Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story

by Rondon, Annah

  “You guys should make out,” Vera barged into our reverie and Sam laughed good-naturedly.

  “Annah’s getting married, you twat,” he nudged her on the ribs. “Quit instigating.”

  My friend rolled her eyes and took a swig of his whiskey, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Kiss him now,” she snapped like the most popular girl in high school would snap a dare to a geek, folding her arms across her chest and waiting impatiently for me to make my move.

  Jonah looked at me and slightly cocked his head to the right. “What do you say?”

  I took a deep breath and cursed the day life positioned him in my sights, his face slowly inching toward my own. Vera and Sam demanded a kiss as they chanted in unison. I sat still on the other end, summoning the universe for the necessary will and exhaling. “I say it’s time to go,” I mustered, ignoring the momentary disappointment that flashed across Jonah’s features. “This night has reached its boiling point and we’ve got ourselves a wedding to prepare for.”

  “You suck,” Vera groaned and got up, summoning Sam to follow.

  Back in the cab, an awkward silence sliced the air on the way to the hotel. Vera and Sam sucked face rather loudly next to us, obviously too drunk to recall they’d broken up years ago. I closed my eyes and reached for Jonah’s hand, resting my head on his shoulder and making a home there until the ride finished. From the way things were looking, the lovebirds to our right were headed straight to bed for an activity that required little sleeping. I snuck the driver $20 and we all got out of the taxi as Vera nabbed the room key from my purse and yanked Sam by the shirt.

  “What are you going to do now?” Jonah asked softly when they were gone, the lobby completely deserted minus housekeeping and a few gambling stragglers.

  “I was thinking of getting breakfast and giving those two the time to finish.”

  “You could always just leave them and stay with me,” he gave me a half grin, “there’s a thing called room service in this lovely hotel.”

  “Jonah,” I stammered nervously and shifted my weight, “you know I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? It’s just sleeping,” he grabbed my hands and playfully started tugging. “You and I have slept together before and nothing inappropriate took place, did it?”

  I considered his statement for a moment before replying. “That was very different. For one, I wasn’t engaged. And two, there was someone else in the room by the name of Olivia,” I teased. “Do you remember her?”

  “I do remember,” he nodded slowly and took a step forward, placing a hand behind my neck, “but right now is the perfect time to forget.”

  It was hard to recall a moment when I wanted to obliterate everything that marked the past more than I did then. I was overtaken by a feeling in my bones, the radioactive energy that pulls you to the greatest source of all your desires. As he looked down patiently waiting for me to speak up, I knew there was nothing in the world I wanted more. It was as if somehow I’d jumped into an ocean without knowing how to swim and he’d thrown me both ends of the rope, giving me no choice but to drown in his essence. I was dangling my feet over the edge and ready to go under when I remembered Vincent, who trustingly waited for me at home without a shred of doubt in my loyalty. It felt like someone splashed me with a bucket filled of iced water.

  “Let’s go to breakfast and stop talking about nonsense,” I clasped both his hands and turned toward the restaurant, my insides turning with regret. We ate our meals in silence that morning, digesting the cold fact that everything had changed in a year, present company included. After we finished, he walked me to my room and descended to his own a few floors below. I opened the door and was glad to find Vera and Sam sleeping blissfully on her bed. I tiptoed to mine and pulled the covers over me, wondering how one could be so physically full, yet feel so incredibly empty.

  The next 24 hours flashed by at a frenetic pace of highs and lows as we partook in all the pre-wedding festivities on the schedule. I was still trying to process Jonah’s proximity the afternoon of the ceremony as we arrived together. Taking our seats on a cold bench next to each other, we watched the radiant bride walk down the aisle. It was the perfect day for an outdoor wedding, all sunshine and cotton clouds on the skies above. Miranda and Ethan released two white doves after saying their “I do’s” and we followed their ascent. I always found it odd, releasing two beings to their freedom as a means of celebrating the eternal incarceration of two others. I was still marveling at the irony of it when Jonah intertwined his fingers with mine and began twisting my engagement ring.

  “Are you ready?” he asked without the need to further elaborate.

  I winced at the pain the question caused and sighed, “I do not know.” Every fiber of my being sensed I wasn’t, yet I still intended to come through on my promise of walking down the aisle just like my friend Miranda had done minutes before. As we held hands in silence, I hated to entertain the notion of doing anything other than what I should. I tried to recall a time when I knew nothing of Jonah, or Vincent, or intricate love triangles that inevitably end in heartache.

  “Do you know . . .” he began, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Yeah?” I said softly and turned to him.

  He continued to fidget with the ring. People around us started to approach the newlyweds and a heavy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach in fear of what he was about to say. Jonah never looked up. I rubbed his hand with my thumb reassuringly and he cleared his throat. “Do you know that I often think of what it would’ve been like if things had turned out differently? If you hadn’t met Gabriel that night and left with me instead. If Olivia and I,” he paused, clenching his fists, “never mind. Why are you marrying him, Annah?”

  I had an inkling that question would peak its head over water at some point, yet I couldn’t form the thoughts to defend my actions had my life depended on it.

  “You know what? I don’t even want to know. We’ll never get the chance to figure out the answers now,” he breathed, “but can I just say that you’re the one thing I’ve wanted that I’ll never have. I’m not used to that . . . It just doesn’t seem right.”

  I let go of his hand and rubbed my temples. I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t for anyone to possess, but the sight of him – so emotionally exposed – broke down the rage brewing inside me. I observed him quietly as he ran a hand through his dirty blond hair and turned to me with expecting eyes. I had loved him since the moment I saw him standing on that sidewalk in Madrid, yet I had no intentions of telling him or anyone else that. It was clear that sometimes, the universe was stronger than our will to grasp the things we wanted, and so I surrendered to it and let go without telling him anything. At that moment, someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to see the photographer holding his massive Nikon.

  “Would you like a picture with your husband, ma’am?”

  I opened my mouth to correct him, but Jonah embraced me and said we’d very much like a photograph. The flash shone its spotlight on us and, in an instant, it was all over. He boarded a plane back home a few hours after the reception, and I continued my vacation for another day. On the curbside, he held me awkwardly for a long time as unspoken emotions pierced the air. Our conversation from the ceremony was never approached again, and I could only assume he took my silence as a sign that I didn’t feel the same about him. He promised he’d call me when he landed but as I suspected, he never did. The years of silence that followed were ridden with a darkness so shattering, I succumbed to a life without light. Eventually, faint traces of it began to filter through after a long time, each month gifting me a piece of the puzzle that was my broken heart.

  One night, I was at Miranda’s house babysitting and stumbled upon her wedding album. In it, I found the picture the photographer took of Jonah and I by the bench. He is proudly standing behind me in a black suit, arms casually around my waist. My beige dress is cascading in layers to the floor and there are stray rose petals by our feet. As I looked deepe
r, I noticed only he is smiling. Yet in my eyes you can see it lurking so brightly it’s almost blinding, a fleeting happiness called love that would haunt me until the day constellations no longer spelled out his name.

  But All I Really Wanted Was to Be a Serial Killer

  So this one time at band camp,* I decided that being celibate for six months would be a good way to detoxify my life of unwanted energy, also known as, toxic men. My self-imposed dry spell was going seven months strong right around the time my friend Cassie was turning 30. Her birthday landed two days before Halloween, so it was only right to throw a costume party to kick off her foray into real adulthood.

  *This is a reference to American Pie, the movie. If you’re reading this in 2069 and don’t know what I’m talking about then you should probably rent it (the original, not the sequels) and note that I did not actually decide to be celibate while I attended band camp. Partly because I have never been to band camp. Mostly because the only instrument I know how to play is a burrito supreme.

  I’d expressed my interest in being a killer for the bash to anyone who would listen but sadly, no one took me seriously. The week before the soiree, I posted the following on Facebook:

  Two minutes later my friend Cassie was like, “I have a nurse costume you can borrow since I know you’re on a budget.”

  Me: Didn’t you just see what I wrote? I want to be a killer. A KILLER.

  Cassie: Well the nurse costume is really hookerish, so you can be a hooker.

  Me: Hooker does not equate killer. Hookers get killed, not the other way around.

  Cassie: . . . . . .

  Me: Unless they kill you with an STD or something, then I guess hypothetically they “could” be considered killers.

  Cassie: What is wrong with you?

  Me: Nothing’s wrong with me. What is wrong with you?

  Cassie turned 30 the following Saturday, just two days after my parents left on an anniversary trip to the Dominican Republic, leaving me in care of their home, seven dogs, and 12 cats (I assure you this is not an exaggeration). I guess I was a bit overwhelmed with exhaustion and kitty litter because when the birthday girl called to ask what I was going to be for her party, I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Be?” I yawned. “What do mean, be?”

  I heard her sigh with irritation on the other end. “It’s a costume party, remember?”

  It quickly set in that I’d completely forgotten about that minor fact and had nothing planned, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “Something scary.”

  “Oh, brother,” she sighed. “Not this serial killer shit again, I hope.”

  “Not at all,” I fibbed with confidence. “It’ll be a surprise.”

  After hanging up, I mentally calculated how much time I had between volunteer work with the elderly and feeding time at the zoo, in order to go buy something that made me look terrifying. Then I got home and my friend Leo came over to help as I whined on about how I didn’t have a minute for anything and almost started crying because, honestly, I’m Cuban and we’re quite the melodramatic bunch.

  “Stop being a baby,” he said as soothingly as possible. “Just wear a straitjacket and go as yourself.”

  I suppressed the desire to stab him with a kitchen knife when I was hit with a genius idea. “Let’s just grab blankets and be ghosts!”

  “Huh?” he looked at me as he fed my mom’s terrier a donut.

  “Yeah!” I gleefully exclaimed, beginning to get excited. “We get some blankets and punch two holes and we can be ghosts.”

  His face seemed to reflect the joy I was feeling because he suddenly blurted out, “Where would we punch the holes?”

  “In your face, asshole. One hole for each eye so you can see, like this”:

  “I find that rather boring and so second grade, Annie,” he rolled his eyes. “What if the holes were somewhere else like say, three holes in your blanket and one in mine? We’d be the most creative people there.”

  I threw a doggy treat at him and flipped him the finger, realizing all men are animals and Leo should go to the party as himself in a costume of a dog in heat.

  I presume this to be the part where I end this senseless chapter with a picture of me in my stupid ghost costume but as it turns out, I changed my mind two hours before the party. It eventually dawned on me I’d be the only jerk there in white sheets, bumping into everything and spilling my drink in the dark while my friends wondered where the hell I was. Naturally, I purchased a slutty sailor costume and was pretty satisfied, until I got to the party and there were three girls that looked exactly the same.

  Then, suddenly, some dude who was slightly intoxicated came up to me and jokingly said, “Hey, what are you supposed to be?” and I was all, “What does it look like? A serial killer.” Then he did this squinty-eye thing down at me trying to decipher whether I was serious or joking and I stared back into his dilated pupils with a scowl as he laughed.

  “You’re funny,” he smiled and readjusted the flower in my hair.

  But instead of smiling back, I sort of hissed and asked him to fetch me a drink while I stood there failing to look dignified in my hooker attire. Little did I know, three hours later he would perform an exorcism on me and violently murder a seven-month streak we like to call celibacy with nothing but his bare hands and human sword.

  I would’ve never guessed that, in a way, we are all serial killers of some sort.

  The Break-Up

  The smell of pasta sauce and ground beef wafted through the apartment to my room, where I stood sweeping hair balls and vacuuming dust piles. Two beeps notified me the oven was ready and I returned to the kitchen, turning on the timer for 60 minutes and readjusting my checkered apron in the process. Vincent was on his way over for Italian Thursdays, and although it was a tradition I usually rejoiced in, my mood was far from jovial. After placing a large glass dish with lasagna on the metal rack, I grabbed a wet towel from the kitchen and took to wiping all the dusty surfaces in my place.

  A good half hour had passed by the time I was wiping the final piece of furniture, a wooden drawer in the corner of my room. I heard the lock turn and Bruno rush to the door, his distant barking a warning that filled me with immediate dread. Vincent hollered my name and walked toward the kitchen, where he set down some sort of plastic bag I assumed carried wine and his favorite dessert. My back was turned to him when he entered the room, and I remained in that position as I cleaned a spot on the wall in silence.

  Deciding I couldn’t walk down the aisle with a person I didn’t love was a labor of sweat and secretive tears that took me six whole months to digest. I won 10 Academy Awards during that period of anguish, where I sobbed almost daily in the shower or behind closed doors at the office then went back to life with a pasted-on smile. After tormenting myself daily with possible break-up scenarios and my inability to choose one, it dawned on me there isn’t really a “correct” method of calling things off with someone you care for and respect. In a terrible attempt to just get it over with, I resolved to end things that night once Vincent arrived home from work. In my mind, I’d ask him if he was happy and escalate things from there, culminating in the confession of my own misery and begging that he not hate me.

  “Hey babe,” he greeted me, walking over to the bathroom and washing his hands on the sink.

  I said nothing and continued my menial task, as if cleaning were my favorite thing in the world and the walls being dust-free my number one priority. After he dried his hands, he went over to where I stood and hugged me from behind. My heart sped aboard a bullet train as soon as his hands touched me and I held back the desire to vomit.

  “Hey,” he moved my hair over my shoulder and lightly kissed the exposed part of my neck, “is everything alright?”

  “Yep,” I replied shortly, nerves consuming every fiber of my being. “Everything’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not,” he continued to kiss me and stroke my hair gently. “I know when you’re not okay.
Trouble at work?”

  “Of course I’m okay,” I lied without turning, wiping the same corner over and over in circular motions while the towel dripped water down the side of the drawer from the pressure.

  “Annah,” my fiancé grabbed the damp cloth and set it down, placing his hands on my shoulders and giving me no choice but to face him. “What in the world is wrong with you?”

  An avalanche of emotions that had inched along for years reached its breaking point at that moment to come down with unstoppable force. I threw my arms around him and began sobbing loudly, my tears staining his blue shirt and eventually wetting his entire shoulder. I allowed myself to jump into an infinite abyss of sorrow, breathing all but possible as I embraced Vincent for what I knew would be the last time.

  “There,” he whispered and rubbed my upper back, waiting for the ripples of my sobbing to quiet down. “Easy, babe.”

  I looked up at him with a pained expression on my red face and mascara-streaked tears poured down in every direction. “I cannot do this,” I finally choked out and realized I made no sense. Vincent looked confused but still held me tight, his protective embrace magnifying the pain and guilt I’d been carrying for almost three years. So many times I’d willed myself to love him, to delete the memory of times that would never return and move on with life, yet I couldn’t. Finally opening my mouth and articulating my feelings took longer than molasses rolling down a hill in cold weather.

  “Vin . . .” I let my voice trail off and a sob choked me. “We have to call off the wedding. I just, I can’t.”