by Angela Terry
“And!” Jordan claps her hands Darlene style. “We should dress up!”
“O-kay.” I give her a strange look. “Do you want to borrow something? Cause, honestly, if you leave to change and come back, I’ll lose my mojo and probably fall asleep.”
She shakes her head no and has a mischievous gleam in her eye. “We’re wearing our dresses.”
“What dresses?”
“My bridesmaid dress and your wedding dress.”
“No, no, no!” I wave my hands at her. “I’m willing to venture outdoors, but there’s no way I’m going out wearing that. That’s ridiculous!”
“Is it? Or is it more ridiculous to buy an expensive dress and then never wear it?” She gives me a meaningful look. “I’ll open another bottle of wine to help you decide.”
ANOTHER BOTTLE OF wine later and Jordan and I are dressed in our gowns and sitting in the Signature Room Lounge on the 96th floor of the Hancock building overlooking the city.
“This is fantastic,” Jordan declares as she sips her champagne.
I laugh and say, “I feel ridiculous.”
She shrugs. “Whatever. Nobody cares. We just look like we’re going to a black-tie event or something.”
I’m pretty sure the buttons on the back of my dress are askew, and I’m not quite sure how I’m going to get out of it later, but, weirdly, I’m enjoying myself. This whole evening seems like the most fitting way to close the book on my relationship with Neil.
Jordan is in full-on celebration mode and keeps raising her glass and making toasts. “And here’s to getting a more fabulous job,” she says and reaches over to clink her glass against mine.
“To that,” I say dully. Suddenly I’m no longer enjoying myself.
“Oh, come on. Cheer up! You know you’ll get something awesome.”
“I’m not so sure.” And before Jordan can give me a pep talk, I fill her in on the recruiter’s call and my meeting with Suzy.
“Oh my god!” Jordan is so horrified she sets down her champagne flute and has both palms plastered to her cheeks while she keeps repeating “Oh my god,” as if she’s doing an impression of Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone.
“I know! It’s crazy! I don’t know what to do?”
“You need to find the source and confront them. What the hell? Who does that?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Someone who hates me and/or wanted my job?”
“Do you think it was Kate?”
“Granted, she’d been acting weird and has gone MIA. But I don’t know why she would hate me or want my job.” I don’t even think Kate wants her job, let alone mine.
Jordan picks up her flute, takes a sip of champagne, and ponders. “But how can a rumor that’s so wrong also be that pervasive? Does Kate even have that kinda clout in the industry?” She gives me a disbelieving look.
“Not really. She rarely goes to events or hangs out with other PR folks outside of work.”
“Maybe she just really wanted to get out of being your bridesmaid? Where there’s a will there’s a way.”
I laugh. Kate, though, is not one to go above and beyond duty. That was a large reason why she was so efficient at work—she wanted to be out the door at five, not burning the midnight oil. So if not Kate or Stacey, who? Could it have been a client? Paige did say clients had complained about me, but I can’t possibly call up all my old clients to find out.
Panic seizes me. “Oh my god, Jor. What if I can’t find any job? Or what if I do apply for entry-level jobs, but then have to work my way up again? If I’m going to do that, is this even what I want to be doing with my life?” I down the rest of my glass.
“Okay, okay. Calm down. Let’s save the big life decisions for when we’re sober. Tomorrow is another day,” she says, while pouring more champagne into my glass. “Tonight is all about celebrating thank-god-that-bastard’s-out-of-your-life, okay?” She clinks her glass against my full one.
Then in her alcohol-induced state, Jordan is distracted from our conversation by some good-looking guys in suits who just walked in.
“Do you think they’re here for a conference?” she whispers loudly, causing one of them to look over in our direction. With that, she’s off on the hunt and my troubles will have to wait till tomorrow.
Waking up the next morning in my rumpled wedding dress, I vaguely remember the events leading up to donning it, but the details of why I’m still wearing it and how I got home last night are a little spotty. A loud snore from my living room makes my heart stop. Oh, god. Did I take someone home with me?
I steel my nerves and say a little prayer before tiptoeing out of bed to peek into my living room. My prayer is rewarded when I see that it’s just Jordan, also still in her bridesmaid dress, passed out on my sofa. After breathing a sigh of relief, I quietly head to the kitchen. My head is killing me and I could go for some coffee, but I don’t want the sound of beans grinding to startle her. I drink a full glass of water and then pour myself another and begin to head back to my bedroom to figure out how to get out of my dress. My shuffling though wakes her.
“Hey,” she says from the sofa, rubbing her eyes and smearing her mascara even more than it already is across her eyelids. “What time is it?”
“It’s a little after eight.”
Jordan blows a curl off her face. “Ugh. I don’t want to go to work today.” She sits up, looks down at her wrinkled dress, which is now ripped at the knee, and then solemnly looks back at me. “What happened here? Did we get in a bar brawl?”
“Maybe? Last night’s details are pretty fuzzy. But I think that you tripped while getting out of the cab and your dress got caught on your heel. Remember?”
“Oh. Not really.” She begins to shake her head and then winces at the effort, putting her hand to one side of her forehead. “Do you have coffee?”
“Of course.” I head back into the kitchen to make a pot and I hear her heave herself off the sofa and make her way to the bathroom.
She returns as the pot has started brewing the first cup, which I promptly pour into a mug and hand to her. “Ah, thank you,” she says. After taking a sip, she grabs hold of her dress, swishing the fabric in her hand and laughs groggily. “That was some night. I can’t believe we did that.”
“I can’t believe I slept in my beautiful dress.” I look down at the wrinkled fabric. “Can you help me undo these buttons back here?” I turn my back to Jordan and sweep my hair out of the way.
As she struggles with the tiny buttons, she asks, “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Hungover. With a capital H.”
“Ha! I hear that.” She finishes freeing the last button. “But I meant after Neil’s email. It’s official now. There’s nothing left to cancel.”
I shrug numbly. “I need some more coffee before I can process my feelings.”
I haven’t checked my phone since Neil’s email announcement yesterday, and I’m in no hurry to do so now. I can’t handle what will be awkward sentiments of sympathy, all with the underlying question of what happened, or worse, that everyone already knew.
We stand in my kitchen quietly downing our first cups of coffee and then immediately pour ourselves a second cup.
“So what are you going to do today?” Jordan asks.
“No idea.” I automatically put my hand to my forehead as if it will stop the pounding. “I have no job prospects or wedding, so it’s kinda scary how I’m supposed to fill up my day.” I look at her pathetically.
“Well, I know you’re all about moving forward, which I applaud, but now that you have all this free time, maybe this is the perfect opportunity for some self-reflection?” Feeling defensive, I give her a skeptical look, which she tries to placate. “Yes, yes, I know. It’s Neil’s fault for cheating, and, from what you told me last night, it sounds like you were sabotaged at work. But why did these things happen? It’s probably worth trying to figure out before moving onto anything new.”
“If you say again that this is all a
learning opportunity or something, I might hurt you.” I know Jordan is trying to be helpful, but in my dejected state her words sting a little—as if maybe I brought this all upon myself.
She simply shrugs in response. She’s right. She’s always, right. Dammit.
ONCE JORDAN LEAVES, though I’m tempted to pull on a pair of yoga pants and anesthetize myself with another Bravo marathon, I take a long shower and put on some non-loungewear that makes me feel more human. Once I’m dressed, I’m ready to face the messages on my phone. Not including the messages from my mother, I only have a handful of voicemails and, thankfully, none require a return call. My inbox, though, is filled with at least fifty emails from our disinvited guests, all of them short and polite saying that they are sorry to hear about the wedding. (Except for my cousin in London; she let me know that her flight had been nonrefundable, and I apologized for the inconvenience. She might be my only cousin, but she’s not my favorite.) There are no messages from Kate, which makes me sad. Since my mother has left several voicemails and emails, I really should call her, but I’m too hungover to deal. I send her a quick email—I’m fine. Don’t worry. But I worry about her showing up unannounced again, and the only way to avoid that is to get out of the house, and, frankly, some fresh air will do me good.
Since I don’t want to walk around aimlessly, a metaphor for my current situation, I decide to walk down to the lake. The sun is out and the air is finally starting to feel like spring. In my T-shirt and jeans, I enjoy the warmth on my arms but don my sunglasses to protect my bloodshot eyes. Once I emerge from the Division Street underpass, I studiously avoid looking to my right where the Hancock building looms, the scene of last night’s crimes. Because it’s a workday, the lakefront isn’t very crowded and I find an empty bench to sit on (though I first scan the lakefront for any emo teenagers before taking a seat) and look out over my beloved Lake Michigan, its waves splashing gently against the concrete barriers.
I grew up in the western suburbs and went to college in Lincoln Park, just one neighborhood away from where I live now. While I enjoy the coastline of California and the energy of the East Coast, I’ve never had any desire to live outside of Chicago. But now I’m completely untethered and could try out another city—another life—if I wanted to. It might even be easier for me to get a new job or start a new career in a different city, with the added bonus of escaping everyone who knows of my professional and romantic failures. This would be a chance for me to reinvent myself, for a complete fresh start, like Jordan mentioned.
Yet something about that idea smacks of running away. Reinventing yourself in front of everyone who knows of your failures is the more difficult move. Also, I liked my life the way it was—that is, before it all came crashing down. I’m good at public relations. Or I thought I was. Clearly, I need to work on my people skills because I never noticed any blatant saboteurs at Worldwide, and I selected a husband-to-be who cheated on me with my friend, and I chose a friend who was willing to betray me. Am I that naïve, or have I been willfully blind to everything around me?
I pause in this thought as I watch a couple young mothers in yoga pants and baseball caps pushing strollers equivalent to SUVs along the lake path. They chat happily and don’t acknowledge me—the sad, single, unemployed, thirty-something nursing her hangover on a park bench. I catch the drift of their conversation, which sounds like they’re gossiping about another woman in their mommy group. I swallow and my heart sinks to the bottom of the lake because these two women have just tapped into my biggest fear of this whole nightmare: What others are thinking of me.
They’re thinking what a dummy I am. That one of my best friends and my fiancé carried on an affair in front of me. That I screwed up a career of twelve years because I was so focused on the nuptials that weren’t going to happen when all was said and done anyway. It’s excruciating to think of people talking about me, huddled around the water cooler or over cocktails at events, reveling in the gossip and scandal. And so it’s not so much the heartbreak, but the shame of it all that’s got me. The double-whammy shock of it. I must have missed some glaring warning signs, and so I can’t blame anyone for thinking I’m an idiot. Obviously, there’s something wrong with me.
Although I’ve never seen a therapist, I’m thinking I could really use one now. But then in my unemployed state, I’m also not that eager to pay someone hundreds of dollars to tell me it all comes down to my childhood. Duh. Instead, I’ll take Jordan’s free advice that I should probably spend some time self-reflecting. (I love her, though sometimes I hate her when she’s right.) And since it’s cheaper than therapy, it’s probably time to check out the dreaded self-help aisle. If I have to hug my inner child, so be it.
I haul my weary body off the bench and propel it forward to the Barnes & Noble on State Street.
As I walk to the store, I promise myself that I’m not going to let the antics of Neil, Stacey, Kate, and Worldwide chase me out of my favorite city. It’s all going to be okay. I’m a rule follower, but maybe I’d just been working with some old, faulty rules that need an upgrade. Up to this point, I’d been doing okay. The rules of fitting in and putting my nose to the grindstone had gotten me pretty far in life, but was it possible that that’s as far as those rules were meant to take me? Perhaps it’s simply time for some new rules to turn this ship around. My initially heavy tread starts to feel lighter, and by the time I reach the store and open the door, I practically bounce inside.
Being that it’s the middle of the day, there are only a handful of people in the store and most are in the café. Confident that no one is paying attention to me, I head into the self-help aisle. Looking at the shelves in front of me, I’m not sure where to begin. The books seem to be organized by subject matter. There are titles on depression, grief, addiction … and while, yes, I’m depressed and grieving my old life, the idea of reading one of these books makes me even more depressed. I’ve heard the saying, don’t judge a book by its cover, but these covers—most of them blue—show people curled up into themselves, which is how I feel, but I don’t want to look at it on my bookshelf. A quick perusal of the relationship books shows them to also be a dismal bunch, dealing with serious issues such as co-dependency or abuse.
Finally, before all my hope and determination completely fade away, I spot a cheerful pink spine that reads When It’s Broke & Ain’t Worth Fixing. I pull it out, and on the cover is a photo of a sassy-looking woman wearing high heels, holding a wrench, and giving the reader a conspiratorial wink. According to the blurb on the back, it’s about moving on from a breakup and, most importantly, it promises to identify my past mistakes (aka picking the wrong men) so I don’t make them again. This is much more my speed.
I muster up my courage and carry it to the register. As the cashier scans the price, she says, “This one’s good. It stopped me from consuming my body weight in multiple pints of Ben & Jerry’s.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say, handing over my cash.
“Not so fast,” she says, grabbing a Moleskine journal from a display on the counter. “You’ll want this too.”
“Oh, no, thank you. I’m good.” It’s already taken too much of my courage to buy a self-help book; but, a journal too?
However, the dreaded commentary I had been so worried about just happened, and it’s oddly comforting. I’m no longer alone with my grief—I’m part of the sisterhood. I thank my new sister-friend and head home for some enlightenment.
Once home, I’m still nervous about my mother showing up unannounced. In an especially paranoid mood, I deadlock my front door and close my drapes. Feeling safe from intruders and prying eyes, I settle onto my sofa and start reading.
ONE POT OF tea and hours later, I set the book down on my lap. If I wasn’t a total broken-up-with-and-broken-down mess before, I’m feeling it now.
What an idiot I am! And why didn’t anyone tell me?
The questions from the book haunt me.
Did you schedule your life around him? Did he do
the same for you?
Did you forget your friends and family for him?
Did you have to chase him because he didn’t chase you?
Did you trust him?
Did you want the same things?
Did you have to change to be with him?
Did he have a fatal flaw?
Was the relationship doomed from the beginning?
And my favorite—Why the hell were you even dating someone who was so completely incompatible with you in the first place?
This deceivingly cute little pink book just sucker punched me. Although I’m still recovering from the hangover of the century, I haul myself off the sofa and locate a bottle of white wine in my fridge.
Was it really all about Neil? When we first started dating, naturally I blew off my friends a little in order to spend time with him. That’s just how it is with new relationships—in the beginning one needs to make space in one’s busy life for someone new. But looking back, I’m not sure I ever recovered my old equilibrium. Something about life with Neil seemed so busy, and, in the five years we were together, I never made new friends and lost touch with a lot of my old ones.
But even when I was with other people, Neil was never far from my thoughts. Whenever I went out to dinner with my friends, I’d ask Neil if he wanted to join us, even though he usually declined. And then during dinner, I would check in with him and ask if he wanted me to order anything to bring home, even though as a grown man he was quite capable of finding his own dinner. Before I would even consider making weekend plans, I’d check with Neil first, even though I could have just accepted invites and informed him later that I was having drinks with the girls or whatnot. In fact, I was always checking in with him wanting to know where he was, what he was doing, what he was thinking, and maybe I should have pressed more—who he was with.
Even worse, during our relationship, I fear I lost something greater—myself. I think back to my twenties and how I spent my time, pre-Neil. At work, I was very involved in corporate community outreach programs, mostly of the sporting variety, such as organizing fun runs or softball games to raise money for local women’s shelters, youth centers, literacy programs, and legal aid clinics. But these pro-bono projects ultimately took up a lot of my nights and weekends, and eventually I stopped organizing them, claiming it was too time-consuming, and instead settled for being the odd volunteer or participant.
