
"I also brought this," she said, handing me my cropped pink leather jacket with the faux fur trim that Robbie had bought me last year for Valentine's Day.
"This is definitely the old me," I said, caressing the pale gray fur. I loved the jacket. Not that I'd ever wear it again in this lifetime.
My mother patted my hand. "I'm starving. Let's go have brunch. And Roxy, there's no old you or new you, Rox. There's just you."
So let me be me, I thought as we put on our coats (I left the pink one on my bed) and headed to a nice brunch spot in my neighborhood. The place seemed to pa.s.s muster with my mother. I ordered a triple espresso and drank it fast.
"What is this?" my mother asked, eyeing her entree. "Is this food?"
I glanced at my mother's luncha breast of chicken atop several inches of various layers of rice and vegetables. "It looks scrumptious."
She sneered. "So this is why you broke Robbie's heart and embarra.s.sed your family? For a folding screen and vertical food?"
"Mom, please try to understand. It's not just that I want to live here in Manhattan. It's that I don't want to marry Robbie."
She shook her head. "How could you not want to marry Robbie? You've been in love with him your entire life. He is your life. This is a phase. Just like your aunt Maureen and Rita say it is. You'll snap out of it. And look at youyou cut off your beautiful long hair and dyed it back to brown. You're in head-to-toe beige. Your sweater doesn't show your waist off at all. You have no color in your face."
"Mom, it's called the corporate look."
She rolled her eyes. "This is how you're going to attract a man better than Robbie?"
"This is how I'm going to get promoted," I snapped. "I'm not looking for a man, Mom. I'm looking for"
"For what?"
"I don't know."
She threw up her hands and took a bite of her chicken. "What kind of ridiculous spices are on this? Who doesn't know how to season a chicken?"
I sighed. "How's Dad?"
She waved her hand. "How do you think? Anyway, you should be asking how Robbie is."
"I know how Robbie is."
She pursed her lips at me. "Well, I'll tell you something, Miss Smarty-Pants. For someone who professes to be so happy, you look downright miserable. You clearly need to come home."
I am home, I wanted to say. Scuff marks, being stood up, crazy vertical chicken and all.
"If that jerk even looks in your direction, I'll fling the rubber chicken entree at him," Miranda said as we got ready for the Bold Books holiday party in the women's restroom at the office. "I still can't believe he stood you upand in the cold!"
"I'm trying to forget it," I said, exchanging my small diamond stud earringsa college graduation gift from Robbiefor more festive silver hoops. Exactly one week had pa.s.sed since my almost date. It turned out that Harrison's last day doing whatever consultants did had been the night we were supposed to meet. A few days ago he'd left a message with the receptionist: Sorry I missed our meeting. Time got away from me. Will reschedule, if possible.
Oh, gee, thanks!
Miranda had heard that Harrison had been invited to the party. "Well, if he does come and you're uncomfortable, you just tell me and we're out of there, okay?"
I smiled. "It's okay. But, thanks, Miranda. A lot."
She winked at me in the mirror and applied sparkly sand-colored eyeshadow to her lids. "I hate not having a date. It's like telling everyone at the party that you don't have a love life."
"I actually like not having a date," I said, trying to make the ends of my hair flip up or under. Useless. "Nothing awful can happen."
She smiled. "Nothing ever happens at a Boring Booksoops, I mean Bold Booksholiday party. There's always a.s.signed seating, the music is very elevator, and unless someone drinks too much and does something embarra.s.sing, it's a very slow three hours. The best we can hope for is one of the nerds in production asking us to dance."
"I could use a nerd right now," I said. "A nice, sweet, standup nerd."
She laughed. "Me too."
We gave ourselves a final once-over in the full-length mirror, then left for the party, which was held in a fancy restaurant's private lounge. In our flippy dressesmine velvet and high-necked and Miranda's satin and shortwe arrived at the party to find most of the employees (Harrison not among them, thank G.o.d) standing around the bar, chatting to their dates or introducing them.
By the coat check, there was a small table with name cards. "Why does Futterman confuse parties with weddings?" Miranda complained. "What's with the seating plan? Why can't we sit where we want?"
I found my little folded name card. Table Number One. I looked for Lucy's name card. I hoped to sit at her table. I'd been working for her for three weeks now, and though she was a wonderful boss and took the time to explain what she wanted me to do and gave great feedback, she wasn't much of a small-talker. Parties like this were a great way to chat up your boss and score some brownie points. Especially when their first impression of you was of a sobbing runaway bride in hooker makeup. Ahthere was Lucy's card. Yes! She was at my table!
"Table Number One," Miranda said, scooping up her card. She peered at mine. "I'm sitting with my roommate and my sister? Great opportunity for me to get to know my coworkers! Is Futterman a moron or what?"
I shrugged. "Maybe he just wanted us all to be more comfortable, have fun." I was relieved to be with people I knew. Making small talk with coworkers was sometimes a killer. Small talk in New York City often meant spending twenty minutes just discussing your commute.
We soon found out who the fourth person at our table was. Christopher Levy. He was sitting alone and clearly waiting for his table-mates to join him so he could start the tiny salad on his dinner plate. As we headed over, Miranda whispered, "Forget about being asked to dance. Even the production geeks have dates."
"There's nothing wrong with not having a date," Lucy said as she came up behind us.
"Where's Larry tonight?" Miranda asked Lucy as we sat down at our table.
"A patient went into labor," she mumbled.
"Lucy's married to a hotshot doctor, and you've met their gorgeous preteen daughter," Miranda said to me. "Christopher is" She glanced at him and hesitated. "Christopher has a gorgeous baby girl. Only a year old."
He smiled. "Christopher is separated from his wife is what I think Miranda was about to say. And it's perfectly fine to say that aloud. The part about the gorgeous baby daughter is all true."
I had no doubt. Christopher was one cute guy.
The band began playing elevator music as dinner was served. Miranda poked at her prime rib. "Who wants to trade this for the pasta?"
"I will," I said, pa.s.sing her my linguini. "I'm not hungry anyway."
"Big mistakethe prime rib is delicious," said Edwin Futterman, who was suddenly standing in between Christopher and Roxy. He seemed nice enough as big bosses went, if often distracted and unwilling to make any kind of small talk with underlings. "Welcome to the holiday party," he said, raising his champagne gla.s.s at us. "I hope you all enjoy yourselves. Ah, our newest employee," he added with a smile at me. "Shall we partake in our new employee round table?"
Everyone rolled their eyes.
"Spirit, people!" Edwin said. "Holiday spirit!"
"What's the new employee round table?" I asked.
"We all have to say one thing about ourselves that would surprise everyone," Lucy explained.
"Roxy, as the newbie, you go first," Edwin said.
I thought of saying I used to be a completely different person. But that wouldn't surprise Lucy, who'd seen me as that different person. And not attending my wedding wouldn't surprise Miranda.
"No one in the history of my family has ever gotten divorced," I said, then realized that wasn't a surprise to Lucy.
"You're kidding!" Edwin said. "That's fabulous. I'm on my third wife. No one in the history of my family has ever had only one spouse!" He laughed, raised his champagne gla.s.s to us, and said, "Okay, now the rest of you go around the table and say one thing that would surprise everyone. It's a fun one for sisters. Have at it," he added, and then flitted off.
Dead silence at the table.
"Christopher," Lucy said, "You're the big boss now. Manage us."
He sighed. "Fine. I order everyone to drink their wine."
We laughed and sipped our wine. And sipped some more. By the time the other three tables of Bold Books employees were slow-dancing to a Celine Dion song, we'd finished two bottles of wine.
"One thing about me that would surprise all of you," Christopher said, raising his gla.s.s, "is that I was stood up tonight by a one-year-old. Yes, that's right. My daughter was supposed to be my date, but my wife and her live-in boyfriend were too worried I'd mistake Jack Daniel's for baby formula."
Mouths dropped open.
"Jodie walked out on you?" Lucy asked. "Why did I think it was the other way around?"
"Because you wrongly think I'm a jerk," he said, pointing a bread stick at Lucy.
Miranda stared at her plate. "Want to hear something surprising about me? I actually made the guy I want to marry propose to someone else."
"How'd you do that?" Lucy asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, just another long, embarra.s.sing story," Miranda said, pushing linguini around on her plate.
Lucy reached across the table for Miranda's hand. "You okay?"
Miranda shrugged. "The hope's gone. All these months I've been hoping he'd come back, and now there's nothing to hope for anymore."
Poor Miranda. She'd told me the whole sorry story and swore she was getting over it all, but clearly she wasn't.