by Beth Merlin
“All of it feels unfinished. I was blindsided by his infidelity.”
“That’s an interesting word, blindsided.” Dr. P crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward. “Getting over a breakup is hard. Recovering when you’ve been blindsided can almost feel impossible. You’re not only dealing with the pain of losing him, you may even be questioning your own judgment.”
Bingo! Sam was cheating on me right under my nose, and I had honestly had no clue. Sure, a cheater will manipulate situations and lie to cover their tracks, but to admit that, I’d also have to acknowledge Sam was a cheater and not someone who happened to have cheated. I thought about the quizzes in the back of my favorite women’s magazines with titles like, How to Know if He’s Cheating on You. The first or second question was always, “Is he spending more time at his office?” Usually followed by, “Is he working out more than usual?”
Sam worked constantly, but I chalked that up to his lofty ambitions and unrelenting drive. A few months ago, he started seeing a personal trainer, but I thought it was for the wedding, the same way I’d started going to Benji’s Boot Camp. Nothing about his behavior tipped me off. Then again, I’d been so focused on planning our picture-perfect wedding and exercising my way to “buff bride,” I’d been letting a lot of things in my life slide. Even still, how could I have missed all the signs?
Dr. P continued, “With every relationship failure, it’s, of course, important to reflect on the part you played in the making and the breaking of that relationship, but nobody deserves to be lied to or deceived. It will help me if we can start at the beginning. How did you and . . .”
“Sam.”
He scribbled Sam’s name onto his pad. “How did you and Sam meet?”
I recounted the story, starting with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade way through our engagement in Napa Valley, while Dr. P took copious notes. When I was finished, he snapped closed his pad and said, “Before our next session, I have some homework for you. I want you to write Sam two letters. I want the first letter to be unedited, unfiltered, and full of as many expletives as you need. After you get all of that out on paper, destroy it. In the second letter to Sam, I want you to explore the good and bad parts of the relationship. Write down your favorite memories. Write what was unfair or what he misunderstood about who you are. Acknowledge the differences of who you both are, and then, here’s the hard part, try to take responsibility for your part in the problems, because in my experience, it always takes two to kill off a relationship. Include your hurt, sadness, and sense of betrayal. Try to cover anything that will help you to say goodbye and glimpse the beginning of moving on. In the immortal words of William Wordsworth, fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. When we get back together in a few days, we’ll focus on that letter. It’ll be our real jumping off point. How does that sound?”
I nodded. “I think I can do that.”
“Good. In the meantime, try to keep busy and have fun. A lot of people tend to give up hobbies and interests when they enter a relationship, and then when it ends, they’re left a bit lost. There’s a lot to explore at Retreat House, yoga, surfing, sailing, and cooking classes.”
I looked up. “Cooking classes?”
“Not just cooking classes, cooking classes with Todd Aldrich.” Dr. P passed me my crutches and helped me off the couch. “Make sure to check it out, it’s a real treat.”
“I will.”
“Oh, before I forget, this is for you,” Dr. P said, handing me a glass bottle.
I took it and raised my eyebrows.
“I hope, at the end of your two weeks here, you’ll be ready to take that letter, toss it out to sea, and start moving toward your new life.”
I hugged the bottle to my chest. “I hope so too.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was another beautiful but hot summer day on Topsail. The ocean breeze skimmed the tiled rooftop of the hotel, settling over the pool area and making it feel at least ten degrees cooler than the rest of the resort, which was experiencing day five of an unrelenting heat wave. I let my legs dangle into the water, flexing my injured leg up and back as the doctor had instructed. Most of the swelling was down, and my ankle was already feeling much better. I pulled a notepad out of my tote and turned to a clean page. Emmy sat down beside me and peered over my shoulder.
“Is Dr. P having you do that letter exercise too? So far, all I’ve managed to get down on paper is, Dear Asshole.” A smile crept across her face. “That would make a great title for a new song on my next album, wouldn’t it?”
I laughed. “I already finished the burn letter. That one was easy. Now I’m working on the introspective one, not so easy.”
She nodded her head in agreement. “You weren’t at surf school this morning?”
I lifted my foot out of the water. “The ankle.”
She slapped her forehead. “Oh, that’s right. Hopefully you’ll get a chance to try it out before the end of the retreat. The water was just incredible. I didn’t think the East Coast had waves like that. Matt would be in heaven.”
I looked up from the pool, both of us surprised by her comment.
She chewed her bottom lip. “Christ, I haven’t brought up his name in a while.”
“I understand. Sam would love it here too. It’s been hard not to think about him.”
“You two have really been together since high school?”
“I know, it seems crazy to everyone here.”
“I was going to say how lucky you are to have had that kind of love in your life for so long. Before Matt, my love life was a revolving door of men. Not as many as the press reported on, but enough to know that I am not the greatest judge of character.”
“Sam cheated on me for almost six months before I found out by complete accident, so don’t beat yourself up for being a bad judge of character.”
Emmy’s eyes widened as she covered her hands with her mouth. “I would’ve killed Matt if he ever cheated on me.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why did you two break up?”
“I’m sure you read in the tabloids, Matt’s significantly older than me and just got out of a long marriage. He has kids, and it’s complicated with his ex-wife. But, after all these years of dating the wrong men, I’d finally found the right one, and I wanted to know he felt the same way about me, so I gave him an ultimatum. I told him if he didn’t propose by the end of the year, we were over. He begged for more time, told me I was the love of his life but that he just wasn’t ready to jump back into a marriage after how his first one turned out. The end of the year came and went, no ring. So, I ended things. I don’t want to be a side piece. I want to be his wife. I want to be the stepmother to his kids and for us to have kids together. I want to do real life with him. Holiday barbecues, posed Christmas cards, weekend furniture shopping—real life.” She sat down beside me and dipped her feet into the pool. “Too bad I ruined any hope of that happening.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
“I did. After we broke up, I fell right back into old patterns.”
I knew exactly what she meant. In the weeks directly following my breakup with Sam, all my old habits came simmering back to the surface. It took at least a bottle of wine a night for me to get to sleep, sometimes more. I was dragging into work, barely making it through the day. It got so bad, Stephen finally pulled me into his office, confronting me about my performance and reminding me of how forgiving he’d been about it in the past. He told me no matter how much he valued my contributions, for my own good, he couldn’t overlook my behavior much longer. The truth is, Stephen didn’t just support my decision to get away, he practically demanded it.
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“Hollywood’s a small town, and I’ll bet he’s heard all about my exploits by now. It’s partially why I came here. I figured 3,000 miles was the right amount of distance to put between me and the rumor mill.”
Emmy checked her watch and pulled her feet out of
the pool. “I should go. I’m going to be late for tantric yoga. What are you up to the rest of the afternoon?”
“My ankle feels a lot better, but just to be safe, I don’t think I should Downward Dog for another day or two. I might go into town. I heard there are some cute shops.”
“A little retail therapy never hurt anyone. You know what they say, life may not be perfect, but your outfit can be.”
Topsail Beach was the quintessential seaside town, replete with gazebos, bands playing concerts on the village green, a selection of seafood and crab restaurants, and quaint shops selling things like hand-painted wind chimes and birdhouses. I wandered in and out of the stores, buying small trinkets and knickknacks to bring home. In one shop called Resting Beach Face, I found a sweet, hand-knit blue teddy bear for Alec and a Mallorca seashell bracelet I knew Naomi would love.
I turned down the main street and spotted a store at the end of the thoroughfare with a huge skull and crossbones splashed across the front awning. I followed the curve of the sidewalk to the front door of the shop and pushed my way inside.
“Welcome to Captain Ed’s Pirate Shop,” a woman who looked like she walked straight off the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World said from behind an old-fashioned gold-plated cash register. “The eye patches, hooks, and plastic swords are all fifty percent off.”
“Thanks, I’m just looking around.”
“I’ll be right here if you need any help,” she said cheerfully.
I carefully made my way through a display of treasure chests and to the back of the store, which had a small section of books and post cards. I climbed up the small wooden ladder and read down the list of titles, stopping at the last one, The Life and Times of Blackbeard, the Pirate King. I pried the biography out from between two other books and ran my hand over the smooth leather cover with gold-embossed letters. Turning the book over, I read the synopsis.
Edward Teach, better known as Blackbeard, was one of the most notorious pirates ever to plague the Atlantic coast. He was also one of the most colorful pirates of all time, becoming the model for countless blood-and-thunder tales of sea rovers. His daring exploits, personal courage, terrifying appearance, and fourteen wives made him a legend in his own lifetime.
I tucked the large book under my arm and continued browsing the shop. In the far back corner was a large stack of reproduced treasure maps, treated to look older than they were. I took one off the pile and carried my two items back to the front register, where the salesgirl rang up my purchases.
“Do you need gift wrap?” she asked.
“Just the book, thank you.”
She tore a large sheet of brown paper off a large spool. “You can choose a card from that pile,” she said, pointing to a small stack.
I sifted through the cards, laughing at just how many pirate puns someone had managed to come up with. My favorite in the bunch was, Arrrrgh Means ‘I Love You’ in Pirate. I looked up from the stack. “Do you have any Thank You notes?”
She reached behind her and passed me a blank white card.
I tapped my fingers on the counter and scribbled out, “Todd, thank you for saving my life,” with my other hand. Jeez, that sounded just a tad melodramatic. I ripped up the card, asked for a new one, and scribbled out, “Todd, you were my hero yesterday, thank you.” Now that was way too fangirl and pathetic. I tore the card in two.
“Sorry, can I have one more?” I asked sweetly.
The once-chipper salesgirl sighed deeply and slid the entire stack of cards over to me. This time, I scribbled out a simple,
Todd,
Thank You.
-Joanna Kitt.
I passed the card to the salesgirl, so she could attach it directly onto the package.
“What about the map? Do you need that wrapped too?” she asked.
“No, thanks, the map is for me.”
“Treasure hunter?”
I smiled. “Maybe? We’ll see.”
Chapter Nineteen
I spent another couple of hours meandering around the town of Topsail Beach, wandering in and out of the charming stores and café. At the far side of the town I came across an old whitewashed church that had been converted into the Topsail Little Theater. Located in a beautiful wooded setting directly behind the church was the Canterbury Amphitheater, the Topsail Little Theater’s summer venue for outdoor Shakespeare productions. Hanging on the large oak front doors were posters advertising their summer season and notices regarding upcoming auditions. The next show they were casting was William Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.
I thought back to my last year at NYU. One of my professors had been directing a reimagined staging of Twelfth Night at the Williamstown Theater Festival. Every summer, well-established actors and actresses in the league of Gwyneth Paltrow and Bradley Cooper descended on the small campus of Williams College in Williamstown, Massachusetts to sharpen their acting skills by performing in classic and brand-new theater productions. It was considered the place to be for any actor truly interested in working on and getting recognized for the essentials of their craft.
One day after my contemporary scene study class, my professor asked if I could stay behind so he could talk to me. He asked if I’d consider auditioning for the role of Viola in his Williamstown Twelfth Night production. If cast, I’d spend most of the summer in the Berkshires rehearsing for the August three-week run.
When I got home, I told Sam about the audition, and he couldn’t have been more supportive. He ran lines with me, watched every movie version of the play we could find, even suffering through the 2006 contemporary take on Twelfth Night, the Amanda Bynes version, She’s the Man. I gave up drinking and partying completely, putting every ounce of energy and effort into getting the role.
After a grueling audition process, I was cast as the understudy for the part of Viola. While I knew it was unlikely I’d ever actually go on in the role, just the experience of getting to cover a well-established actress and learn from a cast of celebrated actors and directors was more than I could’ve ever dreamed of as a recent graduate of theater school.
Sam didn’t feel quite the same way. He didn’t outright tell me not to do the show, but because of his hyper-competitive nature, he had a hard time hiding his disappointment in me coming in second place. As a “consolation,” he surprised me with a three-week trip to the Greek Isles in August, making it virtually impossible for me to accept the part in Twelfth Night.
I turned down the role in exchange for a romantic getaway to Santorini and Mykonos with the love of my life and, back then, didn’t have a single regret. It was only recently that I began to wonder how different my life and career would be if I’d gone to Williamstown that summer.
I pushed the heavy oak doors open and stepped into the intimate theater that looked as though it could seat about 150 people. My ankle was starting to throb from all the walking, so I took a seat in the front row to rest it. I settled into the chair and looked around. Considering the theater’s small size, the light wood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and white-washed walls gave the space an airy, open feel. Having spent the last several years in massive Broadway theaters, there was something nice about the cozy feel of this one.
“Can I help you?” a man asked, coming through the stage’s red curtain.
I sat upright. “I’m sorry, I was wandering through town and saw the theater. The door was open, so I thought it was okay if I came inside and looked around.”
He jogged down the steps of the stage with his hand outstretched. “Totally okay. I’m Gerald Mason, the Resident Artistic Director of the Topsail Little Theater.”
I shook it. “Joanna Kitt. I’m staying at the Retreat House.”
Gerald took the seat next to me. “Nice hotel. My favorite on the island. A lot of our summer audience are guests there.”
“I saw you’re holding auditions for Twelfth Night?”
“We put on two Shakespeare plays in our outdoor theater every summer. This is the last week o
f Romeo and Juliet, and then we’ll go into rehearsals for Twelfth Night, our end of summer production. We’re calling it our Summer of Love series.”
I scrunched my nose. “Summer of Love series?”
“I know, but I’m not the one in charge of marketing. Here,” he said, handing me a flyer from his leather portfolio. “This has all the information for Romeo and Juliet. You should come check it out before we close.” Gerald rose from his chair. “Feel free to hang here as long as you want. We don’t have a show tonight.”
I stayed another few minutes before going outside to try to figure out how to get back to the hotel. I took out my phone and had just found a map of the island, when I heard my name being called from down the street. Todd guided his motorcycle up to the curb and pulled off his helmet, his sandy hair pulled back into a trendy man bun.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” he asked, a large smile on his face.
“Exploring Topsail Beach, what about you?”
“I make a trip to the farmers market every afternoon.”
“You come to the farmers market every day? Don’t you have sous chefs who can do that for you?”
“For me, it’s simple, great ingredients make great food. The biggest misconception about cooking is that a recipe has to be complex to be any good. If you choose the right ingredients you can prepare the most straightforward dish and it’ll come out incredible. That’s why I come to the market. I don’t trust anyone else to get it right.” Todd pointed to the paper in my hand. “What’s that?”
I was still holding the Topsail Little Theater flyer. I passed it to him.
“Are you going to this?” he asked.
“I don’t know, maybe. Why?”
He tilted his head to the side. “Not really the ideal story for someone going through a breakup, is it?” He handed the flyer back to me.
