Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend

by Lynda Curnyn

  At her perplexed expression, I started babbling about how I had gotten this great job writing for a magazine—I didn’t mention names—my immediate and surprising success there, my subsequent promotion—I didn’t mention titles—and how one thing led to another and here I was, writing for magazines.

  By the time I was through, she seemed satisfied. Still, before we parted ways, she looked at me one last time, studying my eyes in that way she had, then said, “Well, I always saw you in fiction, Emma. But I guess you never can tell, right?” Then she hugged me, congratulated me on my success and even invited me to come up and see her at her office at NYU.

  I plodded home feeling like the bottom had fallen out. And later that evening, as Griffin lay beside me in bed, caressing my cheek and wondering at my silence, he asked the question that unplugged the dam. “What’s wrong, Emma?”

  And so I told him. About meeting Professor Young. About my life after NYU. Up until then, the only impression Griffin had of me was of the successful magazine journalist, penning articles on whatever diverse and interesting subjects I could dream up. He had no idea that I had a folder on my laptop that housed notes toward a novel and all my real dreams. Now that he knew, I worried that he would see me as weak. After all, here was a man unafraid to pursue his dreams. Hell, he’d left behind a six-figure job in Chicago to start up his own design firm in NYC, with little more than a few investors and a lot of hope.

  But when I looked into those thickly lashed and incredibly beautiful eyes—eyes, I realized in that moment, I had fallen deeply in love with—I did not see judgment, nor even fear. I saw hope. And—dare I say it—love. From his lips came the three simple words I most needed to hear in that moment.

  “Just try, Emma.”

  Then he smiled that smile that never failed to warm me inside, and I knew he was right.

  Fourteen

  “Ex-boyfriends are like wrinkles. A few good ones give you character.”

  —Emma Carter, Ex-Girlfriend Extraordinaire

  Confession: I have become the “It” girl of my own little world.

  Five months later, I was sitting at home on a Saturday night. Alone. And infinitely satisfied.

  Okay, things could have been better. Griffin could have been there and we could have been cuddled under the covers together on this snowy winter night. But he was away on business and it couldn’t be helped.

  So there I sat on the sofa, an old movie in the VCR and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s New York Superchunk Fudge in hand—a secret indulgence I had recently switched to and didn’t have the heart to tell Griff about—having a little quality time with myself. I would have made it a girls’ night, except Jade was off on a skiing vacation with Ted and Alyssa was with Richard, probably listening to yet another rendition of “Always and Forever” by some overaged yet ever-hopeful musicians in cheap tuxedos who were auditioning to play at their wedding. I couldn’t call Sebastian, either, as he was off in India, where he’d gone to finally meet his guru. I was happy for him, but I sincerely hoped he came back. Not only did I miss his soothing presence in my life, but my highlights were in need of a touch-up.

  I barely saw Rebecca anymore, now that I had freed myself from the world of Bridal Best and gone full-time freelance. From what I heard, she was now burning the midnight oil and playing Patricia’s best pal. According to Marcy Keller, whom I bumped into at D’Agostino’s one day, Patricia needed friends now. My former fearless editor-in-chief was in the midst of a divorce from her phantom husband and on the verge of something that looked frighteningly like a nervous breakdown. I’m sure Rebecca was earning big brownie points by attempting to hold Patricia’s hand through it all. Or maybe Rebecca felt a bond with Patricia. After all, her own breakup with Nash was still a not-so-distant memory.

  I didn’t mind spending the evening alone. My four walls didn’t get to me anymore, now that they had expanded to twelve walls—sixteen, if you counted the bathroom. My rent-stabilized one bedroom had finally come through, once Stacy had gone off to life in suburbia with her new husband. According to Dorothea, they were already expecting their first child. Me, I was expecting a new oriental rug, to go with my freshly painted walls and magnificent marble fireplace. It was due to be delivered next week.

  I had just dug my spoon into a particularly fudge-laden hunk of ice cream when the phone rang.

  “Oh, good, you’re home,” my mother said when I picked up.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “I was worried. It’s snowing terribly outside. You can’t be too careful in this—”

  “I know, Mom,” I said. “I’m thirty-one years old. I’ve seen enough snow to know how to negotiate those drifts.”

  “Where’s Griffin?”

  “California.”

  “What?” my mother said, her alarm apparent.

  “On business,” I said. “He’s coming home Tuesday,” I continued, with a glance out the window at the snow that still came down. “Weather permitting.”

  “Oh, business. Of course,” she said, her relief apparent. I think my mother sometimes believed this magnificent man who had dropped into my life—for my mother had declared him husband material from the moment she first met him this past Thanksgiving—would somehow disappear in a puff a smoke the minute she stopped keeping tabs. I guess I couldn’t blame her. I had to pinch myself every time I walked down the street beside him and saw women give him the once-over—and me a killing glance. But there we were. A couple. His parents were as bad as my mother when it came to having obvious wedding fantasies—they never tired of reminding us that they’d in a way introduced us—but God knew what the future held. Griffin and I just took each day as it came, good and bad. And it was all I needed now.

  “Well, since he’s not around, we can really talk about what’s going on with you,” my mother said.

  Uh-oh. Here is comes. “Mom—”

  “I just need to know where you’re at. It’s been six months!”

  “Mom, these things take time. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  “Just give me an update. Please. I’ve already bragged to all my girlfriends about you. Dorothea has been bugging me for news ever since!”

  I smiled. “Okay, okay. Page 175. But it’s only the first draft—”

  My words were drowned out by the sound of my mother’s shriek of joy. I couldn’t help but muffle a squeal of delight myself. From the moment she had learned I had started a novel, my mother had been my biggest fan, though she had yet to read a word of the manuscript. I had kept it from almost everyone so far, except Diana Young, who had given the first one hundred pages a read and declared them “quite promising.”

  “Oh, Emma, I never dreamed…” my mother all but breathed into the phone.

  Frankly, neither had I. Not really. Not until now.

  “You know Clark has that editor friend at Random House who said he would take a look—”

  “You told me, Mom.” And I smiled. It was only about the fiftieth time she’d mentioned it.

  “Clark and I can’t wait to see it. You know he’s so proud of you, too.”

  Then I simply listened as she moved on to the subject of Clark, what a kind man, what a good man he was. It was as if she couldn’t help saying it, even six months after the wedding.

  By the time we hung up, I was over my Ben & Jerry’s craving. I got up and placed the container back in the freezer, realizing that if I didn’t eat it before Tuesday, I would have to confess my lack of allegiance to Skinny Scoop to Griffin.

  He could take it, I thought. Like most anything else I dished out, it seemed.

  Even my father liked Griffin, and he really hadn’t been partial to any of my boyfriends. But he was in better spirits himself these days, having enrolled, believe it or not, in law school. I will admit I was dubious at first about this late career move. Deirdre had told me last fall that he’d applied. As she explained it, though, it was apparently some long-held dream he’d never realized—and, she thought, something he had probably sublimat
ed into all those loony-tune lawsuits. Besides, she explained, it couldn’t hurt him to have the law background now that he’d started his own small financial consulting business in his retirement. There weren’t many accountants in New York who held dual degrees, and it could more than triple his already exorbitant fee. The promise of money always seemed to fill my father’s heart with joy.

  I couldn’t help but feel hopeful for him. He hadn’t had a drink since last summer, not that this was any long-standing record for him. Still, he seemed to have a better attitude about things. He’d even dropped his lawsuit against the harness company. Though watch out if you get caught on the phone with him these days. Once he gets started on tax law reform, he can talk the leg off a donkey. My mother claimed he would lose his one-track mind once Shaun and Tiffany got pregnant, which judging by the fact that the kitchen renovation is now complete, and there are no new home improvements on the horizon, will probably be any day now. Then again, my mother might just be doing some wishful thinking again.

  The morning after the near binge on Ben & Jerry’s, when I woke up and sat down to write, a pot of coffee brewing and filling my cozy apartment with that richly satisfying smell, the thought of Derrick flickered briefly through my mind. Maybe it was because he had called me not two months ago, “just to talk” he said, though it was clear he was lonely. The most miraculous thing about our conversation was that I felt no need to toss my new boyfriend in his face, though I couldn’t help but mention my progress on the novel. He was happy for me and even sounded wistful as he congratulated me. When I probed further, I learned that his screenplay, though it had earned him a handsome option fee and brought him to L.A., had ultimately been shelved. Worse, he seemed to be spending more time these days doctoring other people’s scripts than writing his own, especially now that his “perfect” roommate had gotten a boyfriend who seemed have taken up residence in Carrie’s bedroom. Apparently said boyfriend had a penchant for performing loud sexual antics on a nightly basis.

  Okay, maybe that part made me feel a little…gleeful. But once I got over the sick feeling of gratification at the thought of Carrie and some oversexed mongrel wreaking havoc on my ex-boyfriend’s life, Derrick and I did something we hadn’t done in a long time. Probably since the first few months of our relationship.

  We talked. I mean really talked. About writing. About life. I found that I had much wisdom to offer him on both counts. I could tell he was more than a little impressed. And maybe even feeling a little bit of regret about the girl he left behind. Not that I cared. Okay, I cared. But only in that thrilling little way a woman feels when she knows she’s a force to be reckoned with.

  Now, as I clicked on my computer, doing all those little exercises in procrastination I still resorted to occasionally—like rubbing the cuticle cream I kept handy on my desk into my nailbeds and sorting through some junk mail I found lying there as well—I realized I was really happy. Don’t get me wrong: my life is far from perfect. After all, freelancers live from check to check and my book isn’t even finished, much less sold. Too, Griffin and I have yet to talk about the future. In fact, we’re both so engrossed in our careers it hasn’t really come up, except as a fearsome worry in my overactive imagination. I’m sure I’m the only one worrying, of course. After all, worrying over the future is a particularly female malady, I think.

  Still, as I sat comfortably at my computer, I knew I had a lot. Good friends. Days spent in the way I most wanted to spend them. Regular sex—a thing not to be taken lightly in this city of one-night stands. But most of all, I had found the person I had never thought to look for in those frantic weeks after Derrick walked out of my life.

  Myself.

  And that’s all any woman really needs. Ex-girlfriend or…otherwise.

  CONFESSIONS OF AN EX-GIRLFRIEND

  A Worldwide Library/Red Dress Ink novel

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-4853-3

  © 2002 by Lynda Curnyn

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