Charming Falls Apart

by Angela Terry

  ON THE PLANE ride home, my eyes are too tired and swollen to read anything. All I have anyway is a trashy magazine and a half-baked self-help book that tells me it’s all my fault for attracting this mess that is my life. So I feign sleep until it finally, blissfully comes. When we touch down at O’Hare, the landing jolts me awake. I look over and Jordan already has her phone in her hand ready to switch back on.

  “Hey,” she says. “We’re home.”

  As we taxi, she doesn’t seem too happy about it as she frowns looking at all her messages.

  “That bad?” I ask.

  “It always is. But I guess when you’re spending that much money, everything is a crisis.”

  She angrily deletes some messages and with lightning fast fingers types some responses. Jordan has left the spa.

  We share a cab back to the city. Though Jordan offers to stay at my place or grab dinner together, I simply hug her and decline her kind offers. “Thank you for this weekend, Jor. I’m sorry I’m such a downer these days. Hopefully, I can make it up to you someday.”

  “Aw, I know you’d do the same for me.”

  I would. But all friendships have their limits, and I don’t want to drain her friendship reserves. She’s the last of my squad. And if I’ve learned anything from the friendship book, it’s that I don’t want to become the dreaded “energy vampire” friend.

  Walking into my place offers no relief. It’s just a reminder of my old life. Burning some sage isn’t enough—this condo is polluted and nothing is going to get rid of the bad juju in here. Even though I barely have any energy, on autopilot I still follow my rules, which is unpacking and doing laundry straight away. But once my bag is open and I’m halfway through unpacking, I stop. What does it matter if I do this today, tomorrow, or the day after? I’m exhausted, and I have all the time in the world. And because I live alone now, no one will care or trip over my suitcase or see my clothes scattered everywhere. I leave the mess on my bedroom floor and head to the living room to order a pizza and hang out with my new best friends on Bravo.

  I end up falling asleep next to the pizza box on the sofa. Welcome to my new life.

  I sleep until ten, which is late for me. I can pretend it’s because I’m still on California time, but it’s really that I’m on slacker time. I catch a whiff of myself. Even alone, I can’t stand my stink, so I decide to skip my morning workout and head straight to the shower. I should also check my email to see if there is anything new on the job front, but turning on my computer or looking at my phone is too risky for me; I can’t bear to look at Facebook. I may find nothing there as perhaps Neil deleted me as a “friend” as well as a fiancée, but either outcome is too depressing to face. On the way to the bathroom, I stub my toe on my suitcase that’s still lying on the floor.

  Since I’m not working out or going out for coffee or apparently leaving the condo despite the fact that I could use some fresh milk and fruit, I drink my coffee black and turn on the television. I start with the late morning news and talk shows, which then makes way for channel surfing between the Food Network, HGTV, and Bravo. It’s all very mind-numbing and soothing. Neil and I used to binge watch shows together; and though it was cozy, after a few hours on the sofa I would start to get antsy. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I have no reason to leave my place. With the internet, everything can be delivered—even wine. I limit my computer time to ordering food and avoid opening my email. I also put my phone on silent. (The rational part of me knows I need to check email for job news, but my inner wounded animal can’t deal with reality anymore.) I’ve shut my blinds because the sunny day outside is mocking me. There aren’t enough self-help mantras and advice books in the world to help me now. I don’t want to think about or feel anything because it’s just too much. My positive hopeful spirit has left my body, and I am now a lump on the sofa.

  It’s official. I give up.

  BY DAY FOUR of my agoraphobia, I wake up hoping that the pain has lessened—or at least I’ll be sick of my sad self—but it hasn’t. While I can muster the energy to shower, getting dressed is too much effort. Pajamas and yoga pants do just fine. While skipping a day without a workout usually makes me tense, the idea of going outside makes me even more anxious. I’m paranoid that everyone will see what a pathetic loser I am. Yes, yes, I know. The astrologer-psychic-magician said not to worry so much about what others think, but I’m mired in so much self-pity right now that I can’t put that out there in the world. I think about the horrible book I read about the law of attraction and wonder if I’ve brought all this negativity into my own life. If my thoughts really determine my reality, then it’s best that I hide away until I can sort myself out. Because right now the negative thoughts and emotions swirling around in my internal world have the potential to start a tsunami out in the real one, and I can’t handle that kind of pressure.

  As I’m watching my millionth episode of International House Hunters, the doorman rings to tell me my food delivery is here.

  “Thanks, Robert. Send him up.”

  I get up from the sofa and go to the front door to wait for the delivery person. I hear the elevator let someone off, then footsteps, and a knock. I open the door ready to grab my food and retreat to the couch.

  “Thanks,” I say, grabbing the white bag though it’s small and doesn’t look like the usual delivery bag.

  “Allison?” The familiarity of the voice pulls me out of my robotic movements and I look up.

  Oh, horror of all horrors!

  “Eric? Oh my god, what are you doing here?” I try to hand the bag back to him. “I’m so sorry! I thought you were the delivery guy.”

  “Sorry to scare you.” He puts his hands up not taking the bag back. “And oh, no, you keep that. That’s for you.”

  Just then my phone rings. It’s my doorman, again. “Food delivery for you,” he says. There’s a question in his voice.

  “Uh, yeah, send him up. Thanks, Robert.” I hang up and look at Eric, at a loss as to what to say. “Hey, so …”

  So, this what I get for donning PJs at what is clearly not an acceptable pajama hour: Eric, my only job offer in the last month, doing a pop-in. Great. I’m sure he’s now speculating about why I’m unemployed.

  He scratches the back of his head. “Sorry to surprise you. I sent some emails and left a voice message, but hadn’t heard from you and got worried.”

  The delivery guy arrives, and I hastily take the bag and thank him. Thank god for online tipping. Holding my bag of food in the doorway, I ask Eric, “Would you like to come in?”

  “Uh, sure.” But he hesitates. “But only if it’s not an imposition. I don’t want to disturb your dinner.”

  This is painful, but, really, the only way to smooth this out is to have him come inside.

  “Not at all, please.” I stand back from the door to let him in. “I’m just going to put this in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks,” he says as he walks through the door.

  Ugh. The one time in my life that I let my housekeeping and myself go, and this is what happens.

  “Sorry the place is a mess,” I call out from the kitchen. “I haven’t been feeling well since I got back from my trip.” It’s not a lie.

  “It’s fine. Again, I’m sorry to intrude. How are you feeling now?”

  “Getting better, thanks.” I don’t want to carry on with this half-truth so I change the subject. “I ordered some tom kha soup if you’d like to share it with me?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. That’s okay. You go ahead and eat.”

  Since I care too much about what others think of me, I’m now worried about my hostess skills. His excessive politeness is stressing me out and I don’t want to be rude. “Please, take a seat. Can I get you anything? Water? Or, I also have wine and beer.” After the great Neil clean out we forgot to throw away Neil’s stupid IPAs, and thanks to the miracle of modern day delivery services, my wine bar is fully stocked this week.

  “A glass of water sounds great.”

&n
bsp; I pour my soup into a bowl and get a glass of water for Eric and carry both out of the kitchen. Eric is sitting back on the sofa, his arm stretched along the top and his ankle resting on his knee. I hand him his water and then take the opposite side with my soup bowl.

  “We can sit at the table,” he offers, gesturing to my bowl.

  I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’ve been eating most of my meals here anyway.” I point to the TV with my spoon. He’s already caught me wearing pajamas at this hour, so the jig is up. “So?” I say and then dip my spoon into my soup and blow on it to cool.

  Taking the hint, Eric says, “So why am I here?”

  I nod and then put the spoon in my mouth.

  “Sorry to come over unannounced. Like I said, I had called and emailed marketing stuff, but since you said you were going to be back and I didn’t hear from you, I thought I’d come by.”

  “I’m so sorry about that. I haven’t been checking my email or voicemail since I got back. I know that’s irresponsible.” I don’t want to repeat my lie about not feeling well, so I hope he makes the connection. “How did you know my address?”

  “It was on your resume.” He looks a little sheepish. “Sorry if that sounds stalker-ish. I guess I was excited to get started with a marketing plan. But I don’t want to bother you when you’re sick.” He looks at me more closely. “So what’s wrong with you?”

  “Uhhh. …”

  He’s looking at me earnestly and seems genuinely concerned, so I shake my head and come clean. “Sorry. I haven’t been feeling great, but not because I’m sick. Frankly, I’ve just been depressed and hiding out from the world.” Wow, saying that felt good. Maybe there is something to this being yourself and not worrying about what others think.

  He nods. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve been there myself and it’s no fun.”

  I nod back and then look down at my pajamas. They’re not even cute like Olivia Pope’s satin sets with cashmere sweater wraps that look like they can be an outfit. These are back-of-the-drawer-red-plaid-I’m-a-lumberjack flannels since I don’t have anything else that’s clean. “Though entertaining in my PJs might be a new low for me. I can go change.”

  “Don’t change on my account. Where’s the joy in being depressed if you can’t wear jammies?”

  I laugh.

  “Not to sound unsympathetic, but … it’s just a job.” He looks at me intently. “You’re more than your job, you know.”

  “I know.” Now I feel even more pathetic in his eyes and want to tell him everything. I take a deep breath and set my soup bowl down on the coffee table. “I’m going to have a glass of wine. Would you like some?”

  “Oh?” His eyes widen a little and he straightens up from his relaxed position. “Sure, why not? I have no place to be. Brian is closing tonight.”

  I head back to the kitchen where I take out two wineglasses from the cupboard. “Can I help?” Eric asks from the sofa.

  “I got it,” I say as I twist the cork out of the Syrah and then bring the bottle and glasses to the coffee table. “It’s nice to be able to offer you a free drink for once.”

  He laughs. “Though I did bring you some free cookies.”

  “Oh! The bag! I forgot!” I look at it on the table. “Thank you so much.”

  “They’re a vegan, gluten-free oatmeal raisin. Something basic and familiar, but healthier. But I don’t think they’ll go well with wine, so you can let me know another time.”

  “Sounds delicious.” I’ve already filled both our glasses. “To vegan oatmeal cookies.” I lift my glass up and take a sip.

  Eric does the same, then asks, “Have you been doing more cooking lately?”

  I shake my head no. “Since I’ve been back I’ve been pretty unmotivated. And since cooking would require energy, I’ve been living on delivery.”

  “Hey, come on. You’ll figure out this career stuff. And in the meantime, I can really use your help.” He gives me a nervous smile. “Unless, you’ve changed your mind?”

  “Or unless you’ve changed yours since I’ve been incommunicado.” I take a deep breath. “It’s not just the job that’s put me over the edge. It’s actually kind of everything.”

  “I have a glass of wine in my hand, so if you want to tell me about it, I’m not going anywhere.”

  I do want to tell him. “So the day I got fired, I came home and Neil was waiting for me.”

  Eric cocks his head. “Neil?”

  “My fiancé. Well, ex-fiancé.”

  “Oh!” His eyes widen with surprise and interest.

  “I walked in, and, before I could even tell him that I’d just been fired, he tells me that he’s calling off the wedding because he’s in love with my maid of honor.”

  Poor Eric looks speechless, but recovers a second before I have the common sense to feel embarrassed about unloading on him. “Whoa! The bastard. Was he cheating?”

  I nod. “Yep. They’d been having an affair behind my back. So the shock of losing my career of twelve years and my boyfriend of five years along with one of my best friends was just too much. It just felt like everything I worked hard for and believed in and loved all disappeared in one day.”

  “Oh, Allison, I’m sorry. That’s a terrible story. I want to hug you, but I don’t want you to think I’m trying to prey on your vulnerability or something.”

  “Ha! Don’t worry. It’s the hug thought that counts.” Though I could desperately use a physical hug, even I can admit it’d be weird right now.

  “I have to say, I was kinda wondering what your story was. When you first came into the shop, you were wearing a pretty nice-sized rock. But then I noticed that you haven’t been wearing it, which could mean many things—it’s being cleaned or repaired, or that you were no longer engaged—and it seemed too personal a question to ask.”

  “I actually didn’t take it off right away. I couldn’t. I was blindsided and taking it off meant admitting that had really happened.” I frown.

  “I never would’ve guessed because you always seem fine. You just seem like one of those people who have it together … um, until today.” His eyes run over my pajamas.

  “Well, I thought I was handling it pretty well, but then …” I take a big gulp of my wine. Am I going to spill the entire truth? Might as well. “So this trip coincided with what was supposed to be my wedding day. I wanted to be anywhere but here. But then the rat bastard posts on Facebook—on what is supposed to be our wedding day—that he and my ex-maid of honor are in a relationship and she’s pregnant.”

  “Oh my god!” Eric sets down his glass and puts up both his palms to his cheeks in horror. He’s better than a girlfriend, and it feels good to tell him this. “That. Is. Insane.”

  “I know! And the whole reason we held off on getting engaged, etcetera, was because he wasn’t sure about kids. I was sure about having kids from the get-go and then I stayed with someone who wasn’t. But now I know that’s because he wasn’t sure about me.”

  Eric reaches over and pats my knee reassuringly. “Hey, at least you got out before it was made permanent. Even if you wanted kids, did you really want a rat bastard to be their dad?”

  I shake my head sadly. “No.”

  I’ll spare Eric the details about my age and dwindling fertility. Although he’s being sweet, he’s still a guy, and there’s nothing more depressing than a woman talking about her egg viability.

  “So now what?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re completely entitled to wallowing, but eventually you gotta get up from this sofa. What’s the next chapter?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. I’ve been reading all these self-help books and hoping to learn from all this. And the job thing is more complicated because I may have been sabotaged by my mentee, also a former bridesmaid.” I give him a sheepish look. “I left that part out because I didn’t want you to think I was a total pariah; but, obviously, something is wrong with me, and until I figure out what
it is I’m scared to take the next step.”

  I tell him about the law of attraction and the other bits of knowledge I’ve gleaned from the self-help books. He nods politely and says, uh-huh, at several points.

  After I’ve told him everything, he says, “I have an idea what the problem is.”

  “You do?” I brace myself for the answer I haven’t been quite able to figure out on my own.

  “Have you ever considered the fact that maybe you surrounded yourself with assholes?”

  That was not what I was expecting and I burst out laughing, mainly from relief.

  “No, really,” Eric continues, talking over my laughter. “I kept wondering what I hated so much about my job and at the end of the day I realized, I work with a lot of assholes. And unfortunately that profession attracts a lot of that type. So, if I didn’t want to be surrounded by them, then I needed to find something new to do.” He pauses to drain his glass and then asks, “Out of curiosity, what did Neil do for a living?”

  “Sales.”

  He nods. “Asshole.”

  That makes me laugh even harder and Eric grins and holds up the wine bottle. “Another glass?”

  “Hit me.” I hold mine out for him to refill and then wipe the tears from my eyes with my free hand. “That’s the first time I’ve cried from laughing too hard in a while.”

  “So what happened to your ring?”

  “I still have it. I guess I should give it back, but I haven’t seen him to be able to do that.”