Choose Your Own Love Story

by Ilyse Mimoun

  The neighborhood stays outside for a while, wary of aftershocks. The lights are out, but since no one is seriously injured and all the pets have been found, people can be nice to each other again. A smattering of hugs, a few pats on the back. Amy sings a little song she has made up.

  Someone suggests s’mores and a sing-a-long, which gets a few laughs, but no one is going to get that community. There are tweets to tweet, pictures to upload. People return to their homes and light candles, have a drink, argue, or get naked.

  After you tuck Amy back in, you help Claude into bed and give him three ibuprofen to wash down with scotch.

  “You’re my hero,” he says softly.

  “You were pretty scared there,” you reply with kindness.

  “Yeah. I was.” Turns out when it happens, Claude isn’t scared to admit it. And that’s all the turn-on you need.

  You blow out the candle.

  THE END

  40

  You push through the crowd and find a tall muscular woman you think can help. Her name is Annie, and she leaps into action, running back with you. But by the time you two reach Claude, he’s managed to get himself free.

  “I’m okay, belle-fille,” he says. He’s holding Amy’s hand and limping a bit.

  All of a sudden you’re scared you’ve gotten in way too deep.

  Sure, Claude helped you through a tough time (when you temporarily lost your mind and decided to become a beach bunny), but that doesn’t mean he’s the right guy for you. If you’ve learned anything from Greg, it’s that you need to slow down and think things through.

  You’ll wait to tell Claude until he’s recovered from his back injury.

  That night he falls asleep quickly after downing some ibuprofen with whiskey. Amy goes down hard too—no whiskey required.

  At 3 a.m. you’re almost ready to crawl into bed, but after the fall and the alcohol, Claude’s snoring is downright astonishing. He sounds like a plane taking off, poor dear. You decide to sit on the curb and take in the moonlight. Looks like Annie had the same idea.

  She’s got a thermos full of vodka, and why not? The night is weird enough as is.

  The next four hours fly by. Annie is hilarious and loves to hear the tales of your romantic adventures with men. Turns out her adventures with women are all too similar. You’re thinking it’s pretty cool how tonight’s disaster might bring you a new friend when suddenly Annie kisses you gently on the mouth.

  “Oh,” you say, surprised.

  “I’m sorry,” she blushes. “I always crush on straight girls.”

  “It’s okay . . . I’m just . . . yeah, straight.”

  “Can we still be friends?” she asks.

  “Of course!” you say. Gay or straight, Annie may be your only single friend left. And now that you’ve made a mental decision about Claude, it will be great to have a gal pal to go out with and nurse your blues.

  You’re eating shredded wheat with Claude a week later when he beats you to the punch.

  “You’re not happy, huh?” he asks gently.

  You’re surprised he noticed. So often in a breakup it seems like the two people have been living in two different realities, albeit within the same relationship.

  “I guess not,” you falter, and you didn’t expect the lump in your throat to rise so quickly. After all, you had this idea two weeks ago. But you’ve grown attached to Claude, and the thought of being on your own again fills you with terrible dread. You’re sick of the hunt. You’re sick of breaking up. You’re sick of everything.

  “I know how you feel,” Annie says. You’re back in your apartment, having moved all your clothes from Claude’s place. Claude’s little beach house was so breezy and uncluttered. Your place is a stuffy, chaotic pigsty. Annie says she’ll help you get more organized.

  She’s a very responsible person, an accountant who is used to doing things perfectly. Everything except love, that is. It’s such a relief to talk to Annie. As much as you have often craved male attention, it’s really women who understand you. And isn’t that what it’s really about? You entertain a brief fantasy about living with Annie––how you could talk about feelings and laugh at the same things. How you would feel seen and would see her too. How no one would leave the toilet seat up.

  You’ve got your head on her shoulders and her arm is wrapped around you.

  Your heart is pounding.

  Should you go for it?

  If you’re ready to enter a Sapphic state of bliss, turn to page 152, section 42.

  If you feel a little old to switch sexual orientations, turn to page 154, section 43.

  41

  You and Artie read books after playtime, books where little boys and girls cooperate and make mistakes and learn lessons and love their mommies. You even read Goodnight Zoo even though it’s daytime. Night night, lions. Night night, shark.

  Max texts at 6:30.

  Leaving soon—I should be home for tubby time.

  That’s unusual, lately. Does he know you know? You don’t want to do tubby time with him. You can’t play nice in front of Artie. You might actually lose your mind if you have to do that. So you run the water now. Tubby time will happen earlier tonight. Artie kicks and screams over this, but it’s just too bad. You promise you’ll give him cookies if he’ll just get in the tub, so he does. Maybe this is bad parenting, but what can you do? You quickly soap him up, skip washing his hair, put him in his giraffe pajamas, give him cookies, and let him watch Sesame Street on the iPad until he mercifully falls asleep. It’s eight o’clock by this time anyway, so Max’s text was another lie.

  Now you are sitting on the couch, still in your robe, and it’s eight-fifteen when Max comes through the door. He moves quietly in case Artie is sleeping, which is just the sort of thing you always thought meant he was so sensitive. Now what does it mean?

  There are speeches to deliver, tears to shed, plates to shatter across the kitchen. But you are too tired for this or don’t know how to do it. You just sigh and say shakily, “I saw the pictures.”

  Max is thin with warm hazel eyes. Max is Artie’s father. Max has his Max smell, but now Max is a mystery.

  Do you give him credit for not trying to deny anything? He stands there frozen for a second, then runs over to you and drops to his knees. He is tearful, apologetic. He admits he was selfish and self-centered and an imbecile. Supposedly that’s what you’d want to hear, but the words don’t really land, just as none of this quite has, despite the hot stabbing painful fingers gripping your organs.

  It’s true, it’s true, it’s true—I’m not enough. And I’ll always hate him for making me remember that. You sit there, frozen but ill. Max asks if he should sleep on the couch tonight. You say the truth: I don’t know anything. I don’t know.

  What happens from this point on will be a matter of science. Brains adapt to new information and create new schemas to accommodate them. Your old brain knew Max to be someone who wouldn’t pulverize your heart. Now your brain has to incorporate Lying Cheating Max into the new schema, which could spoil the whole thing, destroy the neural pathway that associates Max with love, comfort, and security. Or, perhaps if Max demonstrates renewed commitment and convinces you, you can adjust to a third Max, neither the old Max nor the new dangerous Max but some other Max who you could love and mostly trust, provided he loves the new you.

  You hope for the best, but in the end it’s up to your brain.

  THE END

  42

  “Annie . . .” you whisper, and suddenly Annie envelops you in a deep and tender kiss. You let it unfold, kiss her back, let her caress you. You want to discover if you can surrender to this. Turns out . . .

  You can! Annie’s hand on your back makes your stomach flutter. Annie’s kiss makes you feel light, like you’re flying. When Annie takes you into her arms, you feel an aching tenderness. You feel yourself turning toward her, like an orchid toward the sun.

  Who knew? All this time women could have been an option? You’ll be damned!<
br />
  Or maybe it’s just that Annie is the right person at the right time. From this night onward you spend every minute together. You chitter and chatter all night long and talk or text incessantly throughout the day. At night you explore each other’s bodies with the fevered curiosity of naked scientists.

  One night you take her to an artisanal ice cream shop that has just opened. You order pepper-peach and she gets coconut curry, but you keep swirling them together to make even more strange and delicious combinations. You look at Annie, her tan skin, and witty hazel eyes. You keep trying to figure out if it’s her femininity or masculinity that attracts you, but the question is a puzzle puzzle leading nowhere. It’s just her Annie-ness.

  And it’s more proof that the best things in life are completely unpredictable.

  THE END

  43

  For the love of God, woman––stop being so reckless with people! First Claude, now Annie? Every time you need an ego-boost you jump into a relationship with someone? You’re worse than Greg!

  “I’m sorry, Annie,” you say lovingly. “I can’t.”

  “I totally get it,” she says. “We’re both fucked up, huh?” She kisses your forehead on the way out your door.

  Alone again in your humid cave, you have to admit she’s right. You pick up a bottle of white wine but then put it back in the refrigerator. You turn on the television but then turn it off immediately. Forlorn, you sit there blankly. Then a voice inside says, It’s time to start facing reality and grow up.

  “Shut up,” you say back and pop a peanut butter cup in your mouth.

  No, really, the voice says. Stop turning your back on yourself.

  The voice is firm but gentle. You decide to listen to it.

  Taking care of yourself begins with the obvious: eating more leafy greens and taking walks in the sunshine. The annoying part is that those things do help. You start reading more and lay off scanning Facebook for all the ways you are inferior to your “friends.” You stop beating yourself up mentally and find that, surprisingly, self-kindness is actually more motivating than constant criticism.

  You rededicate yourself to working hard at your job. You even get a weekly column called Tough Cookie in an online food magazine. As is the way when you put yourself out there, opportunities beget more opportunities. You are hired to teach a course called Food in Literature at a junior college. You get to pore over your favorite passages from Like Water for Chocolate and The Edible Woman. Someone thinks you should even do a TED talk. Your friendships with Crystal, Meg, and Annie are wonderful.

  Things are going well, so why is there this pit in your stomach all the time? It’s not just loneliness; loneliness is familiar and you’re not afraid of it anymore. It’s more than that. You go over your recent romantic history in your head, seeking loose ends.

  Greg: Dumped you, probably for the best. Check.

  Pad thai delivery guy: Greedy for chicken, not relationship material. Check.

  Claude: You loved him but got very scared. Check.

  Annie: Amazing, but you’re not a lesbian. Check.

  Wait—back up. What was that about Claude again? Your stomach twists in horror. You were in a beautiful relationship with a caring, sexy Frenchman, and you ran off as soon as it started to feel real. What is wrong with you? It wasn’t Claude who couldn’t admit to fear––it was you! You love Claude! Ahhhh!

  In the movies it’s usually the man who realizes that he was just scared of commitment and starts running to his lady’s door. In your movie, you’re the commitment-phobic dummy, and the “running” is a ninety-minute drive in merciless traffic to Claude’s tiny Venice beach house. And he’s not home. And you’re an idiot. Again.

  It’s going to be a long drive back, and you need to stretch your legs first. You try to tell yourself at least you tried, but it’s not enough. Your heart is not satisfied now that you are awake to it. And you miss Amy—Jesus, what you’d give to scoop her up and kiss her face.

  You trudge along the boardwalk, oblivious to the fire-eaters and tattoo artists. You can’t feel the sunshine nor smell the saltwater, body odor, and cotton candy. You know where this is going—the numb ache spreading through your body like hot Novocain. The stomachache that won’t quit. The searing violence of another broken heart.

  You’re so caught up in your impending nightmare that you’re blind to the pudgy cherubic father walking with his daughter until he calls out, “Belle-fille?”

  “Claude!” you shout and run over to him.

  For a moment you stand there silently, his eyes tender, your eyes blinded with tears. Then you kiss his darling French lips.

  It’s the happiest kiss of your life––even better than when the coolest guy in high school kissed you on a dare.

  Now Amy tugs at his shirt to get into a group hug.

  “Can you ever forgive me?” you ask, eyes swimming with tears.

  “Do you want some cotton candy?” Amy asks.

  You break a fluff off Amy’s pale blue cotton candy and let it evaporate on your tongue. Little crystals remain there, tingling. The taste is as achingly sweet as the man you almost let slip away.

  “Je t’aime,” Claude says, pulling you in tight. “Je t’aime.”

  You don’t speak French yet, but you do know what that means. It means he loves you too.

  THE END

  44

  “Tell me what you want,” Benjamin whispers in your ear, then licks it.

  “You mean say something dirty?” you stall.

  “Yeah, that’s a good girl.”

  “I want . . .”

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “I want your cock out of my pussy right now!” you splutter and tears spring to your eyes.

  “Jesus,” Benjamin says and removes himself briskly. He rolls the condom off and storms to the bathroom. “What a spaz,” he adds.

  Maybe you should feel guilty or angry, but you just feel stupid. Benjamin is not great. Benjamin is a total player and you know it. You’ve been kidding yourself because you wanted to skip the part of the breakup where you really have to be on your own for a while. On the drive home you decide it’s time to just pay attention to yourself.

  You embark on a mission to get positive. You start doing yoga and try to look for one moment of joy each day, just as an online self-help book recommended. You increase healthy foods like flax and tempeh. You listen to a meditation tape, although when you are supposed to inwardly chant “may the entire world know love and peace” you find yourself accidentally chanting, “the entire world has a disease.”

  You seek a positive outlook in the autobiography Man’s Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl, a sort of pick-me-up-book about the Holocaust. Frankl basically says that Holocaust survivors were people who held on to their optimism and sense of purpose. So you know you would have died in, like, two days.

  Ugh, maybe you should write your own book in response to Frankl. Instead of Man’s Search for Meaning, it will be called Obviously Life Has No Meaning.

  Your perfectly together friend Meg says you should write it—maybe sublimating your grief through art will illuminate something. Meg signs you up for a local fiction writing class, and who are you to argue?

  Class meets at the teacher’s apartment, where you sit on overstuffed couches, eat fresh-baked pie and raw cashews, and comment on each other’s stories. You have poured out all your feelings about Greg into a story and read it aloud to less than critical acclaim.

  “I don’t understand why he’d leave her,” a girl with bangs says. “It sounds like they had a great relationship.”

  “Yes!” you say excitedly. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “But writing has to make sense,” the girl says.

  “Oh,” you say.

  The second class you write about how a breakup is like a death and how Greg murdered your soul. The one cute guy in class looks frightened. He’s Indian, and his writing is beautiful and concerned with bigger ideas than your Greg treatise. Stuff
like political corruption and the whole Pakistan nuclear bomb thing.

  “Jesus, your character is maudlin,” he says. “No wonder he left her—the protagonist is so irritating.”

  “Oh,” you say.

  In the third class the girl with bangs says, “We need to know more about the protagonist’s backstory. Obviously her boyfriend is just a symbol.”

  You nod politely but really don’t want to hear about symbols. You are a food critic, not Virginia Woolf. You want to write about plum sauce.

  Maybe you need a different project other than waiting for Greg to have the Big Realization. In the movies men always have the Big Realization. Even men who die come back as a ghost to tell you it was a mistake. Even in a movie called He’s Just Not That into You the guy comes back at the end to say that, as a matter of fact, he’s into you! There’s no movie where you have this great relationship that means everything to you and the guy dumps you and then just never regrets it. No one wants to see that.

  You sit at your computer and try to get back to your article about how there’s no such thing as too much cilantro—which is funny because you never even buy cilantro at the grocery store. In fact, you never buy anything at the grocery store except bananas and cereal. It’s kind of ridiculous that you study food for a living but can’t cook! Luckily Groupon has an answer for this: a six-week cooking class where you get to drink wine as you learn. This has got to be the universe offering you the perfect new hobby.

  The first class you get drunk and burn your mini pizza.

  The second and third classes you make a mediocre radicchio salad and a pesto pasta that’s as bitter and oily as you feel.

  On class four you try to talk to an older man but he is married. He’s one of those married guys who doesn’t wear a ring. Gross. You do not give him a bite of your (perfectly adequate) tagine.

  On class five you’ve got flour on your nose and an apricot tartlet in the oven when a new guy in glasses enters the room, apologetic and definitely adorable. Your teacher guides him to the table near you and suddenly you recognize him from the Internet: It’s Max412! The super-cute guy who reads Jane Austen! Max recognizes you too, and when you share a bite of your dessert, he sheepishly asks if you’d like to go on a date.