by Cj Paul
It’s a Tuesday, which means that I should be able to prepare a broadcast for tomorrow. In truth, I have no idea if the show has any fans left to tune into it. Nonetheless, I work for several hours putting together a show on the topic of gratitude. My self-pity party guest has worn out her welcome, and I am ready to rejoin the living. I shower, shave the fortnight’s worth of forest growth off my legs, dress, and even put on some eyeliner.
I head out to the garden to see if there are any vegetables that have not withered and died like the rest of me. Thanks to Frank Jergins and his girl Jill, the garden is thriving. As for the interior of the house, well, it’s been on lockdown the last couple of weeks – no one coming or going. After gathering some veggies and herbs, I take a drive to Trader Joe’s. It’s the first time I’ve been out since reading Alex’s news, and I could really use a change of scenery, as well as some contact with humans. And frankly, I need a serious visit to the samples bar.
I return home, loaded down with a bevy of foods that God-fearing, decent folk would consider healthy. I’m not sure if I know what to do with half of it, but I feel rosy-cheeked and brimming with vital energy, just for having made the purchases.
I’ve treated myself to some of the grocer’s out-of-this-world eggplant parmesan and justify it by not buying a single ounce of ice cream. I eat my dinner while watching the previous season of Californication online and spend the remainder of the evening sipping hot caramel apple cider. Watching the rain outside the sunroom, I’m exceedingly thankful that torrents of water are no longer streaming from my own eyes. I strive to ponder my life unsympathetically, and realize there is nothing more I desire from life at this point. I have been successful in my career, have had friends and family, and even had a perfect love – well, maybe being separated by thousands of miles and blowing it while chasing the wrong guy was less than perfect, but as for Alex himself, he is still peerless in my eyes. By evening’s end I am calm, happy, and my soul is at peace.
Next morning, I’m not only ready for the show, but actually excited and looking forward to it. I haven’t felt this way about a show in far too long, and it’s marvelous to be so enthused about my work again. Everything is going swimmingly, and I‘m tickled when Kelly Putnam calls into the show. For the briefest of moments, I feel the pang of longing for Alex, but I dismiss it as quickly as possible since we’re live on-air. I ask how things are going with her and Alex’s friend Ken Warner, with whom I fixed her up. Evidently they are going very well!
“We’re getting married!” she gushes, and my heart plummets at her good fortune.
“Congratulations, Kelly. That’s wonderful news,” I say, choking back tears from a well I thought I’d cried dry.
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you on Facebook, but you haven’t been around.”
“No, I...ehrm...”
“I wanted to ask you to be a bridesmaid in my wedding.”
I am flabbergasted...and speechless.
“Kelly, I’m honored. I don’t know what to say.”
“Then say yes, you’ll come out to New York and be in my wedding. You can go with Alex!”
I can hold back my anguish no longer. My mouth begins to go dry and my fingers shake. I know any second I am going to go on a Guinness Book of Records caliber crying jag.
“Kelly...I... Alex.. He’s met someone else.”
After all the years of doing the show and ending it with my signature “You Could Be the One” segment, it occurs to me that I had my chance to be the one. I had it within my grasp. I had Alex. And I blew it. I hold my breath, too fearful of what may occur if I try to exhale. And then it happens – I commit career suicide.
My on-air meltdown is something university broadcasting students will be quizzed on for years to come. It is just that epic.
Following many, many minutes of my sobbing hysterically, sweet Kelly finds the wherewithal to ask why I’m crying. I explain that it’s because Alex has found another, he’s found the One, all the while thinking to myself, ‘duh!’
Kelly begins to chuckle and I begin to weep again and we have a sort of yin yang of emotional serenade going for a moment or two.
When her sniggering subsides, she manages to blurt out, “Oh, Claire, yes I know he found The One, silly. Don’t you know that The One is you?”
Chapter Forty-SixMy phone has been turned off ever since I blocked Alex on Facebook. After all, if you’re going to do something, you may as well do it right. With Mom gone and now David and Alex, there really is no reason to have to deal with the darn thing. Frank Jergins’ people are here daily if they need to ask me anything. The only thing I really use it for currently is listening to music while I’m out walking, but I haven’t been out doing anything for weeks. So wouldn’t you know, when I go to turn it on, it is absolutely dead. What’s more, in my original zeal to pack up and go, I somehow managed to pack or misplace the charger cord, or... Grrrrrrrrrr... I don’t know but I need it now!
I’m in a frenzy to reach Alex, and I storm around the house accusatorily, convinced one of the menagerie has hidden my charger for sport.
Plan B: I go onto Facebook for the first time in weeks. The number of notifications is staggering, but I pay them no heed as I am on a mission. I head straight to Alex’s page, then send him a friend request. His page settings are such that you can’t see what he’s posted unless you’re a friend.
Plan C: Nah, that won’t work.
Plan D: Cry.
This time yesterday, I was a recovered victim of heartbreak, albeit the heartbreak was my own darn fault. Today, I’m nearly as much a wreck as when it all started. I determine to take a brisk walk to clear my head. Getting out of doors really will do me good. I throw on my trekking clothes and grab my shoes. There’s an extra house key in one shoe, which I always tie onto my laces when I go walking, so that I don’t have to carry my keys. In the other shoe is a set of earbuds, which I keep there to remind me to take my phone along for music. A lot of good that will do me today, since my phone has zero power. The wad of wires is a knotted mess and I can’t figure out how two little cords could get so tangled. I think similar thoughts every Christmas when trying to unwind the carefully put away tree lights that have managed to interweave themselves in strange and complicated ways while stored and hidden from human view. I really don’t need to bother with these unruly wires this very moment, but it feels good to fix a problem and make some order of my chaotic life. I tug and yank until the snarl comes apart. Oh no! I wrecked them and they are in two pieces now. Wait a minute. One of these wires is not earbuds. It’s my phone cord!
I dash into my bedroom to plug in my phone on the nightstand. Oh no! Now it’s gone too! Murphy, you and your law have gone too far this time! Persephone chooses this precise moment to go on an annoying barking binge. I am not in the mood to get her ball from underneath the bed. In fact, I’m never in the mood to do that, but especially not now. Her barking persists, and when I march over to give her what-for, she buries her head under the bed’s dust ruffle, her bottom up in the air and tail wiggling. I need to think, but can’t do so with the racket she’s making. I assume the same position she is in and flip up the dust ruffle, all the while cursing the day she was born.
“Persephone, I love you!” I squeal as I retrieve my phone from under the bed. There it was, just like Persephone was trying to tell me. She looks to me gleefully, anticipating what sort of treats she’ll get in reward, and does not appear amused when I opt to make a phone call instead.
I go to my contact lists to select Alex’s name, but can’t find it anywhere. Panicked, I try looking under all of the icky, sticky, sweet nicknames I’ve called him, just in case I had changed his listing. And then I remember. I deleted his name, all of his beautiful texts, voicemails and any call notifications from him, just after blocking him on Facebook, the day I found out about The One. I try to recall his phone number, but can’t even think of the area code, having only punched it in the one time when I initially added him to my contacts
. Damn you speed dial!
While the phone charges, I go back to the computer to see if he’s accepted my friend request. Nope.
I begin pacing and the menagerie becomes agitated. Birds are flying about, Persephone is again barking – this time at Jasper who is taunting him from a ledge – and Daphne is pacing along with me, narrowly missing being stepped on in the process.
A thought occurs to me. I race back to the computer and look through all of my Facebook messages with Alex, in search of his phone number. In doing so, I find scores of digital love letters and poems, quotes and ‘I love you’s’ from Alex. The tears flow. My Kleenex stock should be soaring this month. At last, I give up my search when I realize that I had messaged him my phone number, not the other way around. In utter desperation, I send him a Facebook message. Not sure if or when he’ll ever see it.
12:44pm
Claire Nichole Eden
Alex. I don’t know what to say. I have been a four-letter F word in the worst way… an utter FOOL. Please forgive me and contact me as soon as you can. I am so sorry and... Ugh, please just get ahold of me. I will be waiting by the computer until you do... however long it takes.
I head back to the bedroom, an emotional wreck. So much for my promise to stay glued to the computer. Deceitful wench! I throw myself on the overly fluffy bed and howl into my pillow. What have I done? Out of sheer frustration, I go back to my phone, which is now completely charged. I unplug it and sit on the bed staring at it blankly, willing it to reveal some secret information. And then...right then...
Like an inexperienced explosives specialist diffusing her first time bomb, I fumble with the phone, afraid if I make a wrong move the whole thing will blast to pieces, taking me with it. Jasper crawls off his pillow now and starts rolling around on his back purring and begging for tummy rubs, right where I am trying to operate the phone. I tap this screen and that, licking my lips, which have gone instantly dry under the stress of the moment.
There it is.
My outgoing call list – the last bastion of hope, peeking out from the ruinage of my once-idyllic universe.
A place it never occurred to me to remove him from.
If I’ve made any calls to him, they will show up with his area code instead of his name, since I’ve already deleted him as a contact.
I find calls made to several area codes I don’t recognize. One stands out in particular.
518
It might be him. It must be him. I race to the computer to check an area code directory. This would not be a good time for me to reach a wrong number in my manic state.
YES!
I trip over myself in my haste to get back to the phone.
I call.
It rings.
...and rings.
...... and rings.
He answers softly, gently, “Hello.”
“Alex, I’ve been such a buffoon. I don’t know what to say. I am so incredibly sorry.”
“Cariña...”
“You have been nothing but wonderful and perfect and... Alex I love you! I know it took me far too long to realize it. And you have been so patient with me, but now...”
“Shhhhhhhh... Cariña...come.”
Chapter Forty-SevenFollowing my call to Alex, his concise command, and attendant waves of orgasmic deliciousness, my wits return and I am a flurry of productivity. First thing, I check the flight east I’d purchased a few weeks back, to see if it has come and gone already. I’m in luck, for once. Thanks, Murphy. It takes off two days from now, which should give me just enough time to get my affairs in order.
I’m bombarded with emails concerning my meltdown on-air yesterday. Seems it’s the greatest thing that has ever happened to my show, other than my Mom becoming part of it. The communiques all say basically the same thing. They have never witnessed a broadcast so raw, so real. I am a breath of fresh air in the stale realm of today’s politically correct talk shows. My vulnerability is refreshing and charming, on and on. I even gain a new sponsor – Kleenex!
Jill from Frank Jergins’ realty company proves to be my savior, taking care of every detail concerning the house. Since I already pay all of my bills online, there is no mail I need to worry about. In fact, it will be nice to get away from the letters still coming to me about David. For a moment, I think of Giselle, and say a little prayer for her. And what the heck, David too. After all, he seems to be the one who needs it most.
It’s my last night with the menagerie, and I am a basket case of emotion. These little critters have been with me through some of the most challenging and rewarding moments of my life. From business to family to roommates and love, they’ve endured it all. And at this point, they are my family.
The next morning, I pack them all up, complete with toys and treats and everything they love most. After a long, deep breath, I start the car and head to Redwood Meadows. Ma’am Delores is waiting for me – the main entrance door and her arms, both wide open. Within minutes of my arrival, the place is buzzing with excitement and the hallways are packed with residents come out to greet my darling pets. There is a lump in my throat that just won’t go away, but I smile in gratitude at the love these little creatures are inspiring. It’s clear they will not want for attention.
There is much yet to do, so my stay at The Meadows is very brief. Just as well, lest I make a big, sobby scene.
Back at home, I finish packing. I have no idea how long I’ll be gone or even if I’ll be coming back. As such, I am at a loss as to what to pack. I opt for a little bit of everything that fits with the season. I love the fact that I will get to use hats and gloves and coats. It occurs to me I will be there just before Christmas. I should most likely arrive bearing gifts. What does one give this man who has everything and wants nothing? Cheesy as it may seem, the answer is clear.
I return from shopping with a beautiful vintage Santa hat and several yards of four-inch wide, red satin ribbon. I just hope when the time comes I can figure out how to tie it. All that’s left to do now is eat, shower, sleep, or rather, try to sleep. I call Alex to wish him good night, at his behest. He is loving and sweet and oh so sexy, and makes me swoon and sigh endlessly. He asks what I will miss most about leaving home, other than the menagerie, of course. I tell him I’ll miss going to tea in the city. He says we will have to remedy that, at which I squeal. I love afternoon tea in New York, especially at the hotels.
As our call winds down, I become more and more nervously excited, and I ask him to send me a salacious message to take the edge off during the five-hour flight. It’s been ages since we indulged the intimate desire for one another that first brought us together nearly a year ago. He vows to see what he can do and says he wants to ‘tuck me in,’ which he does perfectly by speaking softly of his love for me, as I drift off into what I hope will be my last slumber without him beside me.
* * *
Next morning, there is no time to be anxious or fret about tasks left undone. The town car arrives promptly at 6am and I am all set, confident I’ve forgotten nothing, calm and assured. This may very well be the best decision I’ve ever made.
After check-in at the airport, I head straight for the Starbucks to grab a Grande Mocha. There was no time for breakfast and cleanup, and besides, this is a tradition of mine. It feels wonderful to sit and relax for a bit, after all the running around the last couple of days. I open my laptop with no real intention in mind, other than killing time. I see a message from Alex on Facebook, and remember what I’d asked of him the night before. I grin wickedly in anticipation of what looks to be a long, and no doubt, luxurious tome. Resisting the urge to read it now, I download it onto my computer so I can access it easily, once we take off.
I tend to a few emails, including a lovely send-off message from Ma’am Delores, then shut down my computer, grab my carry-on bag, and make my way to the departure gate. Moments later, boarding begins, and before I know it, I am happily ensconced in my window seat. Turns out booking my flight weeks in advance had some benefits, lik
e seat selection. Once the plane is airborne and the seatbelt sign is turned off, I reach under my seat to fetch my laptop, dying to read Alex’s last, lusty, long-distance message. I notice the teenage boy next to me is trying to eye my screen, so I position the laptop in a way only I can see. Turns out that was a very prudent move.
1:31am
Alexander Armstrong
Cariña, I’m going to love you in dangerous ways. Scandalous ways. Picture an intimate table for two, basking in the warm glow of the crackling fireplace just a few feet away. Feel the ambience of lazing decadence saturating the air. You nod and smile politely as I slide your chair away, tucking it effortlessly beneath you with chivalrous precision as you grace it with ladylike ease. Notice the glint of mischief in my eyes as I take my place beside you, a king escorting his queen to afternoon tea.
Here, in my city, I choose to take you to the Palm Court at the Plaza. Tea room connoisseur that you are, I’m certain you’re familiar with this spot: the signature green and yellow glass, skylight dome, mirrored doors and fleur-de-peche marble columns, a harpist in one corner, and plush pillowed sofas surrounding coffee tables, if you’ll forgive the expression. I have something special planned and so I’ve chosen a cozy table where we can enjoy one another within the illusion of privacy.
I’m intrigued by your feather touch handling of the heavy leather-bound menu. Quickly pouring over it you discover something that delights you and your mouth opens just a little. I’m captivated by your childlike expression as you unwittingly bite your lip in gleeful anticipation. When the server bearing bubbly flutes of champagne appears, she calls you back from your dreamy reveries, inquiring, “Have you decided what flavor of tea you’d like?”
“Yes. Your house breakfast tea, please. With milk.” “Two, please,” I amend and we’re alone again.