The Breakup Club Part 6
"Aw come on, Rox. Why do you have to spoil my fun? You know I'm just kidding. I wouldn't care if our kid was a gay circus performer."
When he said things like that, my love for him would seep into the cracks and crevices in my heart, and I'd be rea.s.sured. That he was the guy for me. That he was and always had been my best friend, supporter of my dreams. That he wasn't our parents. That we wouldn't become our parents. That I wouldn't live and die in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, without experiencing anything else. That he was, indeed, open-minded.
It had been Robbie, after all, who'd helped me get my current job, a giant step to my dream. Robbie had been the one who'd shown me the advertis.e.m.e.nt in the Bay Ridge Brouhaha for an editorial a.s.sistant. When I'd graduated from college, I'd been all excited about getting a job in a major publishing house in Manhattan. Random House. HarperCollins. Harlequin Enterprises. I'd sent my resume to every publishing house there was. I didn't get a single response. I'd been an a.s.sistant editor on my college literary magazine and discovered I was particularly good at editing. Good at figuring out what was wrong with a story, where something needed beefing up or cutting out. And I was good at working with the writers, able to articulate what they needed to fix without coming across as a know-it-all, like the editor of the magazine, a senior who didn't like me for some reason.
She hated the stories I pa.s.sed on to her for inclusion in the magazine. "This is a literary magazine. We don't publish genre stories. If you want to read romance stories or cheesy whodunits, pick up a copy of True Confessions or whatever."
So when I was twenty-two and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life, Robbie had come over with the ad from the Bay Ridge Brouhaha. He and his father had just put in a half-page ad for their law firm, and he noticed the big ad for the a.s.sistant to the editorial department.
"It's only the Bay Ridge Brouhaha," he'd said. "I know it's not Random House. But it's a start in your field."
My personal life got me the job. I knew Bay Ridge inside and out, and that's what the editors and reporters needed. In three years I'd worked my way up to editor and reporter of the Neighbors in the News section. I covered store openings, residents who did interesting things, and marriages, engagements and obituaries. Recently I'd edited an article written by my own mother about the Marone family's claim to fame. Which was that in the entire history of our family, there hadn't been a single divorce. My mother was trying to get this piece of family trivia into the Guinness Book of World Records and thought she'd need some publicity to back it up.
"If it's in print, they'll believe it. Right, Rox?" she'd asked.
"If it's true, they'll believe it," I told her.
And it was true. No one on either side of the family had ever gotten divorced. There was a separation or two. There was a jail sentence or two. There were illnesses, both mental and otherwise. But no divorce. Which I didn't understand at all. In the Roberts family there were many divorces but only one major illness, Robbie's father's second cancer scare last year that made me understand and appreciate Rita Roberts in ways I couldn't before. The cancer scare that had Robbie on his knees by his father's hospital bedside, proposing to me again.
"I couldn't make it through this without you, Rox," he'd said. "I need to know you're going to be my wifenot some day. A day. I need to set a date. Please, Rox." Those beautiful green eyes of his were filled with tears. This guythis guy I'd known my entire life, who'd been through it all, through thick and thinwas asking me to finally say yes.
And so I had. I'd said I would marry him "next year," which seemed so far away then. My mother and his mother were thrilled. They immediately took over the planning of the wedding and chose the date: the day after Thanksgiving for the steep discount.
Today was that day.
Two hours later, my minifacial complete, my hair in giant curlers, my pedicured feet in the glamour-puss high-heeled maribou-feathered sandals my maid of honor had given me last night, I was escorted downstairs to the living room, aka Wedding Central. My female relatives, future female relatives and bridal party were racing around, fluffing taffeta, applying bridal-party makeup, checking hosiery for snags, threatening the florist on the phone, chugging Diet c.o.ke, and popping M&M's.
I was now sitting on my throne, one of my mother's kitchen chairs, in front of the bay window. I watched the cars. I could see the entrance to the Uptown number four train on the corner.
My mother sat at my side, applying the top coat to the three coats of Rock-Me Red on my nails. My aunt stood behind me, curling, twisting, gelling, spraying, and bobby-pinning my hair into an updo exactly like Scarlett Johansson's in a photo she'd pulled out of People. My mother-in-law-to-be sat three inches from my face, to which she was applying way too much makeup.
"I want you to picture yourself in a meadow, looking up at fluffy white clouds," my aunt told me. She was into meditation lately and offered it for ten dollars extra with any hair color service at her salon.
It was difficult to think of fluffy clouds and chirping birds while looking into the tanned and Botoxed face of Rita Roberts.
"No, I don't like that pink," Rita said in her nasally voice, wiping away the Pa.s.sion-Pink lipstick she had spent ten minutes applying to my mouth. She reached into her purse, which never left her body, and pulled out a gold tube. "With your coloring, you need red, not pink."
My coloring? I didn't have coloring. My dark brown hair and dark brown eyebrows had been bleached white-blond for years.
"The color palette for the wedding is pink," my aunt snapped. "It matches the roses in her bouquet."
"Fine, but she'll look washed-out," Rita said, crossing her arms over her chest. "She'll look pasty in her wedding pictures for the rest of her life."
For the rest of her life...
"Do you have a certificate in cosmetology and makeup artistry, or do I?" my aunt snapped at Rita.
"Stop it, the both of you," my mother said, blowing on my nails. "You're upsetting the bride."
The bride was already upset.
Rita Roberts pursed her lips, then leaned in close to me. "Roxy, I've been meaning to ask, but I know how touchy you get...I a.s.sume that you've finally agreed to change your name after the wedding?"
Not this again. Not today of all days. Or actually, maybe today of all days was the perfect time for this conversation.
"I'm keeping my own name, Rita. I feel strongly about it. It's my name. I should be able to decide what it is."
She shook her head. "Does Robbie know this?"
"Yes, he does," I said.
"And? He's fine with this nonsense? I doubt that."
He wasn't fine with it. Let's talk about it later, he'd say, then he'd turn up in a couple of hours with a written list of why I should take his name.
"Roxy Marone or Roxy Roberts," my mother said. "Why is this even a question? Roxy Roberts is adorable!"
"And do you want your kids to have a different last name?" my aunt threw in. "Roxy Marone and Robbie Roberts, Junior, Junior?"
The three of them laughedas they always didwhenever anyone mentioned the Junior, Junior. I, personally, wanted to SCREAM.
"Now, Roxy, listen to me," my future-mother-in-law said, leaning in even closer. I could see Robbie's face in hers. They had the same eyesthe same beautiful pure green almond-shaped eyes. They each had a dimple in their left cheek. "We'll deal with the name business later. But listen to me, sweetie, you want to try for a baby tonight," she told me. "It's late November, which means if you conceive tonight or this week, the baby will be born at the end of August. That's ideal. Three weeks inside the house to prevent germs, and by the time you're ready to go out for your first stroll, it'll be perfect September weather. Oh fiddlyd.i.n.k," she said, throwing up her hands. "I forgot something at my house! I'll be right back!" And she disappeared into the kitchen, where our side door led to a shortcut through the backyard to Robbie's house, which was around the corner.
I am not having a baby this year or even five years from now. Maybe when I'm thirty-five... How many times did I have to say that? AND I AM NOT CHANGING MY LAST NAME!
"What if there's an Indian summer?" my aunt said. "You should wait a couple of weeks, Rox. You don't want to be walking a baby up and down the avenue in ninety-degree heat. Trust me, I know. I had two summer babies."
"Shush," my mother scolded. "Roxy doesn't need to be thinking of making a baby tonight. When she comes back from the honeymoon is fine."
My aunt nodded. "You're rightespecially because the honeymoon will be the last time she has s.e.x!" They laughed as though that was funny. She slid a section of my hair around her curling iron. "Ah, this reminds me of my own wedding day. Me, so in love, so excited to marry Vince. We were so crazy for each other that an hour before the ceremonyand mind you, this was almost thirty years agowe snuck off to the limo waiting outside my mother's house and fogged up the windows. We couldn't keep our hands off each other!"
My mother smiled and shook her head. "Me and Johnny too."
My parents had been crazy in love? Unable to keep their hands off each other? My parents bickered twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. That they had ever been crazy in love was impossible to even imagine. But they must have been. I hoped they'd been.
My aunt sent a withering glare at someone behind me, then took two cotton b.a.l.l.s from my mother's makeshift manicure table and stuffed them inside my ears. "The bride doesn't need to hear that the flower girl's bouquet is wilted," she yelled toward my cousin Lisa. "Or that her cousin Jeanne can't zip up her dress because she ATE A BIG MAC AND A LARGE FRIES every day for lunch for two months." She leveled a glare at her own daughter, whose fellow bridesmaids were huddled around her, struggling with her zipper, which wouldn't budge.
In the mirror across from me on the wall, I saw two of my bridesmaids helping my cousin Jeanne out of her bridesmaid dress and into a very tight-looking bra-to-ankle girdle.
"I can't even get this thing on!" Jeanne shouted. "Forget it! I'm never getting into that dress!"
"Dum dum da-dum!" my mother began bellowing, glaring at my cousin and gesturing wildly at me, Princess for a day. No upsetting the bride!
The other bridesmaids tried to calm down Jeanne, who was now stuffed into the girdle and looking incredibly uncomfortable. The bridesmaids helped her into the dress, which they finally managed to zip up. And then Jeanne bent to pick up her shoes, and there was the sudden ripping of fabric, followed by a gasp, followed by Jeanne bursting into tears.
It's okay, Jeanne, I wanted to say. Don't worry. You don't have to wear that dress because I'm not getting married today. I'm going to slip out the door when no one is paying any attention to me.
I couldn't imagine doing such a thing. But I couldn't imagine marrying Robbie either. What the h.e.l.l was I going to do? It was both way too late and not too late at the same time.
My mother knelt down next to me and pressed her cheek close to mine. "You're me twenty-six years ago," she whispered, her eyes pooling with happy tears. "And Robbie is your father. Well, you know what I mean."
I knew exactly what she meant. Perhaps I could imagine slipping out the door, after all.
My aunt, my mother and future mother-in-law stood before my chair, staring at me. They all nodded, tears in their eyes.
"Rox," my aunt said, pulling the cotton b.a.l.l.s out of my ears. "Close your eyes, hon. I want to give you one last spritz of hair spray before I put on your veil."
I closed my eyes and welcomed the force field of hair spray. For two seconds, I was completely invisible inside a sticky mist.
There was a knock at the side door. It was Robbie. He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, beaming at me. The nausea was coming back. I closed my eyes and saw black, then little white stars. Dizzy. Dizzy. I grabbed the sides of the chair to steady myself.
"Shoo!" his mother said. "You're not supposed to see her till the ceremony!"
"I can't wait, Ma. I need to kiss her one last time before we're man and wife."
"Husband and wife," I corrected.
He smiled, his dimples popping, his beautiful green eyes sparkling. Robbie was so cute, so Brad Pitt cute/good-looking that it was hard not to just stare at him for a moment and appreciate his looks. "Husband and wife. Whatever and wife. I just want us to be married."
That was all Robbie had ever wanted.
"Okay, one good kiss, but then we need Roxy back inside to put on her veil," his mother said.
He dashed over to me and knelt down. "I can't wait," he whispered, his arms around my neck. "I can't wait to marry you. Tonight is the first night of the rest of our lives, Rox. It's you and me forever."
"I" My mouth went dry. How do I tell you? How do I say it? I don't know what to do...
Before I could form another thought, he kissed me, and for one moment everything inside me tingled. Robbie was that kind of kisser.
"Enough, enough!" Rita Roberts trilled, shooing Robbie away with a playful swat.
When the front door closed behind Robbie, my aunt fixed my lipstick and attached the veil. "Okay, hon," she said. "I want you to go outside and test the veil. Do the bridal march up and down the walkway three times. See if it holds. Use the back doorotherwise the neighbors will swarm and we'll never get to the church on time."
"Oh my!" my mother said, her hand on her chest as I stood up. "Would you look at my baby in her veil? Oh, Roxy! You look so beautiful! You are me twenty-six years ago. Maur, is she me, twenty-six years ago, or what?"
You and me forever...
Aunt Maureen began crying. "She's you. One-hundred-percent you. Oh, I can't even talk! I'm bawling here!"
She's you...
My purse was on the kitchen counter. I clutched it and stepped outside, gulping in air.
And then I ran for the subway.
At the entrance to the steps leading to the subway station, I hesitated. I could go home and show Aunt Maureen that my hair hadn't drooped and that my mascara hadn't run despite how hard I was crying. I could go home and slip into my wedding gown.
Or I could walk down these steps. I could walk down these steps into the subway, slide my MetroCard, push through the turnstile, get on a train and not attend my own wedding.
I walked down one step and stood there.
"You, you gonna move or what?"
"Oh, sorry," I said to the group of teenagers barreling down the stairs.
"Train! Hurry up!" one of them yelled to another who was in line buying a MetroCard.
I ran down the stairs, slid my card through the turnstile and bolted through the open doors of the Uptown number four before the doors pinged close.
When the doors did close, I panicked. Oh my G.o.d, wait a minute, I'm not supposed to be on this train. I'll get out at the next stop and just come back.
But when the train stopped at the next station, I didn't get up. Or the next. Or the next. And when I knew I'd gone too far, it was too late; the subway was jammed. Today was Black Fridaythe start of the holiday shopping craze. I held on to a pole and stared at the back of someone's head for forty minutes.
At Forty-second Street, I got out for no particular reason. It was the center of the city, midtown. Any way I went from here I'd still be in Manhattan for a long time.
I looked around Times Square. Across the street was a Starbucks. The perfect place to stop and think or not think. I needed hot coffee.
"Venti skinny mocha no whip!" called out the clerk. "Hey, congratulations. Getting married today?"
Oh G.o.d. My hand flew up to my head. I forgot I was still wearing my veil. No wonder everyone was staring at me. I thought it was my movie star makeup job. I was about to take it off when I changed my mind. If I went back to Brooklyn, if I did marry Robbie Roberts after all, I didn't want to mess up Maureen's hard work on my hair. It had taken my aunt ten minutes to work the veil into her updo.
I'm sorry, Mom, I said silently to the ceiling. I'm really sorry. I know you and Daddy paid a small fortune for this wedding. I know how excited you are. But I don't think I can do it, Mom. I want something else.
Every time I told myself I was getting up and getting back on the subway, my body wouldn't move from my little stool.
My cell phone rang. Answer it, I ordered myself. You can say you went for a walk, your last as a single woman. You can buy yourself some time. But it wasn't my mother or Rita Roberts or Robbie calling. It was a number I didn't recognize.
"h.e.l.lo?" I said.
"May I speak to Roxy Marone, please?"
"Speaking."
"Hi, Roxy. My name is Lucy Miller-Masterson. I'm a senior editor at Bold Books. You sent in your resume last week?"
My mouth dropped open. I had seen the advertis.e.m.e.nt in the New York Times for an a.s.sistant editor at Bold Books and immediately sent in my resume and three of my best clippings, but I didn't hold out hope. I never received responses to my resumes.
"h.e.l.lo?" she asked.
Talk, Roxy! "Yes," I said. "h.e.l.lo."
"I was impressed by your resume and the clips you sent," she continued. "I'd like to schedule an interview."
YES! "That would be great," I said. "Any time that's convenient for you."
"That would be right now," she said on a laugh. "My a.s.sistant editor's last day was Wednesday and where am I on a holiday Friday? In the office." She laughed again, but she did sound sort of frazzled.
"I can come now!" I said way too loudly. "Can I come now?"