The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks

by Monroe, Max

  “How are you feeling, by the way? Pregnancy treating you okay?”

  She sighed, a deep, cavernous breath. “I’m puking my brains out in the morning, but other than that, it’s all going just swimmingly.”

  I grimaced. “That bad?”

  “Yes, that bad, but how can I be upset when I’ve got this teeny tiny baby growing inside of me? It’s rough, no fucking doubt, but I’ll get through it.”

  “Wait…what time is it there?” I asked when I saw it was nearing six in the evening. “Aren’t we, like, twelve hours apart?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “It’s early. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.”

  “Good Lord, why are you awake?”

  “I had to puke,” she said. “And then once I puked, I got hungry. So now I’m lying on the couch eating Pop-Tarts and watching infomercials while I revise your article.”

  “Sounds miserable.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m living my best life at the moment,” she said on a giggle. “So, how’s the whole jerk rehab thing going?”

  I cringed at her question.

  Besides the whole part of me wanting to climb her brother like a tree?

  Oh, yeah, it was going fantastic…

  “I’m working toward closure.”

  “Closure?”

  “Yeah…and I actually pitched a new series of articles to Vanessa that will hopefully help me find it.”

  “Don’t leave me hanging here,” she said. “More details, please…”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t. I need to explore it a little further before I can even explain it.”

  She groaned. “Boo, you tease.”

  I laughed at that.

  “All right, well, I’m going to finish these revisions, and then I’ll send it back to you,” she said. “Fingers crossed I’m done puking for the day.”

  “I’ll pray for you.”

  “Thanks,” she said on a soft laugh. “Love you, Lucky.”

  “Love you too.”

  By the time we ended the call, my brain was already miles deep into the first Dear Ex-Boyfriend letter I would write.

  Instantly, I knew. I’d start with the first real relationship I’d ever had.

  Six years back to Josh McClain. The dark and handsome, full-on New Yorker who lived for Wall Street, spending money, and had a bit of a flirtatious streak when it came to the opposite sex.

  Seven years older than me, Josh had been sex and sin, and the way he went after what he wanted had been a huge turn-on. Not to mention, he’d laid on the charm real thick that first night we’d met at a little bar in Manhattan, and I’d been more than entranced by his interest in me.

  Hell, up until that point, no man had ever shown that much interest, and needless to say, for a twenty-one-year-old girl just finishing up college, it had been beyond flattering.

  I’d fallen hard and fast for him.

  We’d dated for six months, and his wandering eye had been the downfall of our relationship. And when I’d finally figured out I was more of a side chick than an actual girlfriend, I’d been devastated.

  Fingers to the keys, that day, I was more than ready to put one of the ghosts of relationship-past behind me.

  And just so we’re all on the same page, I’m going to read that first Dear Ex-Boyfriend article and Josh’s letter to you now.

  For those of you who have already read it, I apologize in advance.

  [audible pause]

  Dear Ex-Boyfriends

  “I’m finally ready for closure.”

  Before I decided to put my fingers to the keys—before I mustered the courage to sit down and write what you guys are going to find out is my very first Dear Ex-Boyfriend letter—I did what any desperate, panicked woman does and scoured the internet for answers.

  Normally, I’m looking for solutions for early gray hairs or a mole I can’t quite distinguish, or even why my foot went numb that one time on the toilet.

  On this occasion, I was looking for a lifeline. Some sort of guidance to help me write a letter to one of the jerks of my past without threatening national security and getting myself on some sort of FBI watch list. And, as the random power of the internet and the extensive nature of female heartbreak would have it, I found one in an article by one of my fellow columnists.

  Her name is Neely Steinburg, and she’s a dating and relationship guru who occasionally writes for Huffington Post.

  She’s smart and savvy and pretty much everything I aspire to be as a woman, and other than her article, I know absolutely nothing about her.

  But this chick…she’s good at love.

  More than that, she’s good at helping other people be good at love too.

  A few years back, she wrote her own form of a Dear Ex-Boyfriend letter. There are a bevy of them all over the world wide web, but hers, unlike the scathing messages of hate filling the others, revolved around thanking her ex-boyfriends.

  Yes, you read that right, a freaking thank-you to her ex-boyfriends.

  Crazy? Of course.

  But, eye-opening? Most definitely.

  How I wondered, could she find the character it took to let these guys off the hook? Is it something they sell at ShopRite?

  It took some real soul-searching to get there, but I finally understand. With my giant warehouse-sized baggage, I won’t find closure if I don’t focus on the positive. So, with Neely Steinburg’s very wise words in mind, I’m going to try to take the high road here.

  Try being the operative word.

  Just bear with me here, readers. Things might get ugly…

  As most of you know, I’ve had roughly eleventy-million dating and relationship experiences.

  Heartbreak.

  Disappointment.

  Relationships with the biggest jerks you’ll ever meet.

  And first dates with men whose disappearing skills could’ve been showcased in a Las Vegas magician’s act.

  I’ve been there, done that, and still, I’m no closer to a stable, long-term committed relationship than I was when I started.

  But just because I haven’t found that one special person to spend my life with doesn’t mean I haven’t learned valuable lessons along the way.

  My last horrible breakup finally opened my eyes to the fact that I have a tendency to choose the wrong men.

  After years of mistakes and heartbreak, I can finally see it, and today, I’m here to say it.

  I, Lucky Wright, am a jerk addict.

  And because of that, I’ve put myself in jerk rehab.

  Obviously, it’s more of a metaphorical rehab than anything else. There are no twelve step meetings or secluded retreats or sponsors.

  But there is determination.

  And pride.

  Because I deserve better. My heart deserves better. And this, right here, is my first step toward finding closure so I can move forward feeling like I’m truly ready to put myself back out there.

  So, right now, I am going to throw caution to the proverbial wind and share with you my very first Dear Ex-Boyfriend letter.

  Over the next few months, I vow to continue to share these letters with you. Not only for myself, but for you too.

  Surely, I’m not the only person struggling in this facet of their life.

  I hope all of us can learn from my experiences and mistakes.

  And who knows? Maybe after reading this, a few of you out there might feel compelled to write your own Dear Ex letters.

  Okay, deep breath, here goes nothing…

  Dear J,

  I want to open this with a thank-you. For the six months we were together, you brought happiness into my life.

  You doted on me. You charmed me. And you showed me more attention than any man ever had before.

  At least, in the beginning, you did…

  Your flattering compliments and overzealous charm empowered me.

  You made me feel desired and wanted, and it was a high I had never experienced before.

  Thank you for making memories with m
e, even though a lot of those memories only felt painful while I was trying to get over our breakup, and most of all, thank you for showing me how I shouldn’t be treated.

  This isn’t a personal attack on you or your character, but on the way that you acted during our relationship and the way I allowed it.

  You were careless with me and my naïve heart, and if this were the old, unevolved version of me, I might have even called you an asshole.

  I was so young, so impressionable, and you were this larger-than-life, gorgeous, and successful man who navigated Wall Street like he was born to do it.

  You lived life in the fast lane, and for those first few months, I loved experiencing the rush I got from sprinting through each day with you.

  But eventually, I started to feel like I couldn’t keep up, like I wasn’t good enough, and that led to becoming insanely insecure with myself and my life.

  See, all of those compliments and words of adoration didn’t mean shit when I found out that you were unfaithful. If anything, I went from feeling on top of the world to crumbling down in a poof of dust and rubble along with my self-confidence.

  I hated you for a while. Years, even.

  But now, all I really feel compelled to do is thank you for showing me that I deserve better.

  Thank you for teaching me that I am a long-term, committed, monogamous relationship kind of girl. I deserve honesty over flash, and I’ll remember that going forward.

  Before I started to write this letter, I honestly thought I would only be able to say mean and nasty things. I thought I would ramble and rant and see only the negative things from our relationship.

  I thought I’d say something with a whole lot of expletives and insults that probably don’t belong in print.

  But for some reason, that’s not what I’ve written.

  Well, I guess I wrote a few expletives, but they’re not the sole focus like I’d originally feared they would be.

  You should probably thank Neely Steinburg for that.

  Anyway, I guess, I’m learning that in order to find closure, I not only have to lay it all to rest, but I also have to acknowledge all aspects. The good and the bad. The positive and the negative. Your responsibility and mine.

  I hope you’ve learned from your asshole ways, J.

  I hope you’re doing well, and I hope you have found a woman who has inspired you to be the kind of man who is loyal and kind with words that match his actions.

  Because you’ve inspired me to look for one.

  Sincerely,

  LuLu

  [audible pause and sigh]

  Fucking LuLu. My Josh-given nickname.

  Honestly, when I wrote that letter, I was shocked I even remembered the moniker.

  [soft laugh]

  It’s crazy how your brain can hide things from you. How, as time passes, you think you’ve forgotten something completely, but then, a simple thought or memory has the power to bring those supposedly forgotten things to the forefront of your mind.

  Anyway, once I’d finished that first rough draft of Josh’s letter, I crossed my fingers and sent it over to Vanessa for approval.

  It wasn’t the easiest task to air out your proverbial past-relationship dirty laundry for everyone to see, but if anything, I only felt relief. Like I’d just experienced my own personal emotional cleanse.

  And if I felt that way after the first letter, what would I feel like after I wrote letters to all of the ex-boyfriends who had made the biggest impressions on me?

  I felt damn near giddy over the thought of it, and I silently wondered if I was really starting to figure out how to find resolution with my shitty relationship past.

  I had no idea what would come of it, but I had a feeling it was going to turn into something bigger than I could imagine. And my gut instinct told me this was exactly what my avid readers needed.

  Surely, I wasn’t the only woman with a novel-sized list of ex-boyfriends, right?

  [laughs]

  After I’d sent the rough draft to Vanessa and Allie, I shut down my laptop for the day.

  This Type 3 Achiever had tackled her list. Had made progress on her goals. And she was ready to pack up her traveling office and head back to the hotel for some dinner and good old-fashioned R&R.

  But just before I’d left the coffee shop, my phone pinged with a text message from an unknown number.

  Unlucky Lucky, it’s Jordy. Come have drinks with me and a few of the guys tonight.

  I grinned and typed out a quick, teasing message. Are you asking or demanding?

  His response came a minute later. Which option will make you say yes?

  I laughed at his words. How’d you manage to get my number?

  Again, he responded right away and let me know the lady behind the front desk had been very accommodating. I had a feeling her accommodations had been inspired by his endearing way with words.

  Eventually, though, I gave in to his demands with only one request. I’ll come as long as it’s not the hotel bar.

  I had nothing against the hotel bar itself. Just the fact that a particular person who always seemed to make me insane spent most evenings grabbing a nightcap at said bar with his buddies.

  And I was pretty damn determined to keep my social interactions with Ollie as minimal as possible.

  It’s a bar in town, Jordy answered.

  And I simply figured, What the hell?

  There was no harm in enjoying a drink or two before I called it a night, right?

  After working like a dog for the past eight hours, the distraction was needed, and Jordy never failed to be a good time.

  My answer was easy. Text me the address, and I’ll meet you guys there in about an hour or so.

  * * *

  I was a woman of my word, and about an hour later, I reached the address Jordy had texted.

  “Unlucky Lucky!” he shouted my name the instant I stepped through the bamboo entrance of a little hole-in-the-wall bar called La Plancha. The joint had no walls, no doors, and no windows. Only a roof covered our heads, and a soft breeze from the ocean provided temperature control.

  The floor was covered with sand, and colorful surfboards hung from the ceiling.

  It looked exactly like a place Jordy would frequent.

  I glanced down at my current attire—flowy white tank and cutoff jean shorts—and silently patted myself on the back for choosing platforms over stilettos.

  [laughs]

  I’m sure you guys are also relieved I’d learned my lesson regarding proper shoe attire at beach destinations. Trust me, it only took a few unwanted blisters to make practicality a priority over fashion.

  [laughs again]

  I offered Jordy a little wave as I walked toward the large bamboo bar in the center of the open and airy room.

  The instant I reached him, he stood up from his barstool and lifted me into his arms for a big bear hug. When my feet left the ground, I squealed.

  “Put me down, you lunatic!”

  He just laughed, and after a good tight squeeze, my platforms touched the concrete floor again.

  It was then that I realized he wasn’t by himself.

  Three twentysomething men stared at us with intrigue, and I awkwardly offered a “Hello.”

  “Lucky, these are a few of my good buddies.” Jordy wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pointed down the line to each guy as he introduced them. “Sal, Clive, and Matty.”

  I reached out to shake each of their hands. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  All three smiled their friendly smiles and offered similar greetings.

  “You might recognize them from the competition,” Jordy added, and I nodded toward Sal.

  “You had one of the best runs yesterday.”

  He grinned, proud, handsome, and full teeth on display. “That would be me.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “It was, uh, a pretty gnarly wave, huh?”

  All four men laughed, especially Jordy.

  “What?” I asked, and
Jordy just shook his head, amusement filling his big blue eyes.

  “The word gnarly just sounds a bit out of place coming from your mouth.”

  “Really?” I looked back and forth between the group.

  Jordy shrugged. “I think it’s because you look more like a fashion model from New York than a California-bred beach bum.”

  Fashion model from New York? I wondered if all of those waves were affecting his vision.

  [snorts]

  Seriously, gentlepeople, I might dress for fashionista success, but a model I am not.

  I mean, I don’t think I’m ugly. But I sure as hell don’t see visions of a runway career in my future. I’m more the girl who is sitting on the sidelines making notes about what the next big hit in fashion will be.

  Anyhoo, I ignored his ridiculous comment and focused on the fact that my attempts at surfer lingo weren’t having the effect I’d hoped. “Damn, and here I thought I was getting better at blending in.”

  Clive glanced down at my favorite black platform shoes. “Trade in the shoes for flip-flops, darlin’,” he said, and his Southern drawl sounded like it was grown straight from the Texas soil, “and you might have a better shot at it.”

  “See, Clive, the problem is my mother raised me better than to wear flats,” I teased with a little wink.

  “Cheers to your mom, then!” he said and raised his glass of beer in the air and took a long, hearty sip.

  I just laughed it off, overlooking his reference to my mom in the present tense, and made myself comfortable on the barstool beside Jordy.

  Right after I ordered a mojito from the bartender, the place livened up with the pounding beat and familiar catchy tunes coming from the live band in the back corner of the room.

  Patrons hopped out of their seats and made their way to the sand-covered dance floor, and I watched enraptured as a young twentysomething couple skillfully twisted and turned and gyrated their hips in a salsa-style rhythm.