Misery Loves Cabernet

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  We turn a corner, and head back toward the East River, more toward the Brooklyn Bridge side.

  “So, what happened?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Everything was different. To see the Christmas windows these days, you have to wait in a line with a bunch of tourists, then walk quickly between the window and a velvet rope. If you stop and look for too long, a security guard tells you to move it along. And that tree in Rockefeller Center isn’t as big as I remembered. And it’s no longer the biggest in the country. The one at The Grove in L.A. is bigger, as is one in Newport Beach, and another in Florida. And the skating rink is small. And snow is great for the first few days. But then it becomes gray slush. Or, even worse, yellow slush.”

  I nod my head and listen.

  “Plus, I hated law school. I could not imagine practicing law for the rest of my life. Talk about your golden handcuffs. What would happen when I got used to the money, had my house and my family, but dreaded every Monday morning for the next forty years? I mean, photography hasn’t always been very lucrative. But at least I like going to work.”

  As we walk along the riverfront, I am flattered that he’s opening up to me, and letting me into the parts of his world that aren’t so perfect. But I can also sort of tell he’s not telling me everything. Call it women’s intuition.

  Actually, no. Call it fifteen years in the dating trenches.

  When listening to stories from men, if the stories don’t completely make sense: Cherchez La Femme.

  Jordan doesn’t say anything else for a few minutes. He gives me hugs, forces smiles, and clearly debates in his mind how much more to tell me.

  I decide to go for broke. “So, who was the woman?”

  “What?”

  “You said there was a girl involved. Who was she?”

  “Her name was Stacey. We dated my senior year in college. She moved to New York to be an actress, and I guess, at least according to my parents, I found an excuse to follow her.”

  “I take it that relationship didn’t go well.”

  Jordan stops to face me. “Raise your left arm up, over your head for a minute.”

  I do.

  “Okay, now keep it there as long as you can,” Jordan says.

  I stare at him dubiously as I keep my left arm raised over my head for what feels like an hour.

  “Getting tired yet?” Jordan asks me.

  I nod my head.

  “Keep it up there. Are you getting so tired your arm hurts, and you can’t stand it anymore?”

  I nod my head again.

  “That’s what dating an actress is like,” Jordan concludes.

  I chuckle as I put down my arm.

  We begin to walk under the Brooklyn Bridge. Jordan suddenly stops, and happily announces, “Ah . . . we’re here.”

  I look over at a green awning announcing Grimaldi’s Pizzeria, with a red sign underneath stating, COAL BRICK OVEN. Outside the windowed door, a line of people patiently wait in their overcoats, sweaters, and sweatshirts.

  “Have you ever had coal brick oven pizza?” Jordan asks, his face now beaming.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, trying to be cheerful. Even though all I can think about is an ex-girlfriend I know nothing about (except that he moved three thousand miles from home to be with her), and his confession to thinking about moving three thousand miles away from me.

  “Now, before we begin,” Jordan says, pulling out the Italian red wine he bought earlier, “We need to have our provisions.” He opens the bottle with the corkscrew, and quickly pours some wine into two of the plastic cups we got from the wine store. “This is the best pizza in the world. But the line takes a while.”

  We wait in line outside for forty-five minutes, polishing off the bottle during that time. Jordan says nothing more of his New York past, and I decide not to push any further. For now. Frankly, I’m having too much fun talking to other people in line, and stealing kisses from my boyfriend when no one seems to be paying attention.

  When we get inside the restaurant, I bask in the warmth of the air, and the smells of the thin crust.

  It’s another twenty minutes before we get our pizza, but all that time waiting gives us lots of time for talking. But instead of discussions of moving, and the failures of our youth, we stay on the safe topics: other people. We gossip about Drew and the new movie. I talk about how I am to be a bridesmaid yet again. He tells me about his shooting schedule in Paris, and how he hasn’t seen much of the city yet.

  I forgot how funny he can be. I spend most of my time with him either laughing or kissing him. And by the time our sausage and basil thin-crust pizza gets to our table, I am in heaven.

  When we walk out of Grimaldi’s a half hour or so later, I am pleasantly drunk, and wonderfully well fed. I have completely put our earlier conversation out of my mind, and am now thinking about all of the good things in our relationship, and all of the good things yet to come.

  I’m back in love.

  A rose by any other name . . . still has thorns.

  As I look around at the old red brick buildings on the Brooklyn waterfront, I am continually struck by the unexpected romance of the place. Maybe I could move to a place like this. I mean, after all, I like my job, but I don’t think I’m going to want to be an assistant for the rest of my life. At some point, I’d like to have a family. And most personal assistants don’t have families: they’re already so busy catering to the whims of a child (that would be their celebrity boss) that they don’t have the time or energy or patience to have a real child. Before my mind wanders too much, I remind myself:

  Don’t jump ahead in a relationship. While on a first date, most women are thinking ahead to whether or not they see themselves married to the guy. Meanwhile, all the men are thinking about is getting their date into bed.

  Besides, for all intents and purposes, a week ago we were broken up. I have to remember that. The only guarantee I have is of this weekend.

  We head down Water Street, and I see our next destination: The Jacques Torres Chocolate Shop.

  My God, can the man get any more romantic?

  As we enter the lower level of the red brick building, I am once again enveloped not only in warmth (it’s getting pretty cold out here in Brooklyn) but in my favorite aromatherapy scent: chocolate.

  When we get to the front of the line, Jordan orders the twenty-five-piece boxed assortment, and two hot cocoas. We sip our hot cocoas at one of the three mosaic tables in the store, then head back out into the bracing cold of November autumn.

  As the November air nips at my ears, I can’t help but ask greedily, “Okay, so when do we get to tear into that box?”

  “Not until we get to a bench,” Jordan tells me. “There’s only one thing that would be better than great chocolate right now.”

  “I’m not having sex on a bench,” I say sternly, but jokingly.

  Jordan juts out his bottom lip in a mock pout. “No? Why not?”

  “Too cold. Check back with me in June around noon.”

  Jordan laughs. We walk to a metal bench, and have a seat.

  “Brrrr . . . ,” I say, referring to the cold metal beneath my bottom.

  “I’ve got something to warm you up,” Jordan says, smiling as he pops the cork of the demi-sec champagne. He pours the champagne into the other two plastic cups, and hands one to me. “What do you think?” he asks.

  I take a taste and . . .

  “Yuck,” I can’t help but stammer. “What, did you put Maniechewitz in the bottle when I wasn’t looking?”

  Jordan laughs. “Too sweet for you?”

  “Well, demi-sec isn’t usually my first choice.”

  “Ah, but it goes perfectly with this,” Jordan says, opening the chocolate box, pulling out a milk chocolate heart, and feeding it to me.

  I open my mouth, and let him slip the tasty morsel onto my tongue. The creamy milk chocolate dissolves, then bursts into . . . what? What the hell is that flavor? “Tastes like passion fruit,” I say with my mo
uth full.

  Jordan laughs. “From the look on your face, I can’t tell if that’s a good thing, or a bad thing.”

  I start laughing. “I’m not sure yet,” I say.

  Jordan leans in and kisses me. We begin to make out under the leafless trees, and I feel like a teenager necking with her boyfriend. The world is good.

  After another minute or two of making out, we drink our champagne (which actually becomes very tasty with the chocolate) and make our way through the box. The box has combinations I’d never thought of: ginger with dark chocolate ganache, melon puree with port wine . . . one is even made with Chipotle chiles.

  A little while later, we make our way back to York Street Station, onto the F train, and back to our hotel.

  My fingers feel frostbitten by the time Jordan slips his key card in to let us into our room, but my heart is on fire.

  And so is the rest of me.

  Don’t discuss your love life in vivid detail. No one really needs the blow-by-blow account.

  Several delicious hours later, Jordan indulges me in a romantic, five-course meal at Le Cirque, followed by drinks at The Plaza. Yes, we decided to go a bit touristy. We even skated at Rockefeller Center.

  And that night, after we made love for the third time, I felt like we were finally back on track.

  Seventeen

  Tempting though it always is, try never to rest on your laurels. The universe is not stagnant.

  I woke up the next morning blissfully happy . . . wildly in love . . .

  And alone in my bed.

  Wait, no, I’m not. I can hear Jordan in the bathroom. Whew. Dodged a bullet there.

  As I listen, I realize he’s talking to someone on the phone.

  Being the idiot that I am, I don’t think anything of it as I take the top sheet, wrap it around my body, and get out of bed to tell him I’m awake, I’m naked, and I’m feeling amorous.

  “No, I haven’t told her yet,” I hear Jordan whisper into the phone.

  Oh. Shit. Why am I always the “her” in the “I haven’t told her yet”? Why do I never get to be the girl on the other end of the phone?

  That’s right—because I have ethics. I actually believe the adage:

  Work hard. Be nice. Hurt no one.

  Of course, that may be why I’m thirty, and still single.

  I get as close to the slightly opened door as possible and listen in.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know where it’s going anymore. And she is going to freak when she finds out,” Jordan continues to his mystery woman (I’m assuming it’s a woman) on the other end of the phone. He listens to her for a moment, then answers, “No. The first day was a disaster . . . No, it’s not that easy. Yesterday was—”

  But before Jordan can finish his sentence, he sees me at the doorway.

  “Gotta go,” Jordan says abruptly into the phone. “I’ll see you tomorrow . . . . Yeah, me, too. Bye.”

  And he clicks off the phone. “Good morning,” he tries to say brightly.

  I don’t bother mincing words. “Yesterday was what?”

  “Hm?” Jordan says, clearly stalling for time.

  “You were telling the girl on the phone that yesterday was something. I’m wondering what yesterday was.”

  There’s a half-second pause while Jordan debates what to do next. It’s that half second I never picked up on in college. (There are some advantages to battle scars.) Jordan looks at me seductively as he wraps his arms around my waist. “Yesterday was phenomenal,” he says, pulling me into a sexy kiss.

  Or, what would have been a sexy kiss, if I hadn’t started talking through it. “Who was on the phone?” I ask, my voice a little muffled from his tongue in my mouth.

  Jordan stops kissing me. “No one,” he says, then begins kissing my neck and making me crazy.

  “Sure didn’t sound like no one,” I manage to eek out (although I must admit, he’s wearing me down with those kisses). “And what haven’t you told me yet?”

  “Can we talk about it later?” Jordan moans. “I want to make love to you.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say, pulling away from him, and putting my hands on my hips. “You think I’m so stupid, I don’t know men can fake moans, too?”

  Jordan sighs. Rolls his eyes a bit. “Charlie, do you really want to ruin what little time we have left talking about something that will almost certainly make you angry?”

  “No. I’d much prefer spending the day with someone wondering when the guillotine is going to hit my neck,” I answer sarcastically.

  Jordan heavily sighs. “Okay, fine. Have a seat.”

  For one brief moment, I debate waiting until the end of the day for that guillotine. But I force myself to sit down on the bed, and get whatever bad news he has over with.

  Jordan takes a deep breath, clearly bracing for a blowup from me. “The girl who was on the phone was Stacey. The ex I told you about yesterday.”

  Shit. “The actress?” I ask, already getting mad.

  “Yeah. She’s one of the stars of the movie I’m working on right now. Which, before you freak out, she’s only, like, the sixth lead in the thing; I did not know she was going to be in it, and she’s happily married now. As a matter of fact, her husband is a producer on the movie. He’s the one who offered me the film in Germany in February.”

  “Oh,” I say noncommittally, unsure of where this is going.

  “I’m taking the job,” Jordan says.

  “Oh,” I repeat.

  “It’s a huge studio picture,” Jordan continues. “It shoots for five months. So, other than the weeks before and after Christmas, I’ll be gone until the end of June.”

  I don’t say anything for a while. Finally, I have to ask, “So what does that mean? We do long-distance for another seven months? You’re breaking up with me? What?”

  Jordan doesn’t answer me at first. He rubs his neck, and takes a deep, tired breath. “I don’t know. You haven’t exactly been very happy lately. I don’t really see what our future is if our conversations and e-mails continue the way they’ve been going.”

  I don’t know what he means by that: Does he mean that we’re breaking up, or is he just issuing me an ultimatum—be nicer and more patient in this long-distance relationship, or I’m out of here.

  Jordan sighs. He looks battle weary. “I need to ask you something, and I’d like the truth.”

  “Okay,” I say nervously.

  Jordan walks over to his suitcase, and pulls out a British tabloid, which he hands to me. “Check out page five.”

  I open the tabloid to page five. Underneath the screaming headline, “Sexiest Man Alive Drew Stanton Afraid of Winding Up Alone” is a picture of Drew, Liam, and me coming home from our “run” earlier this week. The run where I tripped, and had to have Liam help me limp back to Drew’s house. Of course, you can’t tell I’m limping and hurt from the picture. No, no . . . the story is all about how Drew is still pining for his ex-wife, and how he’s afraid he may not find anyone. The picture makes it look like Liam and I are cooing little lovebirds, cuddling in each other’s arms as a frowning Drew runs ahead of us and looks pathetic.

  “Who’s the guy?” Jordan asks me.

  I decide to come clean. Sort of. “His name’s Liam,” I say in a tone of voice designed to assure Jordan that Liam is no big deal. “He’s a producer on Drew’s movie. He went running with us, I hurt my ankle, he helped me back to Drew’s house.”

  Jordan eyes me suspiciously. “The guy I heard on the phone?”

  Shit. I think I unconsciously wince. “Yeah.”

  Jordan nods ever so slightly. “Okay.”

  Then he turns to pack. He deliberately does not look at me as he says, “You were right in the first place. I think we should see other people.”

  “Meaning what? Is that your toe-in-the-water way of breaking up with me?”

  Jordan turns to me. He looks sad. “No. That is my way of saying I’m going to be working for the next seven months out of the country, and I thi
nk we should see other people. But if you think it’s a breakup, I guess it is.”

  Oh, God. I think I’m going to throw up. I spend the next thirty seconds forcing myself to breathe, and watching him pack his black duffel bag.

  Needless to say, I call the airline, and immediately change my flight to the next one out of town. Jordan goes with me to the airport, and we say good-bye as exes. For the few hours I was still with him I would tear up, then force myself not to cry. All that time Jordan looked pained. But he never suggested that he wanted to reconsider, so I never asked him to. Because in my heart of hearts I knew:

  Never beg a man to take you back. The only thing worse than having a man leave you is having his last memory of you crying and begging.

  And when he kissed me good-bye at the security line at JFK, I knew it really was good-bye.

  Eighteen

  Sometimes you just need to cry it out. That’s okay.

  When I got to my gate at the airport, I locked myself in a stall in the ladies’ room, and cried for twenty minutes straight. I felt a little better when I was done. There is a certain sense of relief in knowing how the relationship turned out, in not being in limbo anymore.

  My iPhone rang four times during that time, but none of the calls were from Jordan: instead my caller ID showed three were from Drew, and one was from Liam. I didn’t want either of them to hear me crying, so I didn’t pick up.

  After my crying jag, I wipe away my tears, walk to a seat at my gate, and check my messages.

  Message one: “We’re not going to Paris!” I hear Drew wailing into the phone. “Now my contract specifically states I get to go somewhere on per diem, so I think I can quit. But I don’t really want to, since I think I read somewhere that an Academy Award nomination can be worth an extra ten thousand dollars or so on a film, and I am trying to get to space. So I’m torn. How do you feel about Rancho Cucamonga? Call me back.” Beep.