Charming Falls Apart Page 3

  I took a deep breath to calm myself. Neil and I have been together for forever, and we’re getting married; so whatever else happens today, I know we’re solid.

  “OR I THOUGHT we were solid,” I say to Jordan, the words tasting as bitter and sour in my mouth as the salt on my margarita glass.

  Jordan kept nodding, asking few questions as I recounted the horrible details of being fired. Somehow in between we managed to order another round of drinks, but we haven’t opened our menus yet. Despite this being my “treat” meal of the week, I’m not very hungry.

  “Have you talked to Kate yet?” Jordan asks.

  “No. I thought I would see her here tonight.”

  “And she’s not here,” says Jordan, stating the obvious.

  “Nope.”

  “That’s kinda shitty.” Jordan shakes her head disapprovingly. I know she’s not the biggest fan of Kate, but I also know that if pressed she’d diplomatically say, “I don’t dislike her.”

  I shrug. “She’s sick. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  Jordan harrumphs. “So how did Neil react to the news?”

  “I didn’t tell him.”

  “You didn’t tell him?” She’s looking at me obviously confused.

  “Well, he didn’t really give me the chance during his breakup speech.” I shrug helplessly and then tap my glass. “This is my second drink, so here goes.”

  I recount last night’s events, from Neil’s total obliviousness to my I’ve-been-fired boxes to his rapid-fire confession and even hastier escape out the door.

  “But what makes his betrayal even worse is that he’s in love with—” The tears are pricking at my eyes again, so I look up at the ceiling and say, “Stacey. He’s in love with Stacey.”

  “Stacey? Maid of honor, Stacey?”

  “Yes,” I squeak.

  I tear my eyes from the ceiling to see Jordan’s reaction. She looks frozen with her back ramrod straight, eyes wide in shock, and right hand gripping her glass.

  Her posture melts as she takes a few seconds to process my news; then she releases her death grip on her glass, reaches for my hand again, and says, “Oh, honey. We’re going to need another round.”

  Sitting at my kitchen table Sunday morning, I drink coffee to soothe my dull headache while clicking through job listing websites. Nothing jumps out at me, but I try not to let it worry me too much since I’ve only just started my search.

  What is worrying me is that I can’t shake the look of Jordan’s horrified face out of my mind. Last night, I’d been hoping for a sign from her that everything would be okay, but I didn’t get one. While she said things like, You’re better off without Neil and You’re worth twenty Staceys and You’ll get a better job, at times her facial expression failed to match her soothing words, which means I’m more of a mess than I thought. I even turned down a last round of drinks with the excuse that I didn’t want to wake up hungover because I needed to finish my resume and start my job hunt in earnest. I know I’m in denial, but for now I just want to focus on moving forward and not “feeling” my feelings—and I was afraid that too many drinks might force me to do just that.

  Around eleven in the morning, as I’m still sitting in my pajamas jotting down notes on some potential employers and tinkering with my resume, I hear the sound of keys being inserted into the lock on the front door. I look over and see the knob turning. My heart stops and like a doe in the headlights I freeze.

  The door opens and there stands Neil. His bug-eyed expression tells me that he is just as shocked to see me as I am him. “Oh, oh, sorry,” he stammers nervously, his hand still on the doorknob. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

  “It’s my condo. Why wouldn’t I be here?” I’m staring at him in horror, my hands still frozen over my laptop.

  “It’s Sunday, so I thought you’d be at yoga or running errands at this time.”

  “Well, I’m not,” I say coldly. Though I’d made the decision to try to keep up my normal routine, I’m still annoyed by his assumption that I’d be so regimented after he dropped his bomb on Friday. I close my laptop and then lean back into my chair crossing my arms tightly and resisting the urge to jump up and murder him.

  “I see that.” He stands awkwardly in the doorway as we stare each other down.

  I’m hoping he will look apologetic. I’m hoping he will say he’s made a big mistake. I’m hoping he will offer a better explanation of what happened to us. Finally, after several painful seconds, I’m hoping he will just say something and not continue to stand there in silence.

  When he doesn’t say anything, I break down and ask, “What are you doing here?”

  “I, uh, wanted to pick up some of my stuff,” he says, darting his eyes around the living room. “I can get the rest when you’re at work or something. You know, at a time more convenient for you.”

  My first instinct is to kick him out, but I fight it. I swallow hard, trying to remain calm, though anger surges through my veins. I want something to happen in this moment, but I don’t know what. I haven’t practiced how I want this to go down. Do I want to release the bitter-jilted-ex-fiancée or play this as the calm-collected-ex-fiancée? I don’t know yet. The only feeling I’m sure of is that I feel like I’m owed more information.

  “Don’t you think we should talk first?” I say.

  With his lips pressed tightly together, he shakes his head grimly. “I already told you everything on Friday. There’s nothing more to say.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a conversation. You told me nothing except that you’re in love with Stacey. Aren’t I owed some more answers?”

  “It’s just the same answers, Allison. It can’t help to keep going over them.”

  I feel a white-hot fury coming on, and the bitter-jilted-ex-fiancée is about to rear her ugly head. I clench my teeth to hold her back. Though I want to go all Welcome-to-the-Thunderdome on him, this is not the end. We still have to figure out our living situation, he still needs to fully move out, and we still need to discuss canceling the wedding contracts. And I want to be more prepared—not sitting in my pajamas nursing a mild hangover and being ambushed by my ex for the second time in forty-eight hours.

  “Fine. Get what you need and then please get out,” I say firmly, proud of my calm tone. “We still need to talk about canceling the wedding though and the sooner the better.”

  “Can’t you just do that?” he says, his voice sounding tired and annoyed. “You know I was never that involved in the wedding stuff.”

  Wait. Did he just whine to me? The man who called off our wedding to sleep with my maid of honor just whined to me that he doesn’t want to deal with canceling the contracts that need to be canceled due to his adulterous behavior? And with that thought, the bitter-jilted-ex-fiancée fights her way past all of my other personas, and suddenly I’m standing and screaming at him, “GET OUT! GET OUT!! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!! AND NEVER COME BACK!!!!”

  I’m sure every capillary has burst on my face as I’m stomping my foot and screaming while pointing to the door. Meanwhile, Neil just stands in the hallway white-faced with shock. In our five years together, I have never screamed at him like this, but instead always held back and chose my words carefully. But now I have no control over what I’m saying.

  “I’M SERIOUS, NEIL! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE AND BACK TO YOUR TRAMPY WHORE, OR I SWEAR TO GOD I’M GOING TO SHOVE YOU OUT OF HERE MYSELF!”

  Just as I’m about to lunge at him, Neil quickly leaves. The front door slams behind him, and I hear his feet running toward the elevators. As soon as he’s gone, I deadbolt the door and slide down to the floor and start heaving big fat ugly tears. I sob uncontrollably for what feels like an hour to the point where my entire body hurts. And even after my tears are spent, I don’t want to get up because I don’t want to get on with my day. I don’t want time to keep moving. I just want everything to stop and go backwards. Because how did I get here? How did this happen to me? Was I complicit in all these crimes? Did I cause this
?

  My phone rings. Oh my god, if this is Neil I’m going to lose it even more so than I already have, and I don’t want to see what that looks like. I peel myself off the floor and look at the screen. Gilchrist & Jenkins.

  “Hi, Jordan,” I snuffle.

  “Allison! Are you okay?”

  “Hold on.” I put the phone down to blow my nose and then pick it back up. “Yeah, I’m fine. Neil was just here.”

  “What did he want?”

  “To get some of his stuff.”

  “That bastard.”

  “That bastard, indeed. I didn’t let him.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Yeah, well, it got a little ugly. I didn’t let him take anything, which means he’s going to have to come back.” And with that thought, the tears make their reappearance.

  “Oh, Allie, I’m so sorry. Stay put, I’m coming over.”

  “No, no. It’s okay. I’m fine.” I sniffle loudly.

  “I’m coming over,” she says more forcefully, and when she takes that tone there’s no arguing with her.

  After we hang up, I head to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my puffy face. When I see my reflection in the mirror, somehow the reality of it all sinks in even more, and I start bawling all over again, even harder, if possible.

  I’M STILL TEARY when Jordan arrives. “Oh, honey, come here,” she says and envelops me in a big hug in my doorway.

  When we pull away and she comes inside, I manage to ask, “What’s in the bag?”

  “Supplies.” She sets the brown grocery bag on my kitchen table. “How do you feel about mimosas?”

  I laugh a little, which feels great after crying so hard. “Why not?” So much for my Sunday yoga; mimosas sound like a much better idea.

  Jordan grabs two champagne glasses from my cabinet and starts mixing our drinks while I slump down into a kitchen chair. When she hands me my drink, I’m immediately about to guzzle it down, but she stops me.

  “Not yet. We need to toast,” she says.

  “I don’t think there’s much to celebrate here.”

  “Oh, there is. Let’s toast to that bitch Stacey for finally taking that asshole Neil out of your life.”

  Even though I know she’s trying to be supportive, her words have the unintended effect of making me feel like an idiot for even letting those two into my life.

  I put down my glass and rest my forehead in my palms. “Oh god, Jordan. What am I going to do?” I hate the hopeless tone in my voice, but I just need to be pathetic right now.

  “Oh, sweetie, I didn’t mean to upset you.” She leans over and hugs me again. “Here’s what you’re going to do. First, we drink. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, compliant with this plan and then take a large gulp of the mimosa she so kindly made. “But, ugh, I’m going to have to face Neil sometime soon. He does still need to get his stuff.”

  “No, you don’t. This is what we’re going to do today. After these mimosas, we’re changing the locks.”

  “We can’t do that. How’s he going to get in?”

  “He’s not.” She gives me a pointed look. “Then we’re going to pack up his stuff and put it downstairs with the doorman. You’ll call Neil and tell him to pick up his stuff or it’s going in the trash.”

  Getting into the spirit of this plan, I say, “Better yet. Let’s just put it in the trash room. Then that way if he doesn’t pick it up, it’s definitely going in the trash.”

  Jordan winks at me and raises her glass. “See, I can tell you’re feeling better already.”

  After we finish our first mimosas, I head downstairs to see if my building’s engineer is around. He’s not. So instead I talk to my doorman, Robert. “It’s Sunday,” he says. “I don’t know if José can do it today. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “It’s, it’s …” I start to stammer, trying not to cry. “It’s a bit of an emergency. Neil and I broke up.”

  Robert’s eyes widen. “Noooo. But the wedding?”

  I shake my head. “It’s off.”

  Robert’s eyes are still wide and knowing that he loves good gossip about the tenants, I give it to him. “Neil cheated on me.”

  He gasps and puts his hand to his heart. “What a fool! I’m sorry to hear this. You know sometimes these young guys get cold feet and do something stupid.”

  “Oh, it was stupid all right.” And even though it pains me to admit it, I feel this information will further help my cause. “He cheated on me with my maid of honor.”

  All of a sudden Robert’s eyes turn serious, and he holds up his index finger. “You wait right here, Miss James.” He picks up the phone, dials a number, and says, “José, we have an emergency. Come to the front desk.”

  When I return upstairs, Jordan has already begun stuffing Neil’s clothes into several garbage bags. Noticing I’m back, she says, “I can do the clothes. That’s pretty obvious. So if you want to start on the other items … or if that’s too painful, just point them out to me, and I’ll take care of it.”

  I stand up straighter and pull my shoulders back in determination. “I can handle it.”

  I feel like we’re cleaning up a crime scene—that Jordan is my Olivia Pope from Scandal and I am her gladiator—and I swiftly grab a garbage bag and head to the bathroom. I start dumping everything from his medicine cabinet and drawers into the bag. I notice that the cologne he always wears is missing, as are his favorite hair products and eye cream. (Yeah, Neil, while you were making fun of my facials and nightly skincare routine, I know you were secretly into man products.) Since he appears to have taken his bathroom essentials, I have no problem throwing this bag in the actual trash.

  The physical exercise of removing Neil’s belongings from “our” place feels liberating. This was my place before Neil moved in. I was getting tired of wasting money on rent, and when most of my friends were coupled up and embarking on home ownership, whether in the city or the suburbs, I followed suit on the next step to responsible adulthood—a mortgage. Later, with Neil’s lease up and after a year of dating, we decided it made sense for him to move in with me. He sold his furniture and moved his clothes and other belongings into my two-bedroom, two-bath condo. While I paid my mortgage, he paid the monthly HOA fees, our utilities, and grocery bills. We didn’t share any credit cards or bank accounts or, apparently, commitment, which paved the way for Neil to move out as quickly and cleanly as he moved in.

  Thank goodness I’m now a far cry from the sad heap on the floor that I was this morning; instead, I’m a determined woman with a mission to reclaim my home and banish all traces of Neil’s prior existence from it. His hideous Notre Dame blanket on the bed, his random sports teams coasters cluttering the coffee table, his tacky baseball bobblehead collection—I want it all gone.

  As we’re packing, José comes and changes the locks. He looks at me sadly, and I intuit that he is on Team Allison, which also helps me feel a little better.

  By three o’clock, the locks are changed, and Jordan and I have finished the champagne and orange juice, as well as our packing.

  “Should I call Neil now?” I ask, though I don’t want to. I don’t want to speak to him, even if it’s just texting.

  Reading my face, Jordan says, “Why don’t I call him?”

  “You’re the best. Thank you.” Grateful and relieved, I toss her my phone. “If you don’t mind, I don’t even think I can handle listening.” My voice starts to break and I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to cry again.

  “Why don’t you take a shower while I call?”

  That’s when I realize that I’m still in my pajamas from this morning—so not Allison of me. “Good idea.”

  AFTER MY SHOWER, I feel clean and light. When I step out of the bathroom in my robe, I notice that all the bags are gone and Jordan is sitting on my sofa flipping through my latest issue of Marie Claire.

  “So?” I venture.

  “He didn’t answer, so I texted from my phone that he had twenty-four hours to pick
up his shit or else, and signed it very truly yours, moi. Didn’t want to leave any incriminating evidence on your phone.”

  “Thanks.” While I’m not surprised, it’s still pretty depressing that this is what it’s come to—ignored calls and intermediaries. “Where did the bags go?”

  “I took them down when you were in the shower. José and Robert helped me. Make sure to tip big at Christmas this year.”

  “I always do.” At least there are still some decent men in my life. I collapse down on the couch next to her. “Now what?”

  “Whatever you want. Movies? Pizza? More booze? Name your distraction.”

  I survey my living room, which is now missing Neil’s framed photos, sports memorabilia, and random books. The emptier space feels oddly claustrophobic.

  I look back to Jordan. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but let’s go out.”

  Jordan and I walk over to Fig & Olive on Oak Street, where we sit at the bar ordering small plates and more bubbly.

  “So what’s your plan?” asks Jordan.

  “For what part?”

  “All of it. Wedding? Job?” She waves an unsteady hand in the air. “Do you need any help making phone calls?”

  Oh, how I wish I had asked Jordan to be my maid of honor, but, given that she’s an attorney at a large firm with a large billable hour requirement and travels so much for work, I didn’t want to put that burden on her. Also, I know weddings aren’t quite her thing, so I was grateful that she even agreed to be a bridesmaid.

  “I feel like Neil is the one who should be making these calls.” I take another sip of my drink before continuing. “You know, the one who calls it off should do the calling.”

  “Agreed. But you know that’s not going to happen.”

  “Right. Or maybe my backstabbing maid of honor should do it?”

  Jordan shakes her head. “I still can’t believe that. I mean, I guess I do believe it a little. …” She pauses and then frowns. “Except that I don’t.”

  “In hindsight, maybe I can see it,” I grudgingly admit.