“Ugh. No. We broke up again. And you don’t smoke.”
“I’m starting right now.”
“No, you’re not. The man’s not worth it. If you made it through the breakup with Dennis, you can make it through this. Besides, you can’t afford cigarettes on your fellowship stipend.” She aimed the remote control at the TV, clicked off ESPN, and plopped down on the stool next to me.
My sigh echoed off the white walls. “I should have known. He’s exactly the same as Dennis.”
She looked dubious. “Well, let’s not get carried away here.”
“They’re like two wretched peas in a pod. And I should have known. The first time I ever met him, he told me flat out that he had a history of leaving his fiancées. Just like Dennis.”
“Okay, once does not constitute a history. Besides, he left Harmony because she’s a complete nut job.”
“Well, what do you think Dennis is telling Lisa about me right now?” I countered. “‘That Gwen chick was so mental. Pass the popcorn.’” I sat up and pounded a fist on the countertop. “How could I miss all the red flags?”
“I love you so much that I’m not even going to say I told you so.” She ripped open the bag of Oreos. “Although, in his defense—”
“Why the hell would you defend him?” I demanded. “He wooed me like there was no tomorrow, and now he’s ditching me for a woman who named her firstborn after an astrological sign. He loved me, he lied to me, he left me, and now I’m all awash in oxytocin with no place to go…”
Cesca nodded at the neuroscience texts stacked on our bookshelf. “The bonding hormone. I aced neuropsych.”
“…So don’t you dare defend him,” I finished. “He’s a relationship kamikaze, same as Dennis. And the worst thing is that I didn’t see it coming. Again. I am such an idiot.”
She brandished a cookie like a professor’s pointer. “Not quite. If you compare the two cases, I think you’ll agree that there are slight but significant differences.”
“Oh boy.” I sat back and waited for the lecture. “This should be good.”
She got to her feet and began pacing. “First of all, motive. Alex wasn’t planning to break up with you. He’s responding to circumstances outside his control.” She gave me a look. “Circumstances that you knew about and he didn’t.”
“Oh my God. How many times do I have to explain this? There’s this little thing called professional ethics.”
“And yet you slept with him.”
“Well…” I grabbed a cookie. “There’s another little thing called ‘he’s hot.’”
She shook her head. “There are those who might say that you and Harmony ambushed him and forced him to make a decision under duress. And lest we forget, Harmony is really the driving force here. She’s the one who brought up getting back together. He’s just trying to be a good father. You know men. You confuse ’em, they panic. Much like possum.”
I stared at her for a moment. “That’s a lovely little analysis, but I don’t buy it. I see it more like this: Dennis left me for a buxom ex-girlfriend on a moment’s notice. Ditto Alex. End of story.”
“So you’re just writing him off?”
“Yep.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?”
“Don’t you think seducing me and then throwing me over for a soap opera actress who used to do commercials for Bally Health Clubs is a bit harsh?”
Cesca looked impressed. “Did she really?”
“Yes. Now do you understand what I’m up against?”
She whistled long and low. “I always thought the women in those ads were computer-generated to taunt normal people like us. Anyway, I know you feel miserable right now, but at least you can take comfort in the fact that he probably does too.”
“No, he doesn’t. And, anyway, I don’t want him to be miserable,” I said, realizing that this, incredibly, was the truth. “I just want him to come crawling back, shower me with European chocolates and pricey jewels, then sweep me off my feet.”
She laughed. “Stop your lies. Of course you want him to be miserable. He deserves a little pain and suffering.”
“I thought you were on his side.”
“I said you shouldn’t write him off forever. I didn’t say he should get off scot-free.” She smirked. “But he’ll get his. You said yourself he’s looking to settle down with a latter day Donna Reed who can bake a mean strudel.”
I sighed. “Yeah. So?”
“So Harmony’s not exactly in the running for homemaker of the year. Why was he dating a woman like her in the first place?”
“Why was he dating a woman like me? I’m not exactly Martha Stewart material, myself.”
“I have a theory about this.”
“Enough with the theories!” I groaned. “Can’t we just agree he’s a tool and move on?”
“Alex dates women like you and Harmony because you’re the opposite of his ideal woman.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s true.” She nodded. “What he says he wants and what he actually wants are on opposite ends of the spectrum. He says he wants June Cleaver, but then he dates a drama queen and a die-hard career woman.”
“But why would he do that?”
She shrugged. “You’d have to ask him. Maybe he’s afraid of intimacy. Maybe he’s afraid that if he does find the perfect woman and settle down, he’ll screw it up.”
“He screwed it up regardless,” I pointed out.
“True.” She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Did his parents have a good marriage while his dad was still around?”
“I told you, his dad wasn’t around. At all.”
“Well, there ya go. Commitment problems.”
“Commitment problems. Real original.” I changed the subject. “So what happened with Mike this time?”
“Get this: he told me I couldn’t have granola for breakfast because it was too fattening.”
“But you’re a stick,” I pointed out.
“I know!” She bared her teeth in a primal scowl. “He was just doing it to be a controlling jackass. Do I say anything about the fact that his entire diet consists of nicotine, bacon cheese-burgers, and caffeine? Nooo. But—”
The phone rang, cutting her rant short. Both of us looked at it, then started backing away from the counter.
“I’m not getting that,” I announced. “And if it’s him, I’m not here.”
“You think I’m gonna pick it up?” she whispered, eyeing the receiver as if it were a ticking explosive. “What if it’s the controlling jackass wanting his Bon Jovi CD back? You get it.”
In the end, of course, the machine clicked on, whereupon the caller hung up. Both of us feigned indifference.
“What kind of sorry excuse for a man can’t even leave a message?” Cesca scoffed. “Really. How are we supposed to ignore them if they won’t even use the answering machine for the purpose God intended? You know what would make us both feel better?”
“What?”
“Watching the NBA play-offs. They start tonight, and the Lakers are taking it to the top. I’m going to Maloney’s to watch on the big screen. You should come. In fact, why wait? The highlights special is on right now.” She vaulted over the back of our couch and grabbed the remote control.
“Suddenly life is worth living again.” I rolled my eyes and headed for the bathroom. The time had come for a bubble bath, a big glass of wine, and the latest issue of US Weekly.
“Where are you going?” she called. “This is just getting good. Hey! What was that foul about? Ticky-tac! Ticky-tac!”
I shut the door firmly behind me and turned on the tiny water-resistant radio we kept on the bathroom counter. Cesca’s indignant critique of the referee was replaced by the sounds of Norah Jones and the latest puff piece on Reese Witherspoon. What better way to numb the heartache? I’d soak for an hour, then head to the lab and spend the rest of the weekend crunching data for my dissertation. Much more productive than crying, eating fo
ur pounds of M&M’s, and watching Bally commercials with morbid fascination.
I turned on the hot water, knelt on the tile floor, and rummaged through the cabinet under the sink. We’d stashed some vanilla bubble bath in here somewhere.
But wait. What was this tucked behind the extra rolls of toilet paper?
I studied the purple and white box, then sat down on the floor. What on earth had been going on around here while I was lost in my little whirlwind romance?
Tweezing the incriminating box between my thumb and index finger, I nudged the door open with my toes and marched to the living room, where my roommate was still happily savaging the televised referees.
I cleared my throat and tossed the box onto the couch. “Cesca? Do you have something you want to talk about?”
She shrunk back from the package emblazoned with the letters E.P.T. “No.”
“So you didn’t hide this in the bathroom?” I sat down next to her and held her gaze.
“Not really.” She shrugged. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m sure I would remember buying this. So if I didn’t put it there and you didn’t put it there, I guess the magic fertility fairies paid us a little visit in the night.”
She clicked off the TV. “It wasn’t supposed to be under the sink. I meant to move it to my bedroom.”
“Why?”
She crossed her arms. “So that you wouldn’t find it and make me have this exact conversation! But the second I got back from the drugstore, you and Alex came barging in, so I tossed it in there…”
“Well.” I tried to figure out what to say. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m fine, I just might also be…” She lifted her chin toward the box and let the P-word go unsaid.
“I’d offer you a nice stiff drink, but I guess that’s out.”
“Do not even joke about that.” But she smiled a twisted little smile. “I’m not that late. Well, I’m a little late. Well, late enough to buy that, but you never know, right?”
My eyes widened by about two inches. “When are you going to do the test?”
“Soon.” She tucked her feet under her and burrowed back into the cushions. “I keep putting it off. But I know I have to do it. Very soon.”
“Are you scared?” I watched the tough tomboy expression drop onto her face and hastened to add, “I would definitely be scared.”
“I don’t know. I mean, this won’t even be for sure, right? What’s the false positive rate on this thing?”
I peered at the back of the package. “Don’t know. I think you can get false negatives, but not false positives.”
“Yeah, well, I’d like to see the data on that. Do they have an informational website?”
Just two behavioral science researchers having a chat about life and love in the big city.
“I mean, I could be late for any number of reasons, right? Stress. Or hormones. Or stress. Right?”
“Absolutely.” I nodded.
“I didn’t skip any pills this month…well, okay, maybe one…but it was all because I was frantically cramming for those damn qualifying exams. And according to the little pill pamphlet, that shouldn’t even matter. I mean, who misses their period because they’re actually pregnant? Practically no one, right?”
“Practically no one,” I echoed, trying not to think about Harmony. Mike’s next girlfriend might be in for a big surprise. Maybe this would be a growing trend in suburban family life: SUVs and Stealth Children.
“Okay then.” She turned the game back on.
“But just to be sure, let’s go ahead and do the test,” I urged. “Just for the hell of it.”
She looked at me. “Who is this ‘we’? Read the directions, Gwen. It’s a one-woman job.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, you go do the test.”
“I will. In a minute.” We remained crouched on the sofa, coiled with tension, watching Kobe scream at the ref. Finally, she turned to me and said, in a pleasant conversational tone, “You know what would solve all our problems?”
I could think of a lot of possible answers to this question, none of them legal. “What?”
“We need to go blond.”
12
Never let it be said that I didn’t try to stop her.
“Cesca,” I said, “Stop.”
But she was insistent. “Yeah! Blond is what we need. It’s the perfect breakup cure.”
“And you’re basing this on what?”
“Senior year of high school. Broke up with Brad Fiorelli right before the prom. He was cheating on me with this useless piece of fluff named Annalee Feyer. She was the kind of girl who worried she wouldn’t make it into a college sorority because she couldn’t speak Greek. But then I showed up in that high school gym looking like Madonna on the True Blue album cover, and let me tell you, my dance card was full. And I got accepted to Northwestern that day. So there you go.”
I eyed her shiny black hair and olive skin but kept my mouth shut. This was a woman facing the specter of parenthood with Mike Jessup. If she needed a little peroxide to get her through it, who was I to stand in her way?
Besides, any protests would fall on deaf ears. She was like a rat on crack once she got going with these things.
“You’re going to look like Marilyn Monroe, and I’ll…” Her jaw dropped open as genius struck. “You know what? Maybe I’ll streak my hair gold like you said Harmony does.”
“Et tu, Francesca?” I clutched my chest. “Et tu?”
“Oh, relax.” She rushed to the computer tucked away in the corner of the living room. “What we need to do is find a picture of Harmony online. And then I’ll be able to tell if it’s the right look for me. Because you said she’s gorgeous, right? Men falling all over themselves?”
I clenched my fists. “That’s right.”
She fired up the modem, then double-clicked her way into the World Wide Web to search for “Twilight’s Tempest Cast Members.” We watched, she in anticipation and I in horror, as a full-color picture of Harmony St. James filled up the screen, inch by inch.
The flawless tan skin. The enormous blue eyes. The sultry red lips.
Cesca sat back in her chair. “Day-um. She is a vixen and a half!”
“That’s it; I’m killing myself.” I turned and headed for the front door.
“No, no, I just meant her hair!” She raced after me. “I was looking at her hair.”
“Oh please. Stop your lies.”
“I just meant…” She blinked at the computer screen, mesmerized the same way I had been when I first saw Harmony. “Between her and Alex, that Leo must be one good-looking kid. Anyway…God, her hair looks great. Do you think if we called her, she’d tell us where she gets her hair done?”
“No.” I glared at her. “First of all, her monthly highlights probably cost more than our annual income. Second of all, I just got dumped for her, so no, I’m not really in the mood to ring her up and ask for a favor. Got it?”
“I know, I know. It’s just…I so want my hair to look like that.”
“Don’t we all. But I guarantee, in order to get it you have to hand over your 401(k) to a Swedish guy with a purple shirt and an eating disorder. And we don’t have 401(k)’s.” I closed the browser window. Harmony vanished. “Listen, Cesca, stop the madness.” I pointed to the bathroom. “Get in there and let’s find out what we’re dealing with.”
“Or…let’s hit the drugstore and pick up some L’Oréal. I can dye hair better than any Swede breathing. I know exactly what to do.”
“You grew up in a houseful of men,” I pointed out. “How do you know exactly what to do?”
“I read. Let’s go.”
She glanced at the E.P.T. box and shuddered. And because I too was in the throes of postbreakup insanity, I gave in and let her do it. I told myself that I would be blond and fabulous. That would show him.
Four hours, half a bottle of shampoo, and several panic attacks later, I had to face the awful truth: t
his was a disaster on par with Gigli’s opening weekend.
But at least we were no longer discussing unplanned pregnancies.
“I hate you,” I told Cesca.
“I hate myself,” she said. “How did this happen?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Cast your mind back. You, Little Miss Displacement Activity, assured me that you were practically Paul Mitchell with the hair dye. And now look at me. Look at me!”
I tugged at my hair, which had assumed the texture and color of saffron linguini.
She grimaced. “You, uh, look good.”
“Really. As good as you?”
“Listen, streaking is a very complicated technique. I might have been a little overconfident. I admit it.”
She looked like Pepe LePew on acid. Her cute little pixie ’do was shot through with thick neon orange stripes. About as subtle as a Lil’ Kim outfit.
“Wasn’t the point of this to make us more attractive?”
She hung her head. “We’ll have to cover all the mirrors until it grows out.”
“But what about the clinic? What about my clients? I’m going to have to shave my head and buy a wig.”
Her face lit up. “I have a brilliant idea.”
“Keep it to yourself. I’m still dealing with the fallout from your last brilliant idea.” I dropped my forehead into my hands. Not only was my hair as coarse as raffia, but the “Golden Oasis” color Cesca had selected for me clashed horribly with my skin tone. I looked like I was in the final stages of tuberculosis. How was I going to explain this to Dr. Cortez? And what if—oh God—I ran into Dennis like this? What if I ran into Alex?
“Here is what we have to do.” She gave me an assessing look. “You’re not gonna like it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“I’m already opposed to this plan.”
“We need somebody to do damage control. Somebody really good. There’s no way around it. We’re gonna have to call Harmony. I know you don’t want to, but it’s the only way. Her hair-stylist clearly knows how to do the gold streaky thing. Maybe she can get us in for an emergency appointment.”
I recovered the power of speech. “Have you lost your mind? Why don’t we just sell our souls to the fucking devil?”
Exes and Ohs Page 11