With a Little Luck

by Caprice Crane

  If you took a poll of how many people get engaged on Valentine’s Day and how many people break up on Valentine’s Day, I think you’d have an even split. Yes, it’s a nice excuse to show the person you love that you love them, even if it is a Hallmark holiday. But it’s also an opportunity to show the person you love that you are an insensitive asshole who thinks only about himself. Or herself.

  I remember one Valentine’s Day when I was dating a total egomaniac. His mother had treated him as if the sun rose and set around him, so in typical spoiled-mama’s-boy fashion he expected everyone around him to jump when he called, greet him at the door like a panting puppy dog, and cater to his every whim. But would the gestures be returned? Not so much. What his mother failed to teach him was that to inspire this kind of warmth you needed to also be a warm person. And sadly, this guy pretty much had ice water running through his veins, pumping into a makeshift contraption that was somehow functioning to keep him alive.

  For whatever reason, I kept convincing myself that there was good in him even though every single one of my friends would (correctly) tell me he was a textbook narcissist. I refused to believe it. They’d ask me what I liked about him, and I couldn’t put it into words because the truth was—there wasn’t much to like. I just had this illogical crazy connection to him, and I couldn’t let it go. Even he would ask me, “Why me? What makes you so sure I’m the one you want to be with?” And every time he asked, I tried my best to convince both of us that I believed whatever I could pull out of thin air. I was just dumbstruck in love. It was magical. It was chemical. It was a disaster.

  Weeks before our first Valentine’s Day, I became obsessed with getting him the perfect gift. I wound up getting him several things: some cute (prescription pills, which were actually Red Hots candy in a real prescription bottle with his name professionally inscribed as the “lovesick patient”), some touching and sweet (I won’t go into detail, because it’s so sweet you’ll get a cavity), some other little trinkets, and then his main present—an engraved silver key ring from Tiffany & Co. that he could keep with him always.

  A couple days before Valentine’s Day, he finally brought up the fact that Valentine’s Day was coming up. I, of course, couldn’t contain my smile.

  “Oh,” he said, somewhat surprised. “Is that something you celebrate?”

  “Well,” I said, “I think it’s something every girl who’s in a relationship celebrates.”

  “That’s not necessarily true,” he said.

  “Is it something you don’t celebrate?”

  “Doesn’t mean anything to me, but if it means something to you, then I guess we can celebrate it,” he generously offered. Nothing like being made to feel like someone’s doing you a favor by celebrating Valentine’s Day. Quelle romance!

  Come V-Day—or D-Day, as it were—I showed up at his place when instructed and was delightfully telling him about the cute “pajama-gram” that my grandmother had sent me for Valentine’s Day when he finally got it.

  “We’re not exchanging gifts today, are we?”

  What I thought: I guess I’ll be having edible panties and salad for dinner tonight.

  What I said: “I guess not … although I did pick up a couple trinkets for you.”

  I gave him the less-expensive gifts and saved the really nice one for later because I wasn’t certain at that point that it wasn’t just a game—him pretending not to have bought me a gift when, really, he’d done something mind-blowingly special that was going to be a surprise.

  The surprise was there was no gift. And bonus: He complained throughout our entire dinner about everything he possibly could. I remember him glancing up from his menu and saying, “Next year we’re staying home.” And I so vividly remember thinking, Next year? There isn’t even going to be a “next week” for you and me.

  Two days later, he went on Yelp.com to give the restaurant a bad review. Talk about a miserable human being. And know this: It’s not like I was expecting more bling than Lil Wayne’s teeth. I’d have been happy with some tiny token of thoughtfulness. Even a sweet card would have made my day. But the lack of effort was almost inspired.

  I ended the relationship a week later. I loved him. I truly did. For whatever unexplainable reason. With all my heart and soul. But not nearly as much as he loved himself. And with both of us being so head-over-heels in love with him, there was nobody actually loving me.

  So that was a bad example, and of course there are the good examples of what lovers do for each other, and I’ve absolutely had my share of good ones, too. That’s how I know the difference. But good or bad, celebrated or not, Valentine’s Day is a pressure cooker.

  And walking into work to do a live radio show with my recent ex on Valentine’s Day feels like a death march to a pressure cooker. Bad enough that when I was reading myself to sleep last night my book had a missing page in it. Not a torn-out page … a missing page. It’s bad luck to skip a page in a book. And there I was, reading myself wide awake with the notion that there was nothing I could do to remedy this one. Best shot I had was stopping at that page so I wasn’t “skipping the page.” At least that’s what I talked myself down with as I tried to get to sleep, but then when I did fall asleep and woke up this morning, I noticed a heads-down penny on the floor, staring at me. All signs were pointing to a very bad day.

  “Good morning, Berry,” Ryan says as I walk into our studio. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  “Heh.” I muster a pseudo half-chuckle. “Yeah, happy Valentine’s Day to you, too.”

  As we set up for the show, I don’t look at Ryan, but I can feel his eyes burning into me. Still, I don’t look up. Because if I do, I’ll get lost in his eyes and forget that he’s just not right for me. We don’t value the same things.

  But gah! It’s really fucking hard to make myself remember this when I’m two feet away from him. What I need is a distraction.

  “You kids getting back together today?” Bill says as he saunters into the studio, clueless as ever.

  Ryan looks up at me and lets me answer.

  “Not so much, Bill,” I say.

  “Good,” he says. Not at all what I was expecting. “Because there’s someone who seems to have it bad for you, and I didn’t want this to get awkward.”

  Someone has it bad for whom? For me? For Ryan? Who?

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that,” I say, trying to play it cool.

  “You will soon,” Bill says, wiping his comb-over out of the way, punctuating his cryptic message with that much more annoyance. I wonder what Crazy Helicopter Guy would think if he ever hovered over Bill’s head. Hell, he’d easily have room for a landing.

  “Bill,” Ryan says finally. “What’s the deal? We don’t need any surprises.”

  “The surprise isn’t for you, Ryan,” Bill replies pointedly.

  “Well, I hate surprises, so I don’t need one, either,” I say.

  “She does,” Ryan says with world-weary authority. “She hates surprises.”

  “She’ll like this one.”

  “Says who?” I ask.

  “Says me and anyone with a heart on Valentine’s Day,” Bill says, now puffed up with pride.

  What the hell is going on?

  “Bill,” I say, now more serious than ever. “What is it? I really don’t like surprises. And I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day.”

  “Really?” Ryan says. “That doesn’t seem like you. I’d think you love Valentine’s Day. I think if you hadn’t dumped me we’d be doing something special tonight. I know I’d have been planning for that.”

  This isn’t a conversation I want to get into with Ryan. This isn’t a conversation I want to get into with anyone in front of Bill. But when the barn door’s already open …

  “I mean, I don’t celebrate it if I don’t have anyone to celebrate with. Single people don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. Single people hate Valentine’s Day. They have anti–Valentine’s Day parties. Or they sit at home on the couch feeling sorry
for themselves with a carton of ice cream and perhaps another carton of ice cream. Or they pretend it’s just a Hallmark holiday that doesn’t matter. They would rather celebrate Arbor Day than Valentine’s Day. They make it a point to note that Valentine’s Day’s initials are the same as those for venereal disease.”

  The men both stare at me.

  “O-kay,” Ryan says.

  “Right,” I say, clearing my throat, realizing I may have gone a bit overboard.

  “Well, too bad,” Bill says. “Because you get a surprise today.” Bill winks at Clark, our producer.

  Just then, someone I don’t know walks into the studio with an electrical cord, plugs it into the wall, and walks out. It’s not attached to anything. What the hell?

  “And, three … two … one,” Clark counts us in.

  “Good morning, and happy Valentine’s Day,” Ryan says into the mic, looking directly at me.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too, Ryan,” I say. “And to all of you people out there who are celebrating.”

  “I know we’re celebrating here,” Clark says, uncharacteristically chiming into his mic.

  “We’ve been getting teased about some special Valentine’s Day surprise,” Ryan says. “None of us here know what it is. Well, some of us do, but not those of us who actually host this show.”

  “Which,” I interrupt, “is a bit unnerving. And annoying.”

  “No need to wait any longer,” Clark says. “We have a special guest on the show today. Some of you locals may know this guy from his band, Magically Delicious. Some of you may know this guy from when he called in and asked Berry out over the air.”

  Oh, no. “That guy?” Ryan says. “He’s here?”

  “He’s nothing if not persistent,” Clark goes on. “And he’s got it bad for our little Berry. Please welcome Brendan Scott to our studio.”

  I watch as Brendan walks in, his guitar strapped across his chest. Ryan turns to finally get a look at the “mystery caller.” Brendan won’t meet his gaze, smiles at me, and plugs his guitar into the dangling electrical cord.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, Berry,” he says. Then adds, “You, too, Ryan.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. This is beyond awkward.

  “I thought I’d play you a song as a Valentine’s gesture. See if maybe this will help change your mind.”

  “Really?” Ryan says, shaking his head in a healthy combination of disgust and disbelief. “Seriously, dude?”

  “Totally, ‘dude,’ ” Brendan says, and the two of them have a staring contest that is making everyone—or maybe it’s just me—in the studio crawl out of their skin. Brendan starts to play the familiar bass line to “Superstition” by Stevie Wonder. He’s changed the words just a tiny bit.

  “Berry superstitious,” he sings. “Writing’s on the wall …”

  How clever. He’s changed the lyrics to include my name. Cute. If I wasn’t so completely freaked out by the awkwardness of the moment, I might be a little charmed. Even though the song debunks superstition, we’ll hold that against Stevie, not Brendan.

  Ryan rolls his eyes. “Wow, I’m swooning.”

  “Berry superstitious …” Brendan sings on. “Careful you might fall … for me …”

  He’s really making a go at this wooing thing.

  “Now I’m gagging,” Ryan says.

  “Try not to choke,” Clark says. “On your jealousy.”

  Everyone in the studio laughs. Except me. And Ryan. This really is an odd situation.

  “Jealous?” Ryan recoils. “I’m embarrassed for the dude. And for Berry.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed for me,” I say, feeling bad for talking over Brendan’s crooning. “Or him. He’s a pretty good singer.”

  Ryan grunts, then says in his best girl voice, “Oh, em, gee! Isn’t this romantic? He is positively dreamy. You should go over there and give him a big, sloppy Valentine’s kiss.”

  “I can’t do this anymore,” I say, looking over at poor Brendan, who is still singing, his face contorted into what I can only describe as “forced sexy.”

  “Finally!” Ryan says. “Berry’s heard enough. Pull the plug on this clown!”

  “No, Ryan,” I say, standing up, yanking my headphones off, letting them drop to my desk. “I’m done with this. This show, with you. With everything. I can’t do it. It’s over.”

  I start to walk out, realizing that Brendan is still singing, following me with his eyes.

  “Berry superstitious … Is it cool if I still call …?”

  The studio laughs at his impromptu last attempt. I might, too, if a million emotions weren’t surging through me. I manage to mouth the words “I’m sorry” to Brendan as I storm out.

  I head straight for Bill’s office, but he’s already bounding down the hall toward me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he shouts.

  “I’m done, Bill,” I say. “I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Sure you can,” Bill says. “Act like a professional.”

  “I am a professional, Bill. I’m a professional DJ. I never wanted to do this to begin with. I’m sorry. I’m done. I’ll see you later when I come to play music. Like I used to.”

  And with that I walk out, wondering what the hell I just did.

  Take a chance on me.

  —ABBA

  Chapter Twenty

  “What did I do?” I ask Natalie as I pace her restaurant kitchen.

  “Sounds like you quit.”

  “I quit. I totally just quit. I quit.”

  “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  “Oh my God. I quit.”

  “Sit down,” she says. “You’re wearing a path in my floor. And I think I just saw you step on a crack.”

  “Did not,” I say.

  “Sit.”

  I take a seat but only because I’m starting to get dizzy from all of my pacing and circling.

  “What did I do?” I say, head now in my hands.

  “We covered this.”

  “Did I make a mistake?”

  “Do you want to do the show?” she asks pointedly.

  I take a minute to think about it. It’s just me and Nat. Nobody else can hear me.

  “No,” I say. “I really don’t. I really never did.”

  “I know,” she says. “You did it for him. And I bullied you into it because I thought you’d get over the whole invasion-of-privacy thing, because it sounded so cool.…”

  “Having your privacy invaded sounds cool?”

  “No, but having a morning show does. Being on billboards does.”

  “Being defaced on billboards?” I interrupt. “Because for every ten billboards I was on, there were at least seven that had additional ‘artwork’ scrawled across them.”

  “The price of fame.”

  “A kind of fame I never wanted.”

  “Then be happy.”

  “I am,” I say. “I’m …” the tears start forming in my eyes, even though I’m not crying. “I’m happy. I am. Really. I’ve never been happier.” And now the waterworks are in full effect. I’m sobbing, my shoulders are heaving, and I can’t catch my breath.

  “I know, honey,” Nat says, petting my hair. “You’re happy.”

  We both laugh for a second, but as quickly as I start to laugh I resume my crying. Like a maniac. This is what I’ve been driven to. I’m going crazy.

  “Can I ask you something?” she says softly.

  I look up and try to sniff the escaping mucus back into my nose, to no avail.

  “Are you crying over the show? Over Ryan? What are you the most upset about?”

  I don’t say anything because I need to think that one over. I’m just feeling overwhelmed. The end of the relationship and the end of the show … Both happened so abruptly. And I tell Natalie as much when I catch my breath again.

  “Those things didn’t ‘happen abruptly,’ ” she says. “Just so we’re clear. You ended that relationship—”

&
nbsp; “Because he proved I couldn’t trust him!”

  “And you walked off the show.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s all I’m saying. That maybe … just maybe … you overreacted a little bit. In both situations.”

  “I hear you.”

  “And what do you think about that?”

  “I think,” I say, sniffing back more relentless tears. “I think that you should go back to preparing your soup of the day, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “You’re not in my hair, but nice avoidance.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and I make my way out of the kitchen.

  I’m in the car, halfway home, when my cellphone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer it on speaker anyway.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “I’m sorry, Berry,” says the voice, and I recognize it instantly. “It’s Brendan. I guess that wasn’t cool. It was one of those things that would either be really romantic or really stalkery, and I guess it came across to you as the latter.”

  “No,” I say. “Brendan, you were just fine. I liked it, I did. I’m sorry to have left in the middle of … your performance. I know that was really rude, but with the whole thing with Ryan, it was just so …”

  “Awkward,” he finishes for me. “I get it.”

  “It was very sweet of you,” I say.

  “Have dinner with me tonight.”

  “I … uh …”

  “Stop thinking. Just go with your gut. Say yes. Berry, it’s Valentine’s Day. Maybe my little song wasn’t the best way to get a date … but can I get an A for effort? I’ll even take a B.”

  “I have my show tonight,” I say.

  “How about between now and then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not a no,” he says. “Well, technically, phonetically, there’s a no in there, but without closed captioning I’m going to assume it wasn’t an ‘I don’t’ followed by a completely separate no. Like a snap decision made midsentence. You know what I mean? No?”

  I giggle. Silly. Very silly. But he is creative. And he obviously really wants this date.

  “You’re quick,” I say.