Is He Cheating
Page 10
So, by sole virtue of my ability to turn a phrase and peg a loser at 500 feet, I’ve now become a dating guru.
To be honest, I’ve spent my whole life trying to make sense of men. Both my parents died in an accident when I was just a baby, and I was raised by my Grandma Vernie and her four sisters in an estrogen bubble. They were a wild, strong, loving, tight knot of Southern women; all of them had been married at one time to men they adored. Unfortunately, they were all widowed long before I hit kindergarten -–husbands had a habit of croaking at a very early age in our family. Great Uncle Joe was a legend, he’d lived to the ripe old age of 43. Until junior high, my only personal experience with how the male sex was supposed to operate came from secondhand stories the Aunties told me under the influence of bundt cake during our seven-hour Yahtzee marathons, late night reruns of Gene Kelly movies, and old clippings they’d saved from 1950s issues of Good Housekeeping on how to keep your husband happy. The first of my beloved Aunties, Ila Mae, passed away when I entered high school. My grandmother died the next year. By the time I was 19, they were all gone. And I found myself orphaned for the second time.
I thought that once I wrote the book, Oprah would call, and I’d be instantly catapulted to fame and riches. (Which, I’ve since learned, is a common fantasy among clueless first-time authors.) Instead, it brought me to Will, who told me, “Unless you’re a celebrity or a celebrity’s personal trainer, nobody cares whether you wrote a book or not.” When he booked me on Soap Talk, he told me, “I had to beg, borrow and steal to get you this one.”
I was grateful and horribly disappointed at the same time. Like finding out you’ve won a 5.7 million dollar lottery, and then learning you’ll be getting a nickel a week for 324 years.
Eventually, after a few years of dismal sales, the book took off and became a bestseller, surprising everyone including me. I was catapulted to the dating expert hall of fame. Producers and agents started calling, and suddenly I had a weekly guest spot on a big national TV show, my own radio call-in program, and even my own perfume. Two years after my book hit the shelves, I was recognizable to every woman in America under the age of sixty. Darby Vaughn: The Dr. Phil of Dating.
I dial Will’s phone again, and this time he picks up on the first ring.
“Hey!” I say quickly, attempting to sound like my perky, usual self, rather than the dumpster-diving maniac I’ve become in the last 17 minutes or so.
“Hi sweetheart,” he answers offhandedly, “I can only talk for a second, my flight was delayed and I’m already late for the meeting.”
“What do you mean? You’re still here?” God, I’m an idiot. Talk about freaking out over nothing. A sensation of reprieve rushes over me, and I feel the sickly-sweet relief of someone who’s just stepped off the human centrifuge ride at the carnival.
“Did you miss your Starbucks this morning or something?” he teases, “I’m in Atlanta, remember?”
My heart drops. “Wait, you mean right now?”
“Jesus, Darby. I’ve only been making this same exact trip for two years. What’s up with you today?”
“N-nothing,” I choke out, and my brain starts spinning again. My mind goes from zero to divorce court in 3.6 seconds.
“Um, when will you be back in town?” I ask cautiously.
“Tomorrow morning, same as always,” he snaps, and then softens. “Sorry, Darby, I don’t mean to be so cranky. I had a bad flight and it’s just sort of put a damper on my morning.”
“It’s okay…” I say numbly, unable to think of anything else at the moment.
“Hey babe, I’ve gotta run. Love you, love the kids.” His phone snaps off before I have a chance to respond. Instead, I throw up.
I scramble to aim for my open car window. Bad aim or bad luck, I miss the mark and vomit oozes down the inside of my door, and down the window crack.
I am not going to have a breakdown in my three-car garage.
Fifteen Minutes of Shame is available from Amazon.