Love by the Book

by Melissa Pimentel

  But instead of falling, I stayed on my own two feet. There was a reason I’d left and I couldn’t turn back now. If I did, I’d end up ruining both of our lives.

  I took a deep breath. “Dylan, I love you—you know that—and I always will. But I had to get out of here. We were too young for all that—we were like a couple of kids playing fucking house! We’re in our twenties—we should be out getting shitfaced and propositioning the bartender, not picking out furniture and worrying about putting a new roof on the house. It was too much.”

  He grasped my hand a little more tightly. “But what about me? I wanted a life with you.”

  I pulled away. “I know, and I thought I wanted that, too. But we tried and it wasn’t enough. I love you, but it’s just not enough.”

  He dropped my hand like a match that had burned to the tip and, in an instant, he was angry. “Nothing’s ever enough for you. I tried so fucking hard to make you happy, to make a good life for us, but it was never enough.”

  “Dylan, it has nothing to do with you—”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit: it has everything to do with me. I wasn’t enough for you. Our life wasn’t enough for you. It was like, as soon as we got married, you had one foot out the door. Why do you think I didn’t fight it when you said you were leaving?”

  “I don’t know,” I said quietly. I’d wondered that a lot over the past year. For someone who proclaimed to love me so much, he’d sure made it easy for me to leave him.

  He smiled sadly. “It’s because I was waiting for you to go.”

  I looked at Dylan’s face, and I knew I’d never be able to make up for what I’d done. But I also knew that I needed to do it, and there was no going back now.

  I took his hands in mine and looked him in the eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. You’re an amazing man, and you didn’t deserve the way I treated you. I hope you find someone who makes you deliriously happy. And I hope she’s blond and her boobs are, like, twice as big as mine.” I thought for a second. “Not Kelly Leibler, though. Any other big-boobed blond but her.”

  “Not Kelly Leibler,” he said. “Got it.” He pulled me in for a hug. “I just hope you find what you’re looking for someday,” he said into my hair.

  With that, he let me go. And when he walked away, he didn’t look back.

  November 6

  When I came down for breakfast, my dad was already in his workshop and my mom was clearing away the detritus from breakfast. She looked up from wiping down the countertop as I came in.

  “Morning, Lu. There’s still some coffee left if you want it.”

  “Thanks.” I poured myself a mug of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table and watched the birds busily swooping in and out of the feeder in the backyard.

  Mom sat down opposite me. “So,” she said, “how was last night?”

  I was still trying to absorb it myself, so I tried to be as noncommittal as possible. “Okay,” I said, turning back to the birds.

  “How’s Dylan?”

  “Good, I guess.”

  She sighed. “Lauren, work with me here. Please?”

  I looked at her. She looked older than she had a year ago. Smaller, somehow. My heart hurt thinking about it. I put my hand over hers. “Sorry, Mom.”

  “I just wish you’d tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I turned up, we had a drink and he told me that I was a terrible, selfish person. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “You are not a terrible, selfish person.”

  “I’m not so sure.” I felt the abyss open up in me.

  “Lu, I’d be lying if I said I understood every decision you’ve made over the years. Sometimes I feel like I must have done something wrong to make you want to run so far away from this family. But you are certainly not a terrible person.”

  “Mom, you didn’t do anything wrong! My leaving had nothing to do with you.” I couldn’t bear the thought of her feeling in any way responsible. “I left because I wanted to see what else was out there for me.”

  “I know you think we’re just a boring couple of old farts, but your father and I have made each other very happy over the years. And Meg and Sue . . . I just want that same happiness for you, that’s all. Dylan is such a nice boy.”

  “You’re right, Dylan is a great guy. But I didn’t love him, Mom. Not really. And I made him miserable.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” she said. “You could never make anyone miserable.”

  “Well, I did.”

  There was a long pause and Dylan’s angry face came rushing back to me. I turned to the birds and tried hard not to cry.

  She scooted her chair closer to mine and put her arm around me. “I just want you to be happy, sweetheart.”

  “I know, Mom. I am happy. I’m happy on my own.”

  She smiled sadly. “You always were adventurous. Remember when you stuck your finger in that light socket?”

  I laughed at the memory. “I was, like, two.”

  “Blew yourself straight across the room. By the time your father and I got to you, you’d already picked yourself up and were headed back to the socket to do it all again!”

  I shook my head. “I’ve always been a stubborn pain in the ass, huh?”

  She pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “I miss you,” I whispered.

  “I miss you, too, Lu. Every single day. But just because you’re far away doesn’t mean we love each other any less, right?”

  I smiled and leaned in to her. “Right.”

  “You do whatever you need to do. We’ll always be here for you.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I felt the hole inside me close a little.

  November 8

  I flew back today, leaving at an ungodly hour of the morning.

  Yesterday, I’d said good-bye to my parents in the morning before heading to Meghan’s for my last night in Portland. I’d promised them that I’d call more often, and that I’d come back for Christmas in a couple of months, but they still looked unspeakably sad and small when I hauled my suitcase down the stairs.

  Sue went to bed early after a long shift, so Meghan and I stayed up way too late getting unfeasibly drunk on boxed red wine. My last memory was us laughing hysterically about the time she fell through the set of our junior high musical revue; when I came to, Sue was shoving a granola bar and a Thermos of black coffee in my hands, Harold running circles around us and barking hysterically while Meg, red-eyed and disheveled, held out my bag.

  “Do you think that means he’s going to miss me?” I asked, touched by Harold’s enthusiasm.

  “Nah, he’s just scared of men,” Meghan said, nodding toward the cabbie waiting in the driveway. “I’m going to miss you, though.”

  I hugged her tightly. “Me too. I love you.”

  “I love you.” She pulled back and looked at me. “You can always come home, you know. You don’t have to make life so hard for yourself.”

  “I know, but it’s what I want,” I said, with more confidence than I felt at that moment. “I want to be in London.” As soon as I said it, I knew it was true. London felt like home now.

  “You are a stubborn piece of work,” she said, shaking her head and smiling.

  “You know me too well.” I turned to Sue. “You look after this one,” I said.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said, putting her arm around Meghan. “I promise.”

  “You better,” I said. “I wasn’t kidding about Schwarzenegger.”

  The cabbie honked his horn. I gave Meg and Sue another hug and Harold another scratch. I looked around for Maud, but she was hiding in some remote corner of the house, the excitement of the morning too much for her.

  I got in the cab and gave them all a final wave, and from there it was
just a short cab drive, Greyhound bus, plane ride and tube journey before I was unlocking the front door of the Old Street flat that evening. I set my bags down and kicked the door shut behind me, heading immediately for the balcony.

  As I smoked, I looked out over the courtyard below and, beyond that, at the view of the London skyline. I leaned far out over the railing and craned my neck to see the lights of the Eye in the distance sweeping up in a great arc. I took a long drag and exhaled: I was home. And, this time, I was sure of it.

  November 9

  I woke up at 6 a.m. with the mother of all jet lags, but I forced myself out of bed and around a mug of instant espresso before lacing my sneakers and heading out for a run. I’d already wasted a third of my month with Rachel Greenwald, MBA, and I needed to be fighting fit to tackle the Program in the remaining weeks.

  After five and a half unpleasant miles, I took a bracingly cold shower (one thing I hadn’t missed about London was the plumbing) before settling down on the couch with my notebook. I felt a surge of energy: I was back where I needed to be and doing what made me happy.

  The first order of business was to develop my “personal brand.” I drew three columns down the length of the page and labeled them Physical, Personality and Other, as per Rachel Greenwald’s instructions. Under each heading, I listed a load of adjectives and phrases I felt applied to me.

  I sat back and looked at my chart. Man, I was one hell of a catch.

  The next step was to choose one phrase from each column to create my ultimate “personal brand,” the one I’d be sending out to everyone I’d ever met in the hope of getting a date.

  I tried out a few combinations. “High alcohol tolerance,” “open-minded” and “apparently gives great head” made me sound like I was really into underground sex clubs, while “mildly unkempt,” “sardonic” and “enjoys cheese” painted a perhaps too-realistic portrait. I finally settled on “long-legged,” “independent” and “American.” I thought it made me sound like a sexy flight attendant from the seventies, which should help cover the maximum spread when it came to possible suitors.

  Personal brand solidified, I wandered into the kitchen and started rummaging around for something to eat for breakfast. I had found some peanut butter and a piece of stale malt loaf when a note tacked to the cupboard door caught my eye.

  Welcome home, lovely! Hope you had a fab time in America! Tristan’s meeting my parents (eek!) so we’re in Surrey for the weekend. Have left you some milk and some choccies! See you soon!

  Lucy xxxxxx

  PS This came for you—what a nutter! Xx

  Taped to the back of her note was a postcard featuring a nearly naked man in a cowboy hat standing in the middle of Times Square. I flipped it over, though I already knew who it was from.

  Dearest filthiest American (out of what is now a very large pool of experience),

  Still having a marvelous time under the bright lights of this big city, though I do miss my grimy old London and my grimy little Cunningham. Hope you’re thinking depraved thoughts about me, as ever.

  Adrian xxxx

  I stuck the postcard on the fridge next to the NYC firefighters and padded back to the living room with Lucy’s chocolates. I curled up on the couch and fell promptly asleep.

  November 11

  My first day back at work was filled with deleting as many emails from my inbox as possible, excitedly discussing Lucy and Tristan’s engagement, and avoiding Cathryn’s questions about Dylan.

  I’d told her about my ill-fated marriage before I’d left and, like Lucy, I think she’d convinced herself that my trip back home was going to end in the happy reunion of two souls instead of the return of a mildly disturbed one. She was understandably disappointed, but I didn’t have time to explain the affairs of the heart to her: I had a huge backlog of emails to deal with and a tour group full of nine-year-olds to lead through the exhibition on the human genome project. Before I knew it, it was 7 p.m. Cathryn and I were the only two left in the office, so I took the opportunity to ask her opinion on the holiday cards I’d ordered.

  Rachel Greenwald, MBA, being the marketing wiz that she claims to be, thinks the best way to find a man is by direct mail advertising. Specifically, by printing up a load of cards saying you’re looking to find someone and sending them out to every person you’ve ever met. I decided to send out Thanksgiving cards. Not a traditional Hallmark holiday in Britain, admittedly, but Halloween and Arbor Day had already passed.

  I called her over to my desk and showed her one of the cards, which involved a photo of my face superimposed onto a turkey and the words “Gobble Gobble!” written above it. Inside, a generic “Happy Thanksgiving” message was followed by a personal appeal:

  This is the year I would like to find someone to have sex with and I need your help. If you know anyone suitable, please fill out the enclosed card and return it to me. Thank you!

  Lauren xx

  Cathryn stared at the card. “This year I would like to find someone to have sex with?” she read. She looked up at me, aghast. “Have you gone completely mad?”

  “Well, according to the book I’m meant to say I’d like to find a husband, but I’ve already got a redundant one of those, so I figured I should be more precise.”

  “You can’t possibly send these out.”

  “I can, too! C’mon, don’t you remember from Marketing 101? It’s direct mail advertising! The most effective advertising there is.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Maybe in 1983 it was, but not anymore. And anyway, you’re just going to attract a bunch of mad people with these!”

  “Well, that’s what I attract already; at least with this I can get someone else to do the legwork for me.”

  Over lunch the next day, I signed and addressed cards to every single person I knew in London—Lucy and Cathryn, obviously, but also my landlord, cleaner, local liquor store clerk, and everyone I’d ever been on a date with. I even sent one to the angry bookseller, imagining with glee the look of disgust on his face when he opened the card. I briefly considered giving one to my boss, but Cathryn talked me out of it.

  I tucked a few extras in my desk in case inspiration struck and put the rest in the mailbox when I left work. I wished them luck as they slipped through the slot: surely someone knew a suitable man for me to sleep with.

  November 15

  Lucy and I took the day off in order to run around a posh part of London and spend someone else’s money. It was GREAT. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that having money is a terrible burden, because it’s not. It’s awesome and it makes life super easy. Rich people only pretend that it’s a burden because they don’t want poor people getting ideas above their station and staging a Bolshevik-style revolution.

  Anyway, Tristan had given Lucy a stack of money so she could buy a fancy dress for the engagement party on Saturday, but she’d been paralyzed by the thought of going into one of those terrifying designer shops on her own, so she left it until the last minute.

  When she tearfully confessed that she didn’t have a dress and—worse—had been sitting on a pile of unspent cash, I bundled her on to the tube and off to Bond Street we went.

  Now, I had zero experience in dealing with scary designer shops. Growing up, my mom bought all of our clothes from a store called “Slightly Irregular,” and Meghan and I spent our youth in “GAK” sweatshirts and “Lewi” jeans. Any item of clothing costing more than $20 was considered a travesty, and I’ve carried this thrifty tradition into my adulthood. Some of my proudest moments have been when people have complimented me on an item of clothing I’m wearing and I’ve been able to say, “Thanks, it cost three pounds,” or “Thanks, I found it in a Dumpster.”

  Still, I was determined that we wouldn’t be cowed by surly shop assistants. And in order to do this, I figured it was best to pretend to be someone else.

  “Okay,” I said to Lucy, pulling he
r toward Balmain. “Here’s the plan: we’re going to pretend to be rich people, so let’s choose our identities now. I’m going to be Lucia, an Argentinian soybean heiress with a checkered past. Now, who are you?”

  She looked at me skeptically. “Can you do an Argentinian accent?”

  “Sí, of course!” I said, rolling my “r” with abandon. “Come on, who are you? Maybe a French countess? Or the daughter of a Neapolitan mobster?”

  “Lauren, this is bonkers! I can’t pretend to be some rich foreigner!”

  “Okay, how about a posh Brit? Like, an aristocrat or an Ecclestone or something. Seriously, Luce, it will make it way more fun and way less scary.”

  She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was getting into the idea. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll be Tara Palmer-Tomkinson’s niece, Clara.”

  “Nice. Give me more.”

  “Um . . .”

  “Okay, I’ll do it for you. You were once photographed as one of Tatler’s ‘tweens to watch’ but fell from grace after you were caught selling diet pills at Channing School.”

  “Love it.”

  “And now you’re marrying a sheikh and moving to Dubai.”

  “Yes!” she said, eyes lighting up.

  “And you’re going to live in an exact replica of Versailles. We’re ready!”

  We sailed into Balmain, giving the saleswoman a frosty nod.

  I made a beeline for the cocktail dresses, pulling out a little black number. “Ay! Dios mío! Clara, you will look so beaoootiful in this dress!”

  Lucy took the dress from me and inspected it with impressive disdain. “Darling,” she trilled, “this is just too gauche for the sheikh! He is a very elegant man, you know.” Her accent was Patsy Kensit meets the queen—I don’t think she actually moved her lips once—but it seemed to work. I saw the saleswoman’s sharply defined eyebrows raise slightly.