Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend

by Lynda Curnyn

  “What’s wrong with a guy like that?”

  “Jade—”

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “Just be careful, all right? Remember how you felt after you slept with Max and didn’t hear from him.”

  Though the reminder caused a plunging feeling in my stomach, I persevered. “This is different. When I went out with Max, I was looking for a relationship. Now all I want is sex. And I intend to get it.”

  “My, my, Emma, I never thought I’d hear you say those words,” Jade said, a smile in her voice.

  “Yeah, well, it’s the new me.”

  “That’s fine,” Jade said. “Just remind the ‘new you’ to bring some condoms.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I replied, as if I were an old hand at this.

  But in truth, as I purchased condoms from the smirking salesclerk at Duane Reade—a traumatic situation in itself—and later slid them into my purse as I readied myself to leave the house on Saturday night, I’d never felt so nervous. Exhilarated, too, but that only seemed to make my quivering stomach more prone to pole-vaulting.

  I glanced into the mirror for courage. I had to admit, I looked pretty damn good. I had opted for a black skirt and deep khaki green camisole ensemble, as a concession to the August heat but also because I wasn’t taking any chances. I wanted Griffin to want me. And with my soft, sun-streaked hair and Midnight Plunder-tinted lips, I felt ready to do battle. The silky red bra and panties I wore beneath my outfit bolstered me further as I slid on my mules, picked up my bag and headed to Heavenly Dee-lites for something I hoped would be even more gratifying than a whole freezer case full of Double Mocha Chip.

  He was waiting outside for me, freshly showered and dressed in a dark brushed cotton T-shirt and what looked like a pair of those high-tech fabric trousers Jade claimed were all the rage and I knew to be very expensive. And if this didn’t make me wonder, the magazine he read, as he sat comfortably on the little bench out front of the store, did. Advertising Age wasn’t usually the preferred reading of the vegan set, or the type of thing a man who spent his Saturday nights fetching and selling Skinny Scoop might enjoy.

  I didn’t have time to ponder these contradictions, though, because the moment Griffen looked up and saw me there, a pleased expression settling over his incredible features, all thoughts flew out of my head.

  “Hey, Emma,” he greeted me, and next thing I knew he was before me, holding my two hands in his and looking at me as if he would eat me alive. Only he didn’t. Not even a kiss, though I could see he wanted to—as if it were the most natural thing in the world for two complete strangers to do. But suddenly we didn’t feel like strangers. And for a brief moment I looked into his thickly lashed eyes and saw something—someone—I felt I knew down to my very soul. I swallowed. Hard. Then a completely unexpected thought blew through my mind: Our child would have those eyes.

  Oh God. I needed to get a grip. I glanced away and carefully disengaged my hands from Griffin’s, laughing shakily. When I looked up again, he was already picking up his magazine from the bench. As if nothing at all had just passed between us. Clearly I was out of my mind.

  “Let me just put this inside and lock up,” he said, unchaining the bench from the storefront and effortlessly carrying it into the darkened store, along with the magazine I still wondered about.

  When he came out front once more and locked the door behind him, I became curious about him again. How had he spiffed himself up so well, especially after a day of churning and serving Skinny Scoop?

  “So I guess the store is, uh, equipped with a shower?” I inquired with a short laugh. “I mean, you seem to have no evidence of a hard day’s work on your, uh, clothes,” I continued, eyeing his effortlessly casual yet clearly expensive outfit once more.

  “My parents have an apartment not far from the store. I showered at their place,” he said matter-of-factly, then took my hand and started leading me down the street.

  I tried to hold on to my senses though the strength in that big hand as it folded around mine certainly muddled things. “Um, your parents. They live here? In the city?” Please God don’t let him live with his parents, I prayed silently, though it sure would explain a lot. His designer threads on a minimum-wage salary for one thing.

  “All their lives. I was born here. They thought to retire to Florida a few years back, but they weren’t ready to give up the store.”

  “The store?” I asked, dumbfounded.

  “Heavenly Dee-lites,” he said, turning to look at me as we strode farther downtown on University Place. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew that. The couple who run the store—they’re my parents.”

  “Ohhhhh,” I said, realization dawning. The sweet old couple were his parents. Then that meant—

  “I’m lucky I got out of there tonight.” Then he laughed, the sound deep and rich. “They almost suckered me into a bridge game with their friends. Not that I mind spending time with them—I mean, it’s only been about six months since I’ve moved back to New York. I was out in Chicago for a while. And they are getting older. Truthfully, I think they should give up the store and just relax. I’ve been coming in on Saturdays to help out, but it’s not easy. I mean, I’ve got my own business to run….”

  Oh my, oh my, oh my. This was not some minimum-wage worker and potential boy toy I was out on a date with. This was a man. An incredibly good-looking man who not only had the most beautiful forearms I had ever seen, but was kind and gentle enough to spend some of his Saturday nights with his sweet old parents, for crissakes. Playing bridge.

  And that wasn’t all I discovered about Griffin that night. During dinner at Nobu, where I ate some of the most decadently delicious food I’d had in a long time, I learned that he was a graphic designer with his own firm. Apparently he worked with a lot of advertising firms, hence his choice of reading materials earlier in the evening. He had grown up in New York, helping his parents with the store during high school. After college at Princeton, he had gone on to Chicago to do design work for a big firm there, before returning to New York to start his own firm. Spending Saturday nights at Heavenly Dee-lites was certainly not his idea of a good time. But he wanted to help out his parents, who, he worried, were working too hard and couldn’t be convinced to take off time unless they knew the store was in good hands.

  And what good hands he had. I shook inside every time he reached across the table to grab mine.

  To top it off, he had an apartment in the hottest new neighborhood in New York City. And not some above-market rental. Not my Griffin. He owned his place. He’d just showed up in his home-town of New York City six months ago and set down roots, starting with a loft space with floor-to-ceiling windows and original prewar details.

  Not that I saw this illustrious space after our date. Oh, no. Reader, I did not sleep with him that night. It somehow didn’t seem…appropriate. In my heart of hearts, I felt like I shouldn’t even be sharing the same room with this man, much less the same bed. I was way out of my league.

  Which is why I was filled with fear when he put me in a cab after dinner, with no more than one utterly delicious and entirely too brief kiss. “I’ll call you,” he said.

  In my dreams, I thought, although I had taken it as a hopeful sign when he’d asked for my phone number as soon as we’d given our orders at the restaurant.

  By the time the cab pulled up to my dilapidated building, I was filled with resignation. And maybe a little bit of relief. I wasn’t ready for someone as magnificent as Griffin. But I knew one thing for sure. If he never called, I would be just fine. Better than fine. After all, I had myself, didn’t I? And that was good enough for me.

  Confession: I never even saw it coming.

  When the phone rang at eleven the next morning, I had no expectations. That’s why I was completely unprepared for the sound of Griffin’s smooth, rich voice wishing me good morning, telling me what a great time he’d had the night before and how much he looked forward to getting together again. He wasn’t even worried about l
ooking like some overeager geek by barely waiting a day before calling. And in truth, I wasn’t even worried that he was some overeager geek. He liked me. Really liked me. Just as much as I liked him.

  So we did go out the following week. And the following weekend. We even spent the long Labor Day weekend together, which even Jade agreed was significant, considering how new our relationship was. Soon, spending our weekends together was a natural thing. As if we found being apart more bizarre than being together. And we became, without my even noticing it, a couple.

  “You’ve got it bad,” Jade said, as she and I sat over cappuccinos at French Roast with Alyssa, whom we had just helped pick out the most amazing wedding gown at Vera Wang. I had just regaled them with a detailed description of how absolutely gorgeous Griffin looked while asleep when Jade pronounced me “in deep.” Who could blame me? Last night, Griffin and I had made love for the first time. And it was the most beautiful, intimate experience I have ever had.

  “Well, I’m happy for you, Emma,” Alyssa said, looking at me with that dreamy-eyed expression she got whenever she contemplated what she deemed the beginnings of true love.

  “What’s not to be happy about?” Jade said, lifting her mug of cappuccino to her lips. “She looks just like me the day after Ted and I first spent the night together.” She sighed. “God, I think the sex between us has gotten even better, if that’s possible.”

  “I think it always gets better over time,” Alyssa said sagely. And when Jade gave her that raised-eyebrow look, she added, “I mean, there are lull periods. But when things are good…” She sighed, and her expression said that things between Richard and her were good. Very good.

  “Here’s to good things,” I said, raising my mug of cappuccino in toast. And smiling like the satisfied cats that we were, we banged mugs and drank deep, savoring the sweetness of it all.

  Confession: Okay, I still have my moments….

  I won’t lie to you. As Griffin and I skated toward coupledom, things were a little scary. First, there was my mother’s wedding. Since it came in the early weeks of my relationship with Griffin, it didn’t seem right to subject him to a weekend on a cruise ship with my family, whom he hadn’t met yet, of course. I was a little worried over his meeting them someday, so I hoped to save “someday” until things between us were a little more secure. I think I feared Griffin might find my family somewhat…unusual, to say the least. My mother, for one, had married me off to him from the first phone call in which I dared speak his name. My father still thought I should have stuck with the lawyer. Grandma Zizi, who when I called to wish a happy ninety-second birthday, only wanted to know if he was tall. “Six-one, Grandma.” I replied. I thought she might go into immediate cardiac arrest, she was so happy.

  And there were other fears to contend with, I discovered. As I was about to leave for the wedding weekend, I had my first fight with Griffin. Mostly because I was having an anxiety attack over the fact that while I was sailing off to watch my mother say those sacred vows she knew so well to the sound of waves crashing in the distance, Griffin was going to Fire Island for the weekend with a bunch of old college friends for one last beach hurray. I wouldn’t have minded so much, had he not accidentally mentioned that his “sort-of” ex-girlfriend was going to be there.

  “I know how easy it is to…to…fall prey to old partners,” I argued. “One minute you’re having a few drinks, laughing over old times, next minute you’re reliving them in each other’s arms!”

  “You’re crazy,” he said, looking at me in that way that always assured me he wasn’t the type to be troubled by such fits of anxiety. He was so different from me that way. Which was probably why we got along so well.

  And so it was I watched my mother walk down the aisle for the third time, a mariachi band playing in the distance. I even managed not to burst into tears—or have a complete anxiety attack—when I felt the wooden platform I stood on to do my reading of John Donne’s “The Ecstasy” begin to shift and creak beneath my feet in the high winds. Somehow during all the craziness of renting a gazebo to put on the beach for the ceremony, picking out a restaurant and tying up bags of birdseed to toss at the happy couple, none of us had seemed to remember that September was hurricane season in the Caribbean. But we made it through the ceremony, which culminated in a flurry of trained doves, which swooped down upon the happy couple, seemingly from nowhere, just as the groom kissed the bride. A last-minute touch my mother had not even told me about and I am sure would never have been condoned by the wedding nazis at Bridal Best, considering the fuss that was created when the trainer of said birds tried to corral them back into their bamboo cage. Let’s just say we had about a fistful of birdseed left to throw at my mother and Clark once the ceremony ended. But it was enough. More than enough. For I realized, as I watched my mother and Clark together that weekend, that they didn’t really need luck to make this marriage work. It was clear enough to me that they had something more. Like love.

  I will say that despite the relative sanity of my mother’s nuptials, they did produce a strange effect on me. Though I realized it was completely unreasonable to contemplate marriage to Griffin—after all, we’d been together a little more than a month—I came home with visions of my own happy day dancing in my head. I hated myself for being so predictable, and yet I couldn’t help but wonder if that day would ever come. “Relax!” Jade said, but I couldn’t. “Take it day by day,” Alyssa advised, but I was already mentally two years down the line, envisioning Griffin walking out of my life, leaving me thirty-three, single and utterly without hope. And though I managed to keep my growing anxiety from Griffin, who continued to be his sweet, loving self, I lived each day as if an ax were hanging over my head.

  Then, like a sign from God—or maybe just a well-timed maneuver on Sebastian’s part—I got a beautiful printed card in the mail, announcing that Sebastian was now officially a healer, and that for $99.95 a session, I might purge myself of whatever it was that was eating away at my soul.

  Well, I wasn’t ready for the full program, and frankly, I wasn’t sure I would ever trust anything that promised mental prosperity while destroying my financial future. But I did dig that card out for the yoga institute that Sebastian had given me all those weeks ago, and after obtaining a list of schedules, I started attending classes.

  Now, I can’t say that I made any inroads on the meditation front. In truth, I realized by class number three that I was more prone to either fall asleep midway through, or have an anxiety attack at the thought of life free of anxiety. But during my fifth session something happened. And while the spiritual character of this event was suspect, I did gain a greater understanding of myself.

  While in the midst of doing the salutation to the sun which started off the class—a set of maneuvers that at first felt awkward and now was somewhat soothing—I caught sight, out of the corner of my eye, of a face I had not seen since my days in the M.F.A. program at NYU. It was Professor Diana Young, the first creative-writing teacher I really respected at NYU and the advisor I eventually chose to guide me through the short-story collection I put together for my M.A. thesis. By the time we got into second position, I knew she had seen me, too.

  The effect of her presence on me was odd. I was completely thrown and incapable of concentrating on anything. By the time we lay on our backs to meditate for the final portion of the class, I was a mess. Instead of focusing on the soothing voice of the instructor, who gently coaxed us into some deeper state of consciousness, I was plotting ways to make my escape without sharing more than a wave and a brief greeting with the woman whom I had struggled before for a whole semester, showing up in her office with story fragments and, more often, excuses why I had missed another one of the deadlines she had set for me. By semester’s end, I had managed to get six stories on paper and qualify for my degree, but I was unable to believe a word of the praise she gave my work, though I had taken careful note of whatever criticisms she had made, gentle as they might have been.

/>   Now, as the yoga instructor led those who had managed to let go of it all—myself not included—back to reality, I quickly stood, picking up my towel and working my way nonchalantly toward the door. Maybe Professor Young hadn’t seen me. Maybe she didn’t realize I’d seen her—

  “Emma! Emma Carter, is that you?” she said now, approaching me.

  “Professor Young, how are you?” I replied before I had even turned around to confront her soft, gently wrinkled features and lively gray eyes that always seemed to see right through me. Her hair, which she wore long despite the fact that it was mostly gray and might benefit from a good cut, was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and her wand-slim figure was in a leotard the most hideous shade of green I had ever seen. But that was Professor Young. Completely oblivious to the dictates of fashion or even taste, for that matter. Still, she was an amazing writer—a real genius with words—and I had always worshiped her. And feared her.

  “Good, dear. How are you?” she said, those all-knowing gray eyes searching mine.

  “I’m good. Really good,” I said. I was, wasn’t I? Or at least I had been, until I saw her.

  “Are you still writing?” she asked now, and I realized the source of my discomfort because I replied in what sounded to my own ears like a defensive tone.

  “Of course. In fact, I have an article in the issue of Today’s Woman coming out next month.”

  “Well, that’s just wonderful,” she said, her eyes gleaming with genuine happiness for me. “What’s it about?”

  Suddenly I felt ridiculous. How was I going to explain to her that it was one of those angsty piece on breaking up aimed toward the recently dumped? “Uh, it’s on relationships. That type of thing.”

  “Interesting,” she said, studying me. “So, did you ever finish that novel you started just after graduation?”

  The question did me in. My insides crumbled and my happy little facade of peace and prosperity fell apart. I doubt she even noticed, judging by the way she still smiled at me. Despite my freelance magazine writing career and my amazing new boyfriend, I suddenly felt like a failure. “Actually, um…no.”