Though the truth is revealed in his creased brow and clamped jaw, the gentle shake of Sean’s head squashes any remaining doubt.
I close my eyes tight and try to breathe.
This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.
But no matter how many times I blink my eyes clear, I still see the certitude on Sean’s face.
This is happening.
“I’m not ready to sign papers. I’m not ready to link our . . .”
“Our what? Our futures.”
“Yes.”
“But you wanted to pool our money. This was your idea. You sent me flowers the morning of our appointment. You said to meet here tonight.”
“Yes, I know. But ever since we met with the advisor . . .” He pauses and runs his fingers through his hair. I’m momentarily elated, noticing his widow’s peak has widened. The crown of his head will be bald by fifty. Something I overlooked in love. That, along with his small hands. “I didn’t expect the appointment and the relevant discourse and the commingling of funds and these papers to . . . I don’t know . . . change things for me. I feel stifled.”
“Stifled?”
“Yeah, claustrophobic.”
“So you’re breaking up with me?”
“I’ll admit the timing is less than ideal, but I decided if we came here tonight, to our first date spot, it’d be cyclical somehow and the best way to prove that this isn’t about you. It’s me. It’s all my doing. Hell, you’re perfect for me.”
“You’re breaking up with me, because I’m perfect for you?” For a lawyer, he’s got seriously flawed thinking.
“Bree, I’m so sorry.” He clasps my hand. “If you’ll let me explain—”
“What else is there to explain? You love everything about me but don’t want me in your future, and please will I get the hell out of your life.” I flick his hand away and stare into the eyes that until this moment were seductive and gravitating, definitive and sound. Eyes that I’d assumed would always be mine. “You’ve explained enough.” I slide out of the booth, waving the documents in the air. “And you want to know the most pathetic thing of this evening? I thought you might propose.”
“Bree, wait.”
I march out the door, dragging my dignity like a dead tree branch behind me.
The predictions held true. The clear sky has turned cloudy and started to rain. As I hurry along the boardwalk, my tears blend with the weather and within seconds, La Jolla’s beautiful night has turned into a thick, sticky, soaked mess. Like me.
I’ve wished many times in my life that I weren’t afraid to drive. Wished the accident didn’t haunt me, stunt me. Because Sean calls after me and I’m forced to stand in the doorway of the women’s public restroom, frantically texting for an Uber car to whisk me home, as rain bounces off the concrete, splashing my shoes and calves.
I spot the Uber car and quickly scramble into the backseat, shivering and apologizing for the pool of water saturating his leather seat.
He turns on the heat. “You okay, ma’am?”
No. “Take me home, please.”
Half an hour ago I thought I’d done it. Climbed the summit of love. Trekked past the loose and jagged rocks of dating and uncertainty. Crested to the solid ground of comfort and trust. And now, I find myself slid down to the mountain base. My ass cut and bruised. The snowcapped peak of my future has disappeared behind the billowing clouds.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself not to cry in this man’s presence, but a few minutes into the drive my shoulders collapse and my tears flow faster than the raindrops splatting the car windows. My head spins with questions. Four years together and now I’m suffocating you? Why, Sean, why?
Standing in my entryway ten minutes later, I strip off my wet clothes, head into the living room, and crank on the gas fireplace.
As the fire flashes to life, warming my cheeks, knees, and toes, I wrap myself in a blanket and head toward the fridge, finding another one of Sean’s notes stuck above the fridge’s ice dispenser.
Horseradish.
I trace my fingers over his letters. As I stop on d, something clicks inside me. Of all the dumb-ass habits. I snatch the note from the fridge and rip it into shreds, admitting to myself that I’ve always hated his little reminders. Why can’t he remember a damn thing without writing it down?
I pop the cork off a bottle of Champagne I keep chilled for our special evenings and take a long, comforting swig.
Halfway—okay, three fourths—into the bottle, I lie spread-eagle on the floor, deciding my life without Sean will be good. Damn good. No more reaching for my toothbrush only to discover it’s wet. No more annoying Fox News piercing the promise and hope of the crisp morning air. No more scattered bits of shaved black hairs in my bathroom sink.
It’s then I notice another Post-it stuck to the baseboard underneath my end table. Damn things are like cockroaches. But my breath catches in my chest as I read Sean’s words.
L’Straut Jewelers . . . ask Bree.
L’Straut Jewelers is the most sought-after jewelry store in San Diego. It’s where he bought his watch. It’s where we playfully tried on several engagement rings, marking our favorites. It’s where they recorded my ring size.
A proposal?
I’m not sure if this discovery makes me feel better or worse. Both, I suppose. Though I’m not clear when he wrote the note, somehow I’m grateful knowing that the four years we spent together, regardless of what happened tonight, were genuine. He loves me. Or at least did.
I scramble up the stairs and climb into bed. Three cinnamon-scented candles flicker on my dresser, but I still smell Sean. The scent of his spring-fresh shampoo lingers on my sheets.
I can hear him, too. I can hear him curse when he scrapes his shin, inching my dresser away from the wall after my diamond teardrop necklace slipped behind it. I can hear him whistle the theme song to The Office as he fastens his belt or ties the laces of his polished shoes. I can hear him snore, vibrating the mattress the tiniest bit when he breathes in and out.
I pull the covers over my head and bury my ears into my pillow, hoping the doctors are right, hoping my hearing will fail and I won’t listen to myself crying to sleep.
six
There’s not enough concealer on the planet to mask the bags and dark circles under my eyes the following morning. I look like I drank too much Champagne, then spent the night tossing and turning and washing my sheets at four a.m. . . . Oh, that’s right, I did.
With eye drops, aspirin, and a coffee the size of a milk jug, I walk toward work only to find myself trapped at an intersection behind a young couple making out. It’s eight forty-five a.m., for Christ’s sake! I step aside only to bump into another guy murmuring into his phone, “I miss you, baby. Can’t wait for tonight.”
Ugh.
I cross the street, and though I marveled at the beauty of La Jolla’s streets on my way to Antonio’s last night, this time I see crooked cracks and seeped stains in the sidewalk. Flies circle trash cans overstuffed with Starbucks cups and McDonald’s wrappers. Muddled newspapers, plastic bags, and crumpled leaves are smushed into storm drains. The stench from car exhaust and rotten grease traps heavies the air. I hear nothing but honking horns, screeching brakes, and a homeless woman yelling obscenities at a man in a black jogging suit.
La Jolla streets have lost their charm.
So has love.
Trudging into my office, I shut out the outside world and shift my focus to what I’m good at. Diligence. Center. Control.
An e-mail from the financial advisor lights up my screen.
We’re ready to activate the Thomas/Caxton account. Documents signed?
Great. Now I have to explain to a relative stranger that my life fell apart.
But rather than feel any more sorry for myself, I reply, Change of plans. I will be the only one investing. You have
my account info. Wire the funds as we discussed and move ahead accordingly. I scan and attach the signed paperwork, then click send with a sense of achievement.
“Dang, girl. Must’ve been some night,” Andrew says, smoothing lotion onto his slightly orange spray-tanned hands and settling in the chair opposite my desk. “Let me hear all the romantic things Sean did for you last night. Tell me the naughty parts. Twice. Three times if they’re really naughty.”
“Let’s get to work. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
Andrew’s smile vanishes. “You okay?”
Am I okay? The words grate my nerves like knuckles drawn across sandpaper. How many times did Mom’s banking colleagues or Dad’s poker buddies ask me that at the funeral? The words evoke a familiar emptiness that makes me a little sick to my stomach. And just like I did then, I reply to Andrew with a bit more snap than necessary, “Where’s the coffee cup Sean bought me from Anthropologie?”
“The one with your initial?”
“The very one.”
He returns from the break room and hands me the mug.
I clasp my fingers around the cool handle of the oversized cup, examining the ceramic’s smooth glazed ivory-colored finish. With my thumb, I trace the swooping letter B inked in black.
The night Sean bought this for me, we’d grabbed a quick dinner at Bella’s before walking hand-in-hand through the Mercado, an outdoor mall canopied with globe lights strung from shop to shop above the cobblestone walkway. Through the window of Anthropologie, I spotted the new red-and-cream Aari duvet on display. “Ooh, let’s pop in for a sec.”
Sean followed me inside and stood close while I contemplated. “I love the pattern, but worry the red is too red. I don’t want it to clash with the sunset picture over my bed.”
He reached for the price tag and choked on his words. “Five hundred and ninety-eight dollars?”
“It’s embroidered.”
“It’s a blanket.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, stepped behind me in a wrinkled-in-all-the-right-places American Apparel T-shirt, and whispered in my ear. His breath tickled my neck as he said, “Will you sleep naked underneath that five-hundred-and-ninety-eight-dollar blanket?”
Now, months later, I sit at my desk and tap the mug’s base against the palm of my other hand. It’s a quality cup. Well constructed. Sturdy.
Geronimo! I pitch it into the trash can. The mug echoes like a firework as it smacks the bottom. The ceramic splinters into delightful black-and-white shards.
My version of retail therapy.
Andrew gasps. “What are you doing? You love that mug.”
“Hand me the vase.”
He glances at Sean’s bouquet, resting defenseless on the sideboard. “What? Why?”
“Just give it to me.”
He hurries between me and the vase, shielding the glass with his spread-eagle arms. “Sit down and tell me what happened. Don’t take it out on the Waterford.”
“Okay.” I exhale a long breath. “That’s sound advice. Thank you.”
“Yes, good. That’s better. Let’s take a second and relax.” He settles into his chair. “Now, very calmly, tell me—”
I sneak past him and snatch the vase, smashing it into the bottom of the trash can with a satisfying thud. Water splashes onto the floor, showering Andrew’s feet.
“Bree, what the hell’s gotten into you?”
I scour the room, tapping my foot like a jackhammer. What else did Sean give me that I can destroy? Ah, yes, the picture frame. I line up with the trash can, poising for two points, but notice Andrew blotting water droplets off his suede loafers. The same loafers he bought last Friday after saving for three months. With the frame in my lap, I slump into my chair. “Sean broke up with me.”
“Cocksucker.”
I almost laugh at such a foul word coming from the mouth of a man who fixed a piglet eraser on his favorite pencil.
“Says he doesn’t want a joint account and thought last night, at Antonio’s, was the perfect place to end our relationship, some circle-of-life nonsense.” I stare at the Cabo picture and Sean’s yellow swim trunks that we’d bought at the hotel gift shop after discovering he’d packed none.
“Bree, I’m so sorry.”
I grab the frame and slip the photo free from the glass. “Who says ‘I want to share my financial future with you,’ then dumps you a week later in a corner booth? In our corner booth.” I tear the picture into pieces, then sprinkle them into the trash can.
Andrew crouches beside me and wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry, hon.”
My tears trickle again.
Andrew cries, too, and I love him a little bit more for it.
“How did I miss this?” I say. “How did my life fall apart in a matter of seconds?” I shake my head. “Obviously, I’m not quite the expert in love like I thought.”
“Stop.” Andrew points his finger an inch away from my nose. His face is fierce like an alley dog defending a bone. “You’re amazing at your job. No one does it better. Don’t for a second think your personal life has any impact on your professional life. Don’t give Sean the credit.” He pulls a petal from my hair. “As a matter of fact, Sara left a message this morning about Nixon. They talked last night and had an instant connection. You did that, and you’ve done all of this.” He gestures above me at my wall of happy couples.
“I knew he’d like her,” I say between sniffles.
“And, by the sound of her voice, she likes him, too. They have a date this weekend.”
“Yeah? That’s good.”
“It is good.” He wipes mascara away from under my eyes. “Don’t ever question your abilities, understand? Sean’s the bad guy. Not you. You know what would make you feel better?”
“Nachos.”
“If you stand tall, don’t let Sean be the victor.”
I’m empowered by his confidence and the conviction in his eyes until I get a glimpse of his water-spattered loafers. “Oh, Andrew, I’m sorry. Are your shoes ruined?”
“Nah, I like polka dots anyway.” He picks up a few petals and picture shreds decorating the carpet. “I’m gonna get a broom and sweep this up.”
Andrew’s advice brings me comfort, and several minutes pass without any thoughts of Sean until I hear the Fratellis song playing on my cell phone.
I let it ring—the third call since last night.
Sure it’s childish to avoid him. And a bit immature to ignore his pleading outside my front door before work this morning. He could’ve let himself in with his key and I appreciate the fact that he didn’t because I’m not ready to hear Sean’s voice or look at the lips that less than twenty-four hours ago were mouthing the words, “I feel claustrophobic.”
It occurs to me as the song plays over and over that the ringtone no longer soothes me. The lead singer’s Scottish voice no longer sounds smooth and easy, seductive and familiar. Now, his voice screeches in my ears like a dentist’s drill coring out a cavity.
I click on the settings tab and search through the choices for a new sound. I want something unique, something true to Sean’s character. Unfortunately they don’t have a selection labeled ass-wipe—what would it sound like anyway?—but they do have one called donkey. Close enough.
Sean leaves a voice mail and a hee-haw . . . hee-haw sound resonates from my phone.
Excited over my small victory—Go, Bree!—I absentmindedly press the play button.
“I know you’re mad. You have every right to be. But please, can we get together and talk? That’s all I’m asking. I love you so much and I always will. Baby, please, just talk to me.”
I press play again.
Baby, please, just talk to me.
“Oh, Bree.” Andrew returns. “It’ll be okay. I promise it’ll be . . . oh, no.”
“What?”
“Randi’s here
.”
“What? Where?” Through the office window I see my publicist walking toward my front door.
“Go pull yourself together. I’ll delay her.”
I swallow the last four years of my life wedged deep inside my throat and hurry into the bathroom with hopes that my face doesn’t look red and blotchy.
No such luck.
Not only do I feel like crap, but as a bonus, I look like crap, too.
Lucky me.
But as I splash water on my face and stare at my reflection, I see behind my spotted skin and puffy eyelids; I see me.
Andrew’s right. I’m a successful businesswoman on the verge of launching a nationwide interview and a debut book. How many people can say that? And what about all the other positives in my life? Hell, I’ve traveled through twenty-five states, stuck my head out of the Statue of Liberty’s crown, and just last month ran my sixth half marathon in under two hours. An armful of accomplishments, to say the least.
Suffocating you, eh, Sean? Well, fine. Go ahead and spread your wings. Fly away, high in the sky. Hope you choke on all the fresh air.
“Good morning,” Randi calls from across the room. “I received the particulars from the paper. Let’s sit, I’ll explain.”
Andrew winks at me and offers a nod of encouragement before handing Randi a cup of coffee.
“Ah, you’re heaven sent. And with a tight ass I could bounce quarters off of.” Randi sips her coffee, leaving behind a red lipstick imprint. “Well, let’s get to it. My contact at the National Tribune told me each installment will focus on a different aspect of Bree Caxton and Associates. For example, one might touch on your background, another on the company’s mission, and another will highlight your matchups, that sort of thing. Sounds fun, don’t you think?”
“Sounds great.” And it does. This is good. Concentrate on work.
“Once they get some feedback, they might make changes or venture down another path, but for now, that’s the initial plan. I have the specifics for the first week.”
Can I See You Again? Page 5
