Choose Your Own Love Story

by Ilyse Mimoun

  Hold on—who said anything about ending? Jun is warm and affectionate, plus the bed is so comfy, and the pool so refreshing . . .

  You’re floating in it right now, sun-drenched and tipsy as you are most days now. The sun is warm and lazy on your skin, the undulating waves of the pool lulling you into half-sleep. You can barely hear the murmurs of the others––Jun is having another little get-together. He always introduces you as his girlfriend now, which is amazing.

  This is good, you think. This is natural. This is how life ought to be.

  You flip over to maybe swim a few laps and see Jun in the hot tub, laughing with a delicate blonde with perfect features. Did he—did he just kiss her? Jun dunks his head in the water and emerges laughing. You don’t even know if you saw what you think you saw. Your stomach lurches.

  “Hey babe!” he calls over. “Come in!”

  You opt to keep floating and don’t bring it up until nighttime when everyone is gone and you can have Jun all to yourself. Dusk is your favorite part of the day. You and Jun sit outside every early evening to watch the sunset and kiss endlessly.

  “Jun,” you say now, breaking away from his sun-warmed mouth.

  “Did you . . . did you kiss that actress today? In the hot tub?”

  “Marlene?” Jun asks casually.

  “I don’t know her name,” you say. “The blonde.”

  “Oh. Yeah, we hook up sometimes . . . is that a problem?” he looks genuinely concerned. You are crestfallen.

  “Well . . . yes? I mean, am I your girlfriend?” You feel somehow shamefully needy and unevolved just for asking this.

  “Aww, come here,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and nibbling your neck.

  “You know you’re my number-one girl,” he croons.

  “But . . . so why did you kiss her?” you ask. Your stomach is cramping up.

  Jun turns you around now, in that imperious way that you can’t help but be attracted to. “Listen,” he says intently. “I’m, like . . . I’m in love with you.”

  “You are?” you ask.

  “Yeah . . . I used to just go online to meet more women to fuck.”

  “What?!”

  “I’m just being honest,” Jun says. Everything he says always sounds both casual and sincere. He could tell you California has been taken over by zombies and somehow convey genuine concern and total nonchalance at the same time. “Things have changed, though,” he continues. “I’m getting older. I want someone to settle down with, and I have a good feeling it could be you.”

  “Oh my god,” you whisper. Your head is spinning with romantic fantasies. You and Jun drinking sangria in St. Bart’s. You and Jun strolling in Paris, feeding each other pistachio macarons. You and Jun siring a noble line of children with perfect noses.

  “But I’m not going to give up my lifestyle.”

  Thud.

  Oh right. You almost forgot about the kiss. Jun isn’t going to give up his lifestyle. Jun wants to settle down but also sleep with as many ingénues as he likes. It’s the kind of paradox that only rich people can demand with a straight face.

  But would it be so bad? Being fabulously wealthy for life, with the only price being an occasional dalliance on Jun’s part? That would probably happen with most guys anyway. And here, at least, you’d still be his “number-one girl.” If you had kids, you’d never have to worry about money for a second—they could go to Yale! They could be anything! You could drink all the cucumber water in the world and have the best skin and hair, just like Jun. And, of course, you’d have Jun. Beautiful, charismatic Jun.

  You remember the way your mom mended your shoddy middle-school backpack all the way through twelfth grade rather than “waste money” on a new one. The way your dad yelled if you took a long shower because of the water bill. Those memories are dear to you now––who would you become if you join this strange and stirring bourgeois society? Do you want to find out?

  If a life of luxury sounds peachy keen, turn to page 184, section 49.

  If you’re not going to throw away your principles, turn to page 187, section 50.

  49

  “Okay,” you tell Jun. “I won’t ask you to give up your lifestyle.”

  “Good,” he whispers into your ear. “I love you.”

  You close your eyes, ashamed. That night you don’t have sex with Jun, and your dreams are thick with anxiety.

  But after a few weeks it’s amazing how quickly you fall back into things. There are more parties, and then sailing, and then Jun takes you to wine country for a few days. The cuisine there is decadent, but you’re beginning to wonder whether you need to write your food articles anymore. Who else needs to know about Osetra Caviar, veal sweetbreads, and beef pavé with caramelized shallot sauce?

  Jun says you shouldn’t bother, that you should let him take care of you now. Then he playfully throws a furry black box at you.

  He doesn’t even wait for the yes—after all, who would say no?

  Your wedding is spectacular, of course. A “simple affair” in a Japanese zen garden with blue bell flowers sprinkled from above in a soft lavender rain. Gourmet Cuban chefs are flown in to honor your first date, and they keep the guests gorging on malanga fritters and frozen mojitos. Your dress—scalloped cream lace with a sweetheart neckline and jeweled ribbon sash––cost more than your college tuition.

  Unfortunately your parents look uncomfortable the whole time, and you are surprised how few friends of your own made it to the guest list. You seem to have drifted apart from them lately, even Crystal. It’s like they don’t understand you anymore or something.

  Luckily Jun does. Or at least he’s good at pretending to. You start learning that charm is different from warmth. At dinner Jun flashes his dazzling smile, then goes back to his phone. And soon he gets wrapped up in other things: pilot lessons, art collecting, scuba diving. Jun throws himself into each project with the passion he showed you in those first few months. Then he gets restless. Being able to do whatever he wants all the time is boring for him. For you, it’s paralyzing. Sometimes it takes you thirty minutes to decide what to eat for breakfast. After all, the possibilities are endless.

  Perhaps that’s how Jun feels about casual sex, a hobby he hasn’t grown tired of. When he sneaks into bed in the middle of the night, you know where he’s been. And you’re not “allowed” to say anything. So you just roll over and pretend to be asleep, quickly brushing the hot tears aside and stuffing your face in the freshly plumped pillow.

  The years flow by like this—shimmering, easy, and sad. You have the most exquisite clothes in the world, but who cares? You’re never too hot nor too cold, but shouldn’t you be? You float in the sumptuous pool every day. You float and float, and part of you floats away. The old you, the one full of passion and curiosity, has been replaced by someone lazy, imperious, and stultified.

  Get out, a voice whispers to you. Get out while you can still make a new life for yourself. A life of your own.

  But then comes the fresh-squeezed orange juice and warm, fluffy croissants on a silver tray. Then come weekly deep-tissue massages, a second home in London, and organic shampoo infused with Hawaiian honeysuckle. It’s the only shampoo that has ever made your frizzy hair look good. Ever. You have a queasy feeling you’ll be lathering with it for years to come . . .

  THE END

  50

  For a split second you consider letting Jun whisk you away into a life of luxury, but then you come to your senses. First of all, people who are too rich get weird. Second of all, as painful as it is to admit . . . Jun is a giant d-bag.

  You tell him you just can’t sign up to this life, stuff some expensive lotion into your bag, and get out of there. Soon you’re back to your old world of food blogging, reading classics on your old lumpy couch, and cocktails with Crystal.

  But late at night, lying on your back in your plain old bed, it bothers you that you were so tempted by Jun’s offer. You wouldn’t have thought yourself so susceptible to the lure
of money. You want to know more. So you head to one of the last remaining bookstores in town and find yourself in the nonfiction section, leafing through a book called Affluenza.

  “Ooh, that’s a good one,” says a scruffy-looking guy you hadn’t noticed before. He wears funky glasses, cargo pants, and a big afro. His face is playful and beatific—a cross between your childhood swim teacher and black Jesus. It works.

  “Oh, is it?” you ask.

  “Yeah, I’ve read it several times.” He’s got a backpack on one shoulder and holds a thick book about corporate fat cats.

  “I’m Amad,” he says.

  “I’m––”

  “Quite beautiful,” he interrupts.

  By nightfall you guys are eating pepperoni pizza at a hole-in-the-wall joint in Echo Park. You always were a sucker for compliments. And unlike Jun, Amad is short on cash but long on substance. Talking with him doesn’t make you feel dizzy like Jun did, but you’re compelled by everything he says. Maybe that’s what it means to like someone in a mature way?

  “So why were you reading that fat-cat book?” you ask him.

  “I’m a Marxist,” he says warmly. “Unfettered capitalism is ruining our country.”

  “Oh,” you say, remembering Jun’s steam shower and cucumber water. “I see what you mean.”

  “But we don’t need to get into it. I’m not a proselytizer or anything. Tell me more about you!”

  Normally you’d be happy to oblige, but you’re too darn curious about him. You’ve been leading such a shallow, navel-gazing life with Jun—you’re suddenly thirsty for cheap beer and new ideas with Amad!

  You start spending lots of time together. Amad knows everything about global politics, racism, and economics, and he has traveled all over the world. Not sight-seeing like Jun but instead digging ditches and helping people in poor countries get clean water. He’s the real deal—a good person who actually does good work. Being with him feels like it elevates you too. Let’s face it: the only money you’ve ever given to charity is leftover saag paneer to the homeless guy outside your favorite Indian restaurant. And only when you’re really full. Amad has actually been to India to, like, help.

  He’s also a generous lover, believing that women have been objectified in the same way workers have and that their bodies should be honored, not reduced to degraded meat on billboards and in music videos. He expresses this honoring through studious attention to all your body parts. Marxism is beginning to look pretty good.

  And Amad is growing cooler by the minute. When you think about Greg and Jun, you realize that charm actually predicts bad outcomes. Charm has nothing to do with someone’s ability to be a good partner. Amad is a wonderful partner. He’s caring, kind, and always considerate of your feelings. You decide to attend a political meeting with him to show him that you care. Amad is elated.

  When the big night comes, you get jittery, picturing a dark cellar full of angry bespectacled mobs burning money. In reality, it’s just some young woman’s apartment where normal people eat cold pizza and argue over the best way to get their newsletter out––like should they use Twitter or not. It reminds you of being on the high school paper. It’s fun.

  Back home that night you’re wiping tomato sauce off Amad’s T-shirt when suddenly you both blurt something out at the same time.

  You blurt: “I love you.”

  He blurts: “Move to Haiti with me.”

  Then in unison, both of you: “What?”

  “You first,” Amad says, kissing you softly.

  “I think I love you,” you say again.

  “And I am bat-shit crazy in love with you,” he says in his earnest, endearing way. “Move to Haiti with me,” he says, taking your hand and placing it against his ebony cheek. “I know it sounds crazy, but there’s so much suffering going on over there. I know we haven’t known each other that long, but I will totally commit myself to making you happy. I won’t get lost in the mission. I just think nothing could be better than making the world a better place with the most lovely woman I’ve ever met.”

  You look into Amad’s eyes and believe every word—believe in his love, believe that he’s leading a worthwhile life, believe that you could be part of it.

  You also believe that Haiti is really far away. With desperation. And poverty. And no cable television. Leaving Jun’s palace was one thing, but are you ready to take it to the next level?

  If you’re ready to travel coach to Haiti with a wonderful man, turn to page 192, section 51.

  If jumping from one extreme to another doesn’t feel right, turn to page 133, section 37.

  51

  Being with Amad has awakened something inside you—an interest in the world outside yourself. It’s outrageous how much energy you have spent in the pursuit of something as trivial as finding a guy. It’s embarrassing. Going to Port-au-Prince—attempting to be of service, even if it’s just sweeping the beach one grain at a time—that sounds worthwhile.

  But it turns out life in Haiti is very tough. For six months you live in a flimsy tent in Titanyen, north of Port-au-Prince. You spend hours all day doing backbreaking physical labor, helping to build houses. It’s sort of awful. Your bum knee swells up on a daily basis, you’d kill for a ten-minute shower, and there is a widespread problem of defecating on streets. People constantly beg for money. You remember Jun’s pool and feel sick to your stomach.

  “Yeah, of course it’s bad,” Amad says one night on your little cot. “That’s why we’re here.”

  You sigh and snuggle up to him, even though you’re both sweaty and gross. You used to think you were a good person, but you’re probably not. Amad is a good person. You’re just trying.

  “Trying to be good is a form of goodness,” Amad says and smoothes your hair.

  Jesus, maybe he really is Jesus.

  You look at him one evening over diri kolé ak pwa (rice and beans). His face is luminous as he pores over a book. Amad is the dearest man you’ve ever known. As he teaches you about environmental racism and sustainable construction, you teach him how to lighten up. There’s no way to be an aid worker in Haiti without some laughs. As in all subjects, Amad is a quick study, and his goofy side begins to emerge.

  Little by little he teaches you how to be good. You are able to move on from physical labor and into an organization that works to improve women’s literacy and job opportunity. And here you find your true vocation. All that fitful energy you had all those years, energy that you projected onto one dingbat dude after another, now has a meaningful place to focus.

  It’s not like you’ll do a world of good. In the nonprofit world a tiny, tiny difference is all you’re gonna get. But it feels like something you’re good at, something that matters. And coming back to your tent to see Amad’s shining face? Well, that’s just icing on the cake.

  And it’s delicious.

  THE END

  52

  No one would ever accuse you of being very successful. But you manage to keep your head above water, pay for health insurance, and keep up enough income to drive a working car. You’d like a guy who can do the same––is that so unfair?

  You let Jun off the hook in the same way many men have dumped you—by flaking on plans, only returning some phone calls, and slowly sort of dropping off. Dating is a brutal business; it’s kill or be killed. One minute, game on; the next minute, game off. It’s not at all what your mother told you dating would be like—with flowers at the door and kisses on your hand. You decide to go offline for a while and just concentrate on living a fuller life. After all, people always say that’s when you’re more likely to meet someone. Those people are probably lying, but it’s worth a shot.

  You refocus on your career and start going to more restaurants, writing more, and brainstorming different formats for your food criticism––like a web show or a documentary. The renewed focus on your career lifts your spirits immensely. At Crystal’s insistence you even start tweeting little bon mots about food. You always said you’d never
tweet, but at a certain point you gotta join the party.

  It’s strange how that forges relationships with total strangers. One follower named J. P. often retweets your tweets. So you follow him and find that he mostly posts links to obscure art openings or New York Times book reviews. You start retweeting his tweets, even when you don’t read the articles.

  This finally results in J. P. asking you out. And some people might call a minigolf date stupid, but you think it’s fun! And maybe he’s not built like Jun or cocky like Greg, but he’s definitely got something.

  Something you want to know more about. Something that has you tossing and turning in your sleep, biting your pillow with excitement. You want to keep seeing him.

  Get out there and explore, Lady Magellan!

  Turn to page 87, section 26.

  53

  You leave Max a plain note: I just can’t trust you anymore.

  Then you start packing your bags. There will be time for divorce papers and visitation rights later, but for now you just want to get out of here.

  As you stuff your clothes and soaps in an old suitcase, your mind races. How did you get here? Whose fault is it? Do all men cheat? When will this pain go away? What is the purpose of life?

  You remember what you learned in Artie’s Mommy and Me yoga class: breathe. You stop your manic packing and sit down for a minute. You simply sit with your breath and watch your thoughts, the way they range from fury to self-hatred to grim determination to a sort of nothingness and then back again. You send your exhale right into your heart, which feels like a volcano. It’s so hot inside you, you’re desperate to bolt, but you keep sitting for another minute. You sit with the sizzling pain in your guts. You let your shoulders release.

  And a strange kind of calm comes over you. The nightmare—your husband cheating on you with a young beautiful woman—has happened. That’s it. It happened, and you’re alive. You’re in agony, but you’re alive. There’s a certain freedom that comes from that. And sitting at the foot of your and Max’s bed, watching your breath, has stirred something in you. A wish for something even more elusive than a partner: a sense of inner peace.