by Annette Fix
If I went to the event, I'd be less than ten minutes away from him.
All of that was far too much for me to pass off as just a mere coincidence. It was a sign. Serendipity. It meant I had to go see him.
I wanted to see him so much that just about any excuse would have sounded valid. I couldn't stop picturing us the way we used to be.
God, I miss the feel of his skin.
The whole thing could go in virtually any direction. Either Kevin would turn me down completely and say no.
Or we'd have dinner, and then I'd leave.
Or we'd have amazing sex and no dinner.
Or we'd have dinner, incredible sex, and then I'd leave.
Or we'd have dinner, fabulous sex, and I'd spend the night.
I wasn't sure how well I would handle any of the possible scenarios; I just knew I wanted to be with him.
I called my support network to get a second, third, okay—five opinions. I'm not sure if it was to validate my decision or to help talk myself out of it. The thought of seeing Kevin again made me quake like Northridge.
Valerie said she would do it—without hesitation. No surprise there. She was just as ballsy and could have easily been my Gemini twin, cosmically separated from me at birth.
Cousin Melissa said it was a stupid idea—that sleeping with him would set me back six months emotionally.
Jaimee said I was nuts—she'd never have the nerve to do it.
Heather was adamant that I was giving him all the power and control by showing him I would always be waiting in the wings for him.
Okay, so that's a bad thing?
Bonita announced that I had finally reached the bargaining stage of breakup recovery: the point where a woman continually tries to convince herself that if she behaves a specific way, it will reconcile the relationship.
I really didn't mind Bonita practicing her armchair psychology on me. So far, she hadn't come up with anything I hadn't already figured out about myself.
I decided the best part about being so self-aware was that it gave me the liberty to totally disregard sound advice in favor of following my emotional whims.
hope is a chocolate-covered turd
Sunday, January 6
So, of course, I drove up there to see him. I didn't get a chance to see his initial reaction though. One of his assistants saw me walk into the pro shop and called Kevin on his cell phone to give him a heads up. When he finally came in from the golf course, he seemed very composed, but I knew his heart had to be racing like mine.
He looked like shit. Kevin had at least a week's growth of stubble on his cheeks. After sharing an awkward hug, I reached out to tentatively stroke his jaw with my hand. “Nice bristles,” I said.
Kevin managed a weak smile and cast his eyes to the floor.
He tried to grow a goatee once about a year ago, it was strawberry blonde, so I teasingly called him “red beard” until he gave up and shaved it off.
His skin was too pale, not at all its usual warm color. Kevin's haircut was at least three months old and was so long it curled against his collar. The top was far too pouffy.
I fought the urge to ask him if he was auditioning for an '80s flashback music video for The Stray Cats. He always hated my sarcasm though—said it was too mean spirited.
It was obvious he hadn't been taking care of himself; it gave me some hope that at least he wasn't dating. That was a good thing. It meant there was still a chance for us.
“How's work?” I said.
“It's okay. I've been busy.” He looked around the pro shop. A group of cart boys watched our exchange with interest.
“Let's talk outside.” Kevin pulled open the back door and we stepped out to the patio. “So, what brings you all the way up here?” he asked.
“My friend Meg lives up here. And she was hosting a creative craft day at a ceramics shop nearby, so I thought I would drop by here on my way home…”
It hadn't sounded this lame when I first practiced saying it.
“To bring you some of your golf magazines that came in the mail…”
But what I really want to do is go straight to bed with you.
“And to see if you might want to grab something to eat,” I tacked on.
Kevin watched me intently while I floundered with my explanation for my unannounced visit. His eyes passed from my new, tan suede boots, up the snug legs of my new, rub-faded jeans. “Nice jacket,” he said.
Also new. A plush, blonde, faux fur, thigh-length coat.
Just a few products of my out-of-control shopping frenzy earlier in the week. But not even shopping therapy made me feel as good as when I was wrapped in his arms.
But I couldn't tell him that.
“Thanks.” I squirmed in the awkward silence. “So, are you hungry? Would you like to have dinner with me?”
Kevin ran a hand through his hair, leaving tracks from his fingers through the blonde waves. “Not this time, Annette. I already have plans to go out to dinner with some of the members. Maybe if you call first next time…”
A gentle, verbal spanking.
“Okay, sure, um…next time I'll call.”
“I'll walk you to your car,” he said. “I have to get going, they'll be waiting for me at the restaurant.”
At the car, I handed Kevin his magazines. I wanted so much to hug him, to feel his arms around me, but he made no move to close the gap between us.
As I drove away, I watched Kevin in the rearview mirror. He walked toward the clubhouse. And never looked back.
a reason and a season
Tuesday, January 15
Sitting in front of my computer, I watched the cursor pulse like a heartbeat. Another journal entry. Another piece of the book.
I began to type.
I don't know. I may be getting over it. It's been almost three months. I feel apathy. At least, I think it's apathy. Maybe this is what the acceptance stage feels like. I know I can't force Kevin to love me and stay with me. I still believe we could have a wonderful life together, but I know it can't work when only one person feels that way—
This is ridiculous.
I felt like I was Twelve-Stepping through Failed Relationships Anonymous.
Hello, my name is Annette. I'm an obsession addict.
I minimized the journaling screen onto the task bar and logged online to AOL to receive my daily dose of positive reinforcement. The electronic voice announced that I had mail. Tangible proof that either someone loved me, or they were offering to increase the size of my penis.
It wasn't spam; it was an email from my best friend from seventh grade. My gal pals still rallied around to support my break-up recovery. Chelle did what she could from 80 miles away.
That was the beauty of the Internet, keeping friends connected, one urban legend at a time.
I clicked the Read Mail button.
Nettie,
I hope this helps, even just a little. Call me anytime if you need to talk.
Love you like a sis,
~ Chelle :-)
She sent me an attachment that opened to an essay about why people come into your life. For a reason, a season, or a lifetime. I'd seen it circulated in emails about a year ago. When I first read it, I knew Kevin was my lifetime.
Now after reading it again, I saw that I was only a reason to Kevin. It was my purpose to help him recover a sense of himself, get over his brutal divorce, and refocus his passion for golf. A convenient transitional woman to pick him up, dust him off, love him unconditionally, encourage his dreams, and then be tossed away like a semen-stained tube sock.
I'm not bitter. I'm realistic. Okay, and maybe occasionally prone to acts of sheer drama.
I know Kevin was my season: it was my time to learn that I was capable of feeling so much love for someone and giving so deeply. That thought helps me cope sometimes. Everything else is emotional autopilot.
Josh peeked his head into the room. “Mom, aren't you going to be late for work?”
I glanced at the cl
ock on my computer monitor. “Yeah buddy, I'm going. Thanks for reminding me of the time.”
Josh went back to whatever he had been doing and I scrambled to get ready to go. I was supposed to be at work and dressed to go on stage in two minutes, but hadn't even taken a shower yet.
I'd learned to deal with the fact that the hours slipped away whenever I thought about Kevin. But no one who really knew me ever expected me to be anywhere on time anyway. I'd already decided years ago that when I died, I'd have someone bring my body to the funeral late so everyone would know they were at the right place.
I picked up the phone and dialed the club. After nearly twenty rings, Sunshine's sing-song voice greeted me.
“Hey girl, tell Nate I'm running late, but I'm on my way.”
“Naaate!” I heard her yell over the din of the music. “Beth's calling to say she's running late again!”
“Okay, I will!” Sunshine laughed when she turned back to the phone. “He told me to tell you only to call-in when you're going to be on time.”
My Dilbert-Inspired Tip of the Day: The easiest way to maintain personal freedom is to nurture the boss’ low expectations of you. Of course, there is also something to be said for being virtually unemployable outside of the strip club scene.
speed limit? what speed limit?
Wednesday, January 23
With the convertible top and windows down, we rode the air currents like waves with our outstretched arms. The 241 Toll Road lay wide open in front of us, while Josh and I played in the wind. The faster I drove, the more wildly our arms whipped and bucked. With my left hand and Josh's right, we could almost make the car leave the ground and take flight.
WHOOP. WHOOP. A siren chirped.
I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the flash of blinking cherry lights on the dash of a black and white patrol car. Then I glanced down at the speedometer: 85 mph.
Shit.
“Uh oh, Mom, you're so busted.”
“Sit still and shut up,” I instructed as I pulled to the side of the road.
“Can I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance?” The officer's face was a stone mask.
I leaned across Josh and dug through the glove box looking for the paperwork. I turned the entire stockpile upside down: fast food napkins, CD cases, hand sanitizer, tire gauge, and citrus body spray.
“What's your name, son?” the officer asked.
Josh looked at me as if he couldn't remember his name.
Don't look at me! Look at him!
“Uh…Josh, sir.” His eyes fixed on the officer's holstered Smith & Wesson.
Sir? When have you ever called anyone sir? Excuse me, Officer, there is a pod person wearing my son's Etnies.
“Josh, do you think your mother deserves a ticket?”
Josh looked at me as if he didn't know what to say.
Don't look at me! And you better say no or you are soooo grounded.
“I think you should let her go. I'll make sure she doesn't drive fast anymore,” Josh said.
That's my boy!
I handed the officer my information. He took a cursory glance and then handed it back to me. “Slow down and drive safely.”
“You too,” I said. “I mean, thank you.”
Yes, thank you! I don't have to waste another Saturday watching that goofy Mr. Walker/Mr. Wheeler video in traffic school again.
hand in the cookie jar
Thursday, January 24
It was a long time to go without one. At least three months—maybe more like three and a half months. I wasn't even sure I could do it.
I stared at the ceiling. Maybe it would work if I closed my eyes.
C-o-n-c-e-n-t-r-a-t-e. Clear your mind. Relaaaax. Tune in to each and every sensation.
This is stupid. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling again. Why did it have to be so difficult? It's masturbation, not Tibetan astral travel.
I pressed my eyes closed and tried to focus on my own movements.
Okay…here we go…Okay…Okay…OOOOOOOOO-kaaaaaaaay…
When I opened my eyes, the room looked fuzzy and tinted blue. Pinpoints of light popped like tiny bubbles in front of my eyes. And then the phone rang.
Great timing.
I picked up the receiver and giggled. “Hello?”
You know the giggle. The sex giggle that sounds like nothing other than the result of sheer orgasmic satisfaction.
“Uh…you sound…busy. I didn't mean to… I'll, um, call you later,” Kevin said.
My heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice.
“It's not what you think.” I laughed at his obvious assumption.
I shifted under the covers. “You caught me snapping off a round,” I said.
“Are you serious?” Kevin's warm chuckle fused with my giggle of afterglow. The connection felt familiar and intimate and it made my heart ache.
“A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.” My faux levity wilted around the edges.
“Well, don't let me interrupt,” he said. “I can call back later.”
“Thanks, but I already finished.”
“Oh.”
A long pause hovered in the air like a nervous hummingbird.
“So why did you call?”
“I don't remember now,” Kevin said quietly.
An ACME bomb of awkwardness landed and all I wanted to do was crawl under a rock and hide.
“Why don't you call me when you figure it out,” I said. Then I hung up.
God, I must look so pathetic to him.
dog day sadness
Tuesday, January 29
“Mommmmmm! Buddy just peed on the carpet!”
I grabbed a towel out of the linen closet and ran downstairs. “Was the sliding door closed?” I flashed Josh a stern look.
Josh shoved the dog out the doorway into the backyard and slammed the slider. “No. It was wide open.” He glared at the dog through the glass. “He stood right there in front of me, lifted his leg, and peed on the table leg.”
I blotted up the wetness and then called the carpet cleaners to make an appointment. I decided to call Mom for advice. She'd bred, raised, and shown Russian Wolfhounds before I was born, so I figured she'd have some good suggestions to keep it from happening again.
Mom was predictably direct. “That dog is out of control. You should've never bought him for Kevin. Or the least he could've done is take that damn dog with him when he left you.”
Nothing quite like a little motherly compassion to help me get through a tough time.
“Buddy's such a sweet dog. I know he'll be wonderful once he's past his destructo-puppy stage.” I bent to pick up a chunk of drywall he chewed off the corner of the kitchen entryway. “Maybe I can wait it out.”
Just the thought of giving up Buddy felt like losing another piece of Kevin.
“Then you need to take him to obedience school or send him to a trainer. Those are really your only options at this point,” she said.
I didn't have the emotional energy to deal with any of it.
After I got off the phone with Mom, I decided to call Kevin. The knot in my stomach tightened with every ring of the phone. I carried it upstairs to the bedroom so we could talk privately. I knew Josh would be upset if he discovered I was considering getting rid of the puppy.
“Hi,” I said without introduction.
“Hi,” Kevin echoed.
I wondered if he felt as uncomfortable as I did.
“I called to see if that guy at the golf club still wants Bud-dy.” My voice cracked and I knew it was only a matter of seconds before I'd begin sobbing. “Please ask him and get back to me as soon as you can. I just can't keep him,” I said, rushing to get off the phone.
“I'll find out and let you know. Is everything else okay?” Kevin asked gently.
“It is what it is,” I said, gripping the receiver tighter. I longed to hang up and end the emotional torture of hearing his voice, knowing the words I love you would never cross his l
ips again.
Kevin pressed a little more. “Are you sure you're okay?”
“I'm not any different from the way I was back in October. I have to go now.” When I said goodbye, he was quiet. “Just say goodbye, Kevin.”
“Okay.” He sighed and there was a long pause before he finally said it. “Goodbye, Annette.”
I hung up and sank to my knees, rocking, with my arms wrapped around my body.
Will the pain ever go away?
The phone rang a few minutes later: it was Kevin, crying. “I'm so sorry for hurting you and for leaving you with the dog,” he said.
“It doesn't have anything to do with Buddy,” I whispered past the lump in my throat.
Josh must have let Buddy back inside the house because I noticed the puppy now lay curled on the floor at the foot of the bed. Looking sweet, soft, and oblivious, he pulled himself more tightly into a ball and closed his eyes.
I sniffed. My nose ran almost as quickly as my tears, but I tried to sound forgiving and rational. “Kevin, you shouldn't cry. You didn't do anything wrong. I can't force you to love me and stay with me, I know that.”
“I just want you to be happy,” he said.
“I was happy,” I said softly.
He wouldn't let me off the phone. His apologies flowed while the room swam in a blurry haze and my head throbbed.
“We have nothing more to talk about. I know it's over,” I said.
“Are you sure you don't need anything?”
Only you—I wanted to scream over and over until he finally understood. But instead, I said, “Dealing with the break up is my problem and it doesn't affect you.”
“Just because I'm not with you doesn't mean I don't care about you.”
I couldn't stay on the phone any longer. A painful choking feeling seized my chest, making it impossible to breathe. Kevin kept repeating that he was sorry. I couldn't listen any longer, so I said goodbye and hung up.
Pushing the emotion aside, my rational mind began to churn. It was my coping tool, but at that moment, I welcomed it openly.
