by Angela Terry
My cheeks grow hot and I shrink into myself as I remember how Stacey flirted with Neil. She was always hugging him, touching his arm, or tapping his knee. And, of course, everything and anything he said, she always laughed the loudest, sympathized the most, or complimented to over-the-top heights. I had assumed she was turning on the charm toward Neil for my benefit, and—stupid me—more than once I thought about how lucky I was that my friend and fiancé got along so well.
I suspect Jordan noticed it too but doesn’t want to kick me when I’m already down. Although she does say, “Remember when you were trying on wedding dresses?”
I groan. “Yes.”
“Ugh. Every time you tried something on that was gorgeous on you, she’d make that weird face and say, ‘You’re so pretty, but I just don’t think it works on you,’ in a totally passive-aggressive way.” Jordan purses her lips and scrunches up her nose, mimicking Stacey that day.
I emit a bitter laugh both at Jordan’s dead-on impression and the memory. “Yeah, then she’d pull out some fluffy horrid monstrosity—‘just for fun’—but then she’d always gasp and say, ‘This is the one!’” I dramatically gasp and clutch my heart, à la Stacey.
“When it sooo clearly was not!” Jordan adds. “What a cow.”
This makes me think of my beautiful wedding dress being made right now. I had selected a figure-hugging, ivory, silk charmeuse gown with a plunging back. It was elegant and graceful and perfect for the sophisticated Chicago hotel wedding I had planned.
“Well, despite Stacey’s ‘help,’ you picked the right one.” Jordan pats my hand.
I sigh in response, since it seems beside the point now.
“So, speaking of difficult personalities, have you told your parents yet?” Jordan asks.
“Not yet. Somehow I can mentally handle canceling the wedding stuff, but not that call to my parents.” More specifically to Theresa James, my mother. I brighten up for a second with a thought. “Hey, you did such a great job calling Neil today, so perhaps you can make the call to my mom?”
“Sorry, Allie. You know I love you, but even love has its limits.”
I’m the only daughter of Patrick and Theresa James, both of whom desperately want a grandchild. While I think my dad has resigned himself to my choice (or more like happenstance circumstances) to focus on my career first before children, Theresa, not so much. I can’t even count how many times the discussion of freezing my eggs has come up. Neil and I had planned to start a family right after the wedding. Unfortunately, Neil running off with Stacey wasn’t in the plan. I’m still in a state of shock. But my mother? She may have to be placed on suicide watch.
“Anyway, I can’t think about it right now. I’ll think about that tomorrow,” I say, in what I hope sounds more like a Scarlett O’Hara impression than an ostrich with its head in the sand.
“Didn’t someone famous once say that?”
“Shut up and finish your drink.”
Jordan laughs and when she does I notice that two guys around our age turn around. Jordan follows my eyes and notices them. Holding her glass up to hide her lips, she comments, “Cute.”
I nod, then pick up my drink and take another sip. I’m obviously not into men at the moment, but I can pretend to appreciate them for Jordan’s sake.
One guy nudges the other and says something, and then they both turn their attention back to the bar and away from us.
“Oh, well. I thought for a second that my two days of singlehood were going to pick up.” I intend this to come out jokingly; instead, the words sound morbid when I actually say them.
Jordan looks at my hand holding my drink. “It’s your ring!”
“Oh, yeah. My ring,” I say, suddenly sad again. I hold out my left hand and admire the large, cushion-cut diamond embraced by smaller diamonds on their platinum Tiffany band and sigh. “I really, really love this ring.”
I’ve been wearing it every day for almost six months now, and even though the engagement is over, I’ve kept it on the last couple days out of habit … or so I tell myself. Once it’s off my finger, it will be off for good, and I’m not quite ready to break up with it.
Neil had let me choose my own ring. For years, we had talked about getting married and when it would be most convenient for us. There was no mystery of the “will he or won’t he ask” variety. (Though, admittedly, later on, his ideal timing for marriage and kids seemed to be a moving target.) The only question was “when.” With my thirty-fifth birthday approaching (and my fertility dwindling), I decided “when” was now or never, and Neil acquiesced. Even though I picked out my ring in August, he still left me sweating for the next several months. I had thought that over the three-day Labor Day weekend, when we visited his parents’ summerhouse in Michigan, he would propose. But no. Then I thought surely he would do it before Thanksgiving, so we could announce it to everyone at dinner. Still no proposal. By the time Christmas was around the corner, I was quietly freaking out.
The night before Christmas Eve, Neil took me on a snowy horse-drawn carriage ride through Chicago. Since it was unlike him to plan an elaborate date night, I was fully expecting him to propose in the carriage and so I kept my gloves stuffed in my purse. Even though the ride was “romantic,” the shivering was a slight problem, and I worried that we would drop the ring or I’d lose my ring finger to frostbite. Turned out that I didn’t need to worry about dropping the ring. The carriage ride ended at Spiaggia, an Italian restaurant at the top of Michigan Avenue. All during the meal, I kept waiting for Neil to get down on a bended knee, but he didn’t. When he insisted that we order dessert, I figured that he must have hidden my ring in it, and so I played along even though I rarely order dessert. The idea of my beautiful ring buried in the flourless chocolate cake we shared made me shudder, but after a few tentative bites, it became clear that nothing was hidden except the calorie count. After dinner, we headed home in a cab, with no proposal and no ring.
When we got home that night, I couldn’t help myself and blurted out wistfully, “That was such a romantic date. I have to be honest, I kind of thought you were going to propose.”
Neil’s face immediately turned red. He paused in the middle of taking off his coat, and I had a moment of dread—Uh-oh, did I just ruin his big moment? Am I pushing? Or, oh god, what if he’s changed his mind?
Instead, Neil said, “So did I, but I forgot the ring.”
“You forgot the ring?” Without realizing I’d been holding my breath, I suddenly burst out laughing. Thank God that’s all it was, I thought, along with, Guess I wasn’t the only one who’d been on an emotional rollercoaster all night. “Oh, Neil, honey! I’m sorry.”
“Wait right here,” he said. He finished shaking off his coat, threw it on a kitchen chair, and then disappeared into our bedroom.
When he returned, he asked, “Should I do the bended knee thing?”
“Better not. You don’t want to hurt your back again.” Our relationship had already reached past the romantic stage into the practical one. Perhaps it would have been nice if he had done it, but he’d already had his romantic evening botched and I couldn’t handle any more delays.
So he stood in front of me and opened the box. I sucked in my breath. The ring was as stunning as I remembered it at Tiffany’s.
He grinned that lopsided grin that I loved so much and said, “Allison James, will you marry me?”
“Of course!” I clapped my hands once and then kissed him on the lips.
We took the ring out of its box and he slid it onto my finger, sealing the deal.
Once it was secured on my hand, I asked, “Should we call our parents?”
“Nah, it’s late. Let’s just call them tomorrow.”
And, finally, we were engaged. Granted, it wasn’t the type of proposal you see in the movies. Nobody cried. No words of undying love and devotion were spoken. But with my PR spin, we still had a pretty good engagement story to tell.
As we recounted the story to our friends and family
over Christmas, we did the full build up—the carriage ride, dinner, dessert—until we got home and “he had forgotten the ring!”
Ha-ha-has all the way around. But to be honest, I never really thought it was that funny. A part of me has always sort of wondered: If I hadn’t brought up the proposal that night, would we have gotten engaged at all? This doubt was easily drowned out by the noise and busyness of wedding planning, until now.
Because, unlike me, Jordan has to get up in the morning for work, we call it a night at ten, and she walks me home.
“So you still haven’t told me the plan,” she says. “What now?”
“The plan?” I press my palms against my temples as we walk. “I guess I have two choices: crawl under the covers for the rest of my life or make myself move forward.”
“Which is it?”
“Moving forward.”
“Good girl.”
Jordan gives me a sympathetic hug outside my building. “You call if you need anything, okay?”
“Thanks, Jor. You’re the best.”
BEFORE I CLIMB into bed, I consider taking off my beautiful ring and putting it back in its blue box. I decide not to. Even though it’s a physical reminder of Neil, so much change has happened in forty-eight hours that I just want one thing to remain status quo for the moment. I pick up my phone to set my alarm, but remember that there’s no point and set it down again. Then I cry the next batch of tears, but I’m not sure if they’re totally for Neil. There’s so much else to mourn—my dress, my ring, and, most important, the future we had planned—that I wonder if I’ll ever go to bed dry-eyed again.
A body in motion stays in motion. A body at rest stays at rest. Which is why I’m in a treadmill class at my gym at seven thirty this Monday morning. Staying in bed all day was obviously the preferable option, but this is my first official Monday of being unemployed, and I’ve decided to prudently stick to whatever routines I still have control over in my life. (Granted, I’m normally at the gym around six, so there is a bit of slacking going on.)
On my walk home, I follow my custom of stopping at Starbucks for my morning latte. Though I probably shouldn’t be spending the money (being unemployed and all), just like my daily workout, I still need this sense of normalcy in what is now my surreal life. When I reach the counter to order my usual tall almond milk latte, John the usual Monday morning cashier comments, “Hey, Allison. Late start today?”
“Hey, John. Yep. Late start. I’ll have my usual, please.”
His familiarity with me and my habits, which I usually find comforting, kills off my endorphins since I’m not too keen to explain that there’s no job to get started at, late or early, today.
Once home, and in no hurry, I take my time showering and getting dressed. I remember watching an interview with Hoda Kotb where she described that when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, she still forced herself to get dressed every day. My life as I know it might be over, but at least I don’t have a life-threatening disease; and so I repeat Hoda’s mantra “Get up, dress up, show up” to stop myself from reaching for my pajamas.
Clothed and caffeinated, I finally sit down at my kitchen table to face this morning’s first gut-wrenching task—canceling the wedding I so meticulously planned. Given that I love planning, especially a party for my family and friends, I had dismissed the idea of hiring a wedding planner. I deeply regret that past decision. With only one uncomfortable phone call to a wedding planner, this horrible task could be over with and the remaining invoices forwarded to Neil. For a brief moment, I think about going ahead with the reception anyway, minus the nuptials and Neil. I’m sure some spunky women would have the party and rebrand it as a Suddenly Single Fest. I, however, am not one of those women, and the fewer witnesses to my failure, the better. So instead, I open up my laptop and pull up my Excel file with the wedding vendors and plan to work my way through the list.
Thank god I told my mother that Neil and I would pay for our own wedding. That’s probably the only decision in this whole mess that I’m thankful for right now. Though my parents generously offered to pay, I knew that if my mother were paying, she would have had way more input than necessary into the planning; and by “input” I mean completely hijacking the whole operation. Even the horrible task of canceling my wedding contracts seems easier than accomplishing my other task for the day—making that phone call to my mom.
My mother grew up in a small factory town in Wisconsin, where her brother was the first in the family to go to college thanks to a military scholarship, but where there was no future for her other than becoming her mother—with no college education, working full-time for minimum wage, only to rush home to a second job of running errands, making dinner for the family, and cleaning the house while her husband relaxed with a beer after work. When she was eighteen, my mom visited her brother at the University of Madison where my dad was a law student at the time. They met at a party, got married after he graduated, and moved to Chicago. He got a job at a large law firm, she immediately got pregnant with my brother, and soon they were part of the crème de la crème of their suburban neighborhood. She had a husband who was a good provider, she could stay at home with her children, she could lunch with her girlfriends at the club, she could shop and decorate her house (while hiring others to clean it), and she was grooming me for what she considered “the happy life.” Though she’s never exactly voiced it, I suspect she takes my failure to follow in her footsteps as a personal failure of hers, and she deals with it by directing her annoyance with me at me.
I can’t risk her getting wind of Neil’s and my demise before I tell her. So with dread in my heart, I dial her number first.
“Allison, sweetheart, how are you?” Before I can answer, she continues, “Did you get those dress pictures I sent you? I can’t decide on which color to wear. Which one did you like? You know I need to move on that so they can make any alterations in time.”
When she pauses for a breath, I swoop in. “Yes, Mom. Well, actually—you don’t need to worry about that.”
“What do you mean ‘don’t worry about that’? It’s my daughter’s big day, and I’m the mother of the bride. I need to look perfect.”
Though when she says stuff like this, I wonder if she really means my big day or hers.
The only way to do this is to say it quickly before she can keep talking. “Listen, Mom. I have something important to tell you about the wedding.”
“Is it the invitations? People are so bad about RSVP-ing. A final head count is so important.” She tsks. “Do you need me to call any of my friends?”
“It’s not the invitations. It’s the wedding.” I pause taking a deep breath. “There’s not going to be one.” My hand clenches my phone as I brace myself for her reaction.
“Pfft! Don’t be silly, dear. I know the stress of planning can get to you, and I offered to do it all for you, but you wouldn’t let me,” says my mother, ever the martyr. “But it will be over before you know it.”
“No, it’s not the planning. There’s not going to be a wedding because Neil and I broke up.” When I say it aloud to her, it hits me again like a concrete block—five years together and suddenly Neil and I are over—crumbling on impact.
“Oh, you two,” she chides, sounding slightly amused and simply not getting it. “You’ll sort it out. Couples go through this all the time. In fact, I’m just going to call him—”
“No, Mom. You’re not listening. It’s over.” My voice sounds strangled, and the tears begin to well up all over again. “It’s really over.”
“It’s not ‘over.’ You’re engaged. You can’t just break up,” she explains, as if I didn’t get the memo on Rule #1 of getting engaged—You can’t just break up. She sighs dramatically, her exasperation palpable through my phone. “Dear, I’m sure this is all a case of pre-wedding jitters. So just tell me exactly what the problem is, and we’ll fix it.”
She doesn’t seem to comprehend that the problem is that my relationship is over, finish
ed, kaput. I rarely tell her much about my private life or relationships, but I feel I need to tell her the details so she can understand that her big day won’t be happening.
“Neil broke up with me Friday night. He’s been having an affair.” It’s too mortifying to mention his affair was with Stacey, so I don’t. The tears that were welling before are now falling, and I choke out the next words. “He came over yesterday to pick up his stuff and he … he didn’t even try to apologize or explain.”
I pause, wiping my cheeks dry, and wait for my mother’s reaction. But all I hear is silence on the other end. “Mom? Mom, are you still there?” My mother is rarely speechless and it scares me.
“Yes, I … I … I’m in disbelief.”
Relieved to hear that she’s still conscious, I say, “Imagine how I feel,” and try to breathe deeply and stop the flood of emotions.
“I just don’t understand.” She sounds huffy. “How did you let this happen?”
How did I let this happen??? And, there it is—the reason why I never tell my mother anything.
“Yeah, okay,” I say brusquely, as anger and sadness swell in my chest threatening to explode. “So, anyway, I guess I don’t need to look at those dresses you sent me since you won’t need to pick one out now. I hope that eases your stress,” I add, though inwardly cringing for sounding more like thirteen than thirty-five.
“Allison Marie James …” she starts strongly, but I don’t hear the rest because I hang up.
Ugh!
Thank god I didn’t tell her about work because I’m in no condition to hear how that’s my fault too.
Just as I’d feared, talking to my mother has the effect of making me want to hide under the covers and pretend the last few days have been a bad dream. To calm down, I need to get out of the condo, away from the crime scene and its memories of Neil and me. Even with his “stuff” gone, his presence (or lack thereof) is everywhere and his words—I’m in love with someone else—keep ringing through my head, and I’m about a minute away from descending into pajama-ville, complete with binge crying and large-scale ice cream consumption. Grabbing my jacket and keys, I head out for a walk to get some fresh air and clear my head.
