Actually, it’s more like five percent.
Maybe I should investigate, do some checking. Just to be sure.
I start by calling Dad’s office. His assistant, Lorne, picks up.
“Hey, Lorne, this is Dani. Is my dad around?”
“Hang on, let me check.”
He puts me on hold. I listen to elevator music and contemplate what I’ll say when Dad picks up. Maybe I should just come clean about why I’m calling. Of course, I’ll have to confess that I don’t really work on websites for a living. Knowing Dad, he won’t be too upset, just bewildered. And when I inform him about psycho-stalker Gretchen, he’ll be worried, or quite possibly confused. But he’ll get to the bottom of the situation and he’ll fix it, the way he always fixed things when I was young. Whenever I had a problem—whether it was a loose tooth or a rickety bike wheel or a sadistic algebra teacher—Dad always knew how to solve it. All I had to do was talk to him, tell him what was bothering me. Then he’d work his magic and everything would be normal and happy and safe.
“Nope, he’s not back yet,” Lorne says.
“Back from where?” I ask, twirling the phone cord around my fingers.
“He had a breakfast meeting today.”
“Breakfast meeting!” I burst out. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon!”
“I guess it ran long.”
“What time did he leave?”
“Hmm . . . let me check.” I’m back on hold again. “The meeting started at 10 a.m.”
“Do breakfast meetings typically last three hours, Lorne?”
“Not typically. It might have turned into lunch.”
Or sex at a seedy motel in South Boston.
The part of me that doubts Dad has jumped from five percent to fifty in one fell swoop. “Do you have a number where I can reach him?”
“Just his cell. He didn’t leave the name of the restaurant.”
“Thanks, Lorne.”
“You want me to have him call you?”
“No, don’t worry about it.” I hang up and quickly dial Dad’s cell phone. It goes straight through to voicemail. “Hi, you’ve reached Paul Myers with Merriwether Payne Investments. I’m not able to take your call at the moment, but please leave a message . . .”
I hang up before the beep.
My doubt is now up to seventy-five percent.
I go to see my mother after work on Wednesday. As I walk through the front door, the house feels strange, alien. I shouldn’t be here. I’m not ready to face her yet, knowing what I know. The guilt is overpowering. My mother doesn’t deserve to be cheated on, to be lied to. I find her camped out on the sofa, TiVo remote in hand. Ever since she lost her job, my mother has become the queen of Lifetime, Television for Women—if Lifetime shows it, my mom watches it. TV addiction is the one thing she and Sean have in common.
“Hey, Mom, what’s going on?” I ask.
“Dani!” She’s surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I had the evening free. I thought I’d come see you.”
She scoots over on the couch, making room for me. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” I sit down next to her.
“Something to eat?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the television set. “I think we’ve got some leftover zucchini cake.”
Zucchini cake? “Leftover from what?” I ask.
“My yoga class had a potluck the other night.”
“You’re in a yoga class?” How is it that I know so little about my parents?
“I am,” Mom says. She hits pause on the TiVo remote and turns toward me. “It’s so great to see you, Dani. I’m so glad you stopped by.”
“Thanks.”
“When you were younger, we used to hang out together all the time. Go to movies, go shopping. Now you’re all grown up and I barely see you, except at family dinners.” She grins. “We need to change that, starting now.” When I don’t respond, her eyes search my face. “What’s wrong?”
I take a deep breath. I have to tell her.
“Life moves so fast,” Mom says, looking pensive. “It seems like only yesterday your father and I were getting married.”
Oh my God! Why is she talking about this?
“And then before I knew it, I was pregnant with you, and then Sean . . . and then both of you grew up so quickly. Sometimes it feels like my life got out from under me. Before I knew it, I was old and gray and all of these opportunities had passed me by.”
“You’re not old and gray,” I jump in.
She grins. “You’re sweet, Dani, but I have to face facts. I’m past my prime. I’ve got to make the most of what I have left.”
She sounds so fatalistic, so depressed that I want to cry.
“Ever since I quit my job,” Mom continues, and I grimace. I hate the way she’s in denial about this. “I’ve really reexamined my life. That’s why I said what I did the other night.”
“The other night?”
She leans over and tousles my hair. “About you getting out and experiencing life. I want you to be happy, Dani, to live it up while you’re young. God knows I didn’t.”
I’m not sure what to say. All of my professional heartbreaking skills are leaving me. I sit there, dumbfounded. “You shouldn’t be so sad, Mom,” I finally manage.
“I’m not sad. I’m just nostalgic. I used to have girlfriends. I used to go out and have fun. I haven’t done that in thirty years. I got married and I let them all get away from me.”
The same way I let all my friends go when I hooked up with Garrett. My mind is swirling. I’ve lost control of the situation. I can’t do this now. I bail. “We’re going to hang out!” I say enthusiastically. “We’ll have a girls’ night out, just the two of us.”
Mom looks so pleased, I’m afraid I might crumble.
I’m going to have to regroup.
There’s only one way left to play this: I’ll go to my brother.
8
I Don’t Deserve You. I Actually Deserve Someone Much Better Than You
“Are you Danielle? I’m Erin Foster-Ellis.”
My 2:30 appointment breezes into my office, all long legs; thick, chestnut hair; and huge boobs. She’s decked out in a sharp Prada pencil skirt, and carries a Christian Dior saddlebag purse. I’m wearing a gray DKNY dress—one of the nicest, most expensive outfits I own—and I feel totally outclassed.
“The one and only.”
She doesn’t look amused.
“I’m here about my boyfriend—”
“What’s his name?” I ask immediately, to avoid another Gretchen nightmare.
Erin sits down in the chair opposite my desk and crosses one slim leg over the other. “Brady Simms.”
Okay, that’s good. I’ve never heard of the guy. I nod.
“I’d like to get Brady out of my life, and I’d like to do it as quickly as possible.”
“Have you ever used a breakup service before?” I don’t usually ask this question, but Erin strikes me as the type who might have some experience in this area.
“God, no.” She makes a face. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not even sure if I want to hire you. It seems a little tacky.”
I go into salesgirl mode. “What about Your Big Break Inc. makes you uncomfortable?”
“Oh, I’m not uncomfortable. I just find the concept obnoxious.”
“I can walk you through how we work, if that helps.”
“Not necessary.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I read the article in the Globe last month.” Erin pauses. “Let me be blunt: What can I get for twenty-five bucks?”
So much for Craig’s instructions—Erin Foster-Ellis isn’t going to be a big spender. “That’s our entry-level package. It means I’ll craft a Dear John letter and, after you approve it, I’ll deliver it via e-mail or snail mail. Your choice.”
“No, no, no.” Erin shakes her head. “I have some expensive things at his apartment. I’ll need you to go get those back. Can you do that for fifty?”
“We don’t do in-person for less than a hundred. It also depends on what kind of stuff you’ve left at his place. If it requires a moving truck, for example, it’s going to be more expensive.”
“Small things. Earrings. A watch. Some clothes and shoes.” Erin fishes into her Christian Dior purse. “I made a list.”
She hands it to me and I quickly look it over. “These shouldn’t be a problem.” Surprisingly, Erin opts for a few additional services, including a Breakup Recovery Kit. I do some quick calculations and give her a price quote of $110.
“I suppose that’s fair.” She smiles, showing off a mouthful of perfectly veneered teeth. “Can you terminate the relationship when you get my things back? I’d rather this go down in person.”
“Sure. I’ll need to arrange a time to meet with Brady in a public place. We usually do these things over coffee.”
She claps her hands together. “Perfect! You can see Brady tonight. He’s got a poetry workshop at Barnes and Noble every Thursday at eight. There’s a café right in the bookstore, if I’m not mistaken.”
“He’s a writer?” I ask.
“Hardly. His stuff’s not worth the trees it’s printed on. Here’s a picture of him,” Erin says, passing me a wallet-sized photo. She laughs. “He always stands up and reads a poem.” She shakes her head, as if the mental image of Brady Simms reading a poem is beyond ridiculous. Then she stands to leave.
“Hang on a sec,” I stop her. “We still need to go over a few details.”
“I don’t know what else we could possibly discuss,” she says as she sits back down.
I pull out my legal pad. “I need to ask you a few questions.” I begin quickly running through our standard fare: relationship history, mental stability, and so on. Everything is clean and normal until I ask, “Can you tell me why you’re leaving him?”
“Do I have to answer that?”
“No. But it would be helpful.”
“Because I’m not sure if I want to.”
I put down my notepad. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. Trust me, whatever you have to say, I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”
“I bet you haven’t,” she counters, narrowing her eyes at me. I get the sense she’s challenging me.
I think it over, trying to come up with the most humiliating situation I’ve dealt with in the recent past. “Did he fall in love with a man?” I ask.
“God, no!”
“Are you leaving him for his brother?”
“No.” She folds her arms across her chest and gives me a smug smile. “I want to dump him because last week he quit his job to become . . .” She pauses dramatically.
“A garbage collector?” I can’t resist. “A male stripper?”
Erin rolls her eyes. “When we started dating two years ago, Brady was a successful corporate attorney. Now he’s a high-school English teacher! Apparently, being an English teacher is his life’s dream.”
“So he quit being an attorney to follow his dream?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And this bothers you because . . . ?”
“I do not date high-school teachers,” she says matter-of-factly. “I date physicians, lawyers, investment bankers.”
“I see.”
She leans forward and lowers her voice. “I’m not going to waste a pair of tits like these”—she points to her chest for emphasis—“on some goddamned civil servant who makes less than forty grand a year!”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. How do you follow up a statement like that? “It’s certainly your prerogative,” I finally say.
“Yes, it is. Now, are you going to Brady’s poetry workshop tonight?” Erin asks.
I check my schedule and confirm that I’m free—kind of sad, considering it’s such short notice. Maybe my mom is right. Maybe I don’t get out enough. “I’ll pop in, see if I can catch him,” I promise her.
“Lightning efficiency.” She smiles. “I like that!”
I turn his photo over in my hands. “He’s a good-looking guy,” I tell her. With his dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes, Brady is definitely attractive. I’m surprised she’s letting him go. “How old is he?” I ask.
“Thirty-one. I spent two years training the idiot, and look what he does.”
“Training?”
“Men are like blank slates,” Erin continues. “Or dogs. However you prefer it.”
“Let’s go with blank slates.”
“I taught Brady everything he knows about pleasing a woman. I practically drew him a map of the female body, taught him what I like and how I like it.”
This is more information than I need. “Do you want me to give him a kiss-off letter tonight, too?” I ask, changing the subject. “It’s short notice, but we should be able to bang something out.”
“Does that cost extra?”
“No, it’s included in the price.”
“Fantastic!” Erin rises from her chair. “Let me know how it goes.”
“You don’t want to collaborate with me on what goes in the letter?”
“No. You can tell Brady whatever you like. I honestly don’t care.”
With that, she leaves. Then my phone rings—it’s Beverly, our receptionist. My 3 p.m. appointment is waiting.
Dear Brady,
I’m rich, you’re poor. Here’s the door. Any questions?
I have to stop goofing around and be serious. But how can I come up with a heartfelt breakup note when Erin’s given me nothing to work with? I mull the situation over and try to reach a decision. I know it’s against everything Your Big Break Inc. stands for, but I’m going with fluff. I take out a clean piece of paper and write.
Dear Brady,
This is a difficult letter to write. I want you to know that I’ll always love you.
But people change, and because they don’t change together, they drift. . . .
I’ve just finished sealing the letter in an envelope when the phone rings. I check the caller ID. It’s my brother’s cell phone. Sean never calls me at work. I can’t imagine what he wants.
I pick up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hey, Dani, are you busy?” he asks.
“Not really. What’s up?” I tuck the Dear Brady letter into my purse.
“I just got off the phone with Dad.”
“You did?” My heartbeat quickens.
“Yeah, he called me from work and—”
“Are you sure he was calling from work?” I interrupt.
“I guess so, why?”
“What number showed up on the caller ID?”
“I don’t know. I think it was his cell phone.”
Aha! His cell phone. Jesus. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Dad—excuse me, Father—probably ducks out of the office every day for a mid-afternoon romp with his mistress.
“He wanted me to let you know dinner’s canceled next Thursday.”
“Canceled? Oh my God!” I exclaim, my voice catching in my throat. “Did he say why it’s canceled?”
“Yeah. He has to work really late every night for the next couple of weeks. Apparently, he’s super-swamped at work.”
Well, that’s that. He’s definitely having an affair. I’m one hundred percent sure of it now. “This is a nightmare,” I whisper, blinking back tears.
Sean laughs. “Hey, chill out. We’re free and clear, no family obligations. Why are you being so melodramatic?”
“Sean, there’s something I want to talk to you about,” I begin, then stop. Should I tell him? Can he handle it? I decide the answer to both questions is yes. “It’s personal.”
“Fire away.”
“Not over the phone. Can you meet me for a late lunch?”
He’s quiet for a minute. “Not today. My shift starts at Blockbuster in twenty minutes.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I guess.” He sounds annoyed. “What’s this about, Dani?”
I let out a sigh. “It’s a long, complicated story.”
“Great,” he says s
arcastically. “My favorite kind.”
We make plans to meet at Chili’s at Copley Place at one o’clock.
Sean and I don’t always see eye to eye on things, but he’s my brother and I love him. And I know he’ll want to do whatever he can to keep our family together. Telling him about Gretchen is going to be tough, but we’ll talk it over, we’ll cry, and then we’ll figure out what to do. Together.
Now I just have to make it through tonight.
The Barnes & Noble poetry workshop is packed—who knew there were so many wayward poets in Boston? I pull out the wallet-sized photo that Erin gave me and scan the crowd for Brady Simms. I feel like a hitman, zeroing in on my target. Or should I say hitwoman? Either way, Brady’s a marked man. Breaking up with strangers is a cumbersome task. We’ve never met, yet I know this giant secret about Brady’s life—and all the ways it’s about to crumble. And he has no idea. I search the sea of faces but don’t spot anyone who resembles Brady. Oh, well. I hope I’ll be able to locate him once the workshop starts. I slip into a seat near the back as the crowd continues to swell.
At eight o’clock on the dot, a short, stocky woman walks up to the front of the room and introduces herself. “I’m Sal, and I’ll be your moderator for tonight.” She scans the room and smiles. “Welcome back, returning poets and poetesses! And a big hello to all our fresh-faced pen-pushers.”
Fresh-faced pen-pushers?
“As usual, we’ll begin with a few short readings, then we’ll open up the floor for comments,” Sal says. “I’d like to encourage those of you who haven’t joined us before to read your work first. Any volunteers?”
No one responds, and I’m scared that she’s going to start drafting people. I’m not about to get up there and wing it. I glance around the room, but there’s still no sign of Brady Simms. He had better show.
“No newcomers? All right, then, let’s start with the old standbys. . . .”
I sit through a rambling piece on unicorns and a haiku about the Irish potato famine. Then a burly, bearded man ambles up to the front of the room. “I’m Walter,” he says, as though it’s spelled Walt-ah. “I’m gonna read ya a poem called Colors You Can’t See. It’s about my mother, who is colorblind.”
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