The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir

by Annette Fix

  I wanted to go around to his chair and hug him, but that would have embarrassed him too. “You're only thirteen. Don't be in such a hurry to grow up. You only have seventeen years to be a kid. You'll have more than seventy years to be an adult. You'll figure it out when you're ready.”

  three's a crowd

  Saturday, November 16

  My cell phone rang. With my eyes still sealed shut with sleep, I fumbled in the dark to find it.

  “Hullo?” I said.

  “Hey buuuddy, what'r ya doin’?” a male voice asked.

  I peeled one eye open and squinted at the clock. “Bryce? It's four in the morning and I'm sleeping! What the hell did you think I'd be doing?”

  His laugh was half snort, half hiccup. “I got a verry serus queston fer you,” he said.

  I sighed and braced myself for a long conversation. “What is it this time?”

  “Could you do me a fayver?”

  “Only if you promise to stop drunken dialing me. I swear, there should be some sort of public service campaign to keep you off the phone when you get like this.”

  I'd met Bryce at the club just before summer. He was pickling his sorrows in imported beer and shots of Jack Daniel's. I spent the evening trying to talk him out of killing his liver over a girl. From there, we somehow formed a quirky lonely-hearts bond of phone support and text messages. Whenever either of us began drowning in self-pity, we called. Sometimes we'd talk for hours, sorting through our feelings. My emotional recovery was finally solid. Bryce still had a long way to go.

  “I met a new grill at a bar t'night. I think she likes grills too. Would you have sex with us?”

  “WHAT?”

  “No, no. Shhhh. No. Wait. It'sssokay,” he said in hushed tones. “I don’ think yer attractive. But I think my new grill might like you…”

  I sputtered and choked on a laugh. “Good night, Bryce.” I hung up the phone.

  It rang a few seconds later. “Don’ say no right now, jes think 'bout it,” he urged.

  “Good night, Bryce. I'm hanging up now.” I hung up, turned off my cell phone, and went back to sleep.

  Consciousness finally arrived around eight o'clock. I rolled over and turned on my phone. Five missed calls. I listened to the messages. Each call featured Bryce trying a different tactic to persuade me to sleep with him and his most recent feminine acquaintance. I laughed out loud. All the calls had come in at approximately thirty-minute intervals, almost as if it took him that long to think up another reason for me to do it. It was sad, but it was funny.

  A pathetic kind of funny.

  The phone rang in my hands. I answered it without bothering to check the incoming number. “Listen closely.” I formed my words carefully, “I am not going to have a ménage à trois with you and some bar bimbo. So, don't even think that you can convince me to do it.”

  There was a pause on the line. Then I heard Steven's smooth, mellow voice. “Actually, I was only planning to ask if you'd like to join me for lunch.”

  I felt like I could've roasted marshmallows on the glowing embers of my face. I stumbled over a disjointed explanation about Bryce that sounded more like the plot to a kinky Japanese soap opera.

  Steven finally suggested I tell him all about it on our date.

  “Okay, but if I go out with you, you can't call it a date.”

  the mominator

  Monday, November 18

  Josh came through the front door with a stormy expression on his face.

  “Hey, Wonderboy, what's up?” I looked over the top of the Writer's Digest magazine I was reading.

  “If I tell you, you have to promise you won't get mad.” Josh bargained like a game show host.

  I straightened in the chair. “Just tell me.”

  “Don't get mad, but I think I might have to get in a fight tomorrow.”

  “With who? Why? What happened?”

  Josh sat on the floor beside my chair with his head bowed. He picked at the rubber sole of his shoe. “A kid over at the McDonald's parking lot by the high school was doing burn-outs and screeching his tires and I told him he doesn't look cool, he just looks like a dumbass who has to buy tires a lot.”

  A smile tugged at my lips. Scientific proof. Candor is hereditary. But the question remains, is it nature or nurture?

  “I just wanted to tell you, so when I go over to visit my friends at lunch tomorrow and come home all beat up, you'll know why.”

  I set the magazine on the side table. “First of all, you need to know when and where you can shoot off your mouth. I suggest you don't do it with boys who are bigger and older than you.” I stood up and patted the spikes of his hair. “Second, you're not going to get beat up.”

  I grabbed my car keys off the wall hook behind the front door and picked up my purse. “Go clean your room. I'll be back in about an hour.”

  A little over forty-five minutes later, I pulled back into our driveway, opened the garage, and began unloading the car. I'd had to put the top down to transport the largest item home.

  I met Josh in the hall between our rooms. I had pulled my hair into a ponytail, changed into old gray sweats, a wife-beater tank top, and cross-trainers. “Come into the garage, I want to show you something.”

  As soon as we entered the garage, his eyes bugged out. “Whoa! No way! What's that?”

  “That's BOB,” I said. “A Body Opponent Bag.” I slipped my hands into a brand new pair of purple sparring gloves and secured the elastic bands around my wrists. I took my stance in front of the training dummy and rained a series of blows on the pink rubberized flesh, finishing with a jab to the well-defined solar plexus and a right cross to Bob's chiseled polymer jaw.

  There were certain benefits of growing up fist fighting in parking lots. A year of Shotokan didn't hurt either.

  “Mom, you look like the lady in Terminator 2,” Josh shouted over the sound of my punches connecting with the dummy.

  “Now it's your turn.” I took off my gloves and tossed a larger black pair to Josh.

  He took a few awkward swings.

  I coached him through the dynamics of punching power. Elbow thrusts, blocks, and back-knuckle strikes. I demonstrated how to crush a windpipe and how to break a knee. Then I told him the rules.

  “Don't ever pick a fight with someone. If I find out you did, I'll kick your ass myself.” I paused long enough for Josh to realize I was serious. “But if a guy comes at you, knock him down. Hard. And tell him you don't want to fight,” I said. “If he gets up and comes after you again, knock him down harder. Just know that he wants to hurt you, and he will, if you give him the chance.” I stepped close to Josh, right up in his face. “Don't give him the chance.”

  I popped The Matrix soundtrack CD into my old boom box and set it on top of the washing machine. “Now, practice everything I showed you.” I left Josh in the garage pounding on B.O.B. to the manic shrieks of Marilyn Manson.

  One of Josh's friends called later that night. He said the boy from McDonald's drove by our house and saw Josh pummeling the dummy in the open garage.

  Josh never did have to fight him.

  gentlemen only ladies forbidden

  Tuesday, November 19

  The rattle of the golf ball dropping into the plastic cup was the best sound I think I'd ever heard. At least, on the golf course. I sank a twenty-foot putt that made my golf partner gasp.

  I already had myself convinced that the LPGA tour was within my grasp. And it was only my second class of golf lessons.

  Everything about golf reminded me of Kevin, but it was a different feeling now. No longer a searing grip on my heart; it had faded to a soft nostalgia for something that felt like it existed in another lifetime.

  I abandoned the golf plan to get back with Kevin even before the classes began, but decided to continue with the lessons for recreation. After two days, I felt like I had a natural talent for golf that could really go somewhere. How ironic.

  The class moved to the chipping practice area. I swung th
e club to catch the bottom of the ball and bounce it onto the green, but it was more of a chop than a chip. My club dug into the grass and never made it to the ball. The reverberation quaked up my arm from the impact with the earth. I tried again and a clump of grass peeled back like a scab. I moved the ball and tried again. I connected with the ball and it sliced to the right, directly into the instructor's ankle.

  “Fore?” I winced when he looked at me sharply.

  Jamming my 9-iron back into my golf bag, I wheeled it away from the chipping green and decided to salve my ego with another world-class run of putting.

  Back on the putting green, I found I couldn't have knocked a donut into the Grand Canyon with a croquet mallet. It didn't make sense. Just twenty minutes ago, I was sinking putts like Tiger Woods with tits.

  I hate golf. Stupid game.

  Why did I ever want to learn this crap anyway?

  I quit.

  FOR SALE: Callaway ladies golf clubs—starter set. With rolling bag included. 10 boxes of Titleist balls. Foot Joy golf shoes, size 7. Liz Claiborne golf apparel, size 2. Make me an offer. I'm not in-love with the golf pro anymore.

  outlook turnovers

  1 lb. fresh perspective

  16 oz. self-satisfaction

  1/2 tsp. pure delight

  Roll perspective until sunny and fluffy.

  Fill with self-satisfaction. Sprinkle with pure delight. Fold lengthwise. Cut into individual pockets of freedom. Pinch open ends with giddy realization.

  Bake until golden and luscious.

  Serve with warm glass of high spirits.

  Yield: Total fulfillment.

  Unlimited servings.

  Nutritional Value: None.

  No guaranteed weight loss.

  You know you're hot, no matter what else is going on in your life.

  part five

  the

  real

  thing

  seven-hour splash

  Wednesday, November 20

  The valet at the Surf & Sand Hotel opened my car door. “Checking in?” he asked.

  “I'm just here for lunch.” I took the parking stub and tucked it into my purse, making a mental note to have it validated in the restaurant.

  My sandals made a clicking sound on the flagstones as I hurried down the steps toward the seaside bar, already an hour and a half late. Not the best way to start a first date. Okay, I know it wasn't technically a date, but that was only because I told myself it shouldn't be.

  A gritty sprinkling of sand crunched under my footfalls. I stopped for a deep breath, then stepped through the doorway. Steven's back was to the entrance. I could see his blonde head tilted to cradle his cell phone against his shoulder.

  I slid onto the stool beside him. A children's book lay open on the bar; his work-worn hand reached out and carefully turned the last page. He finished reading the story in Danish into the phone. I was so late that I missed hearing the dental adventures of Karjus and Baktus, not that I would've understood a single word.

  “I'm sorry I'm late. Did you get my message?” I asked when he ended his call.

  “I was already here.” Steven held my gaze.

  “I really am sorry. I hoped I'd catch you before—”

  “It's okay.” He eased the moment with a slight smile. “I took the time to flip through my magazine and read a bedtime story to my nieces in Denmark.” Steven tucked the book into the backpack at his feet.

  While he retied his tennis shoe, I noticed the current issue of The Economist rolled and tucked into the mesh side pocket of his bag.

  “You look nice,” he said.

  “Thank you.” I smoothed my gauzy skirt, suddenly aware of how overdressed I was. My beige, soft lace top was supposed to be a nice romantic complement to the skirt, but I only succeeded in looking like the bride at a bohemian wedding.

  We ordered drinks and moved to a table facing the windows. Steven pulled out the table so I could slide onto the cushioned bench. The row of windows opened wide to a gentle breeze. Sunlight glinted off the wave caps while seagulls dipped and called in the clear sky. The day was more May than November.

  Lunch passed with easy conversation and only one awkward moment. When I attempted to spear it with my fork, a grape tomato from my Niçoisé salad shot across the table, left a messy trail of dressing, and bounced onto the floor. Steven pretended not to notice.

  After lunch, Steven stood and offered his hand. “Would you like to take a walk on the beach?”

  I couldn't think of anything I'd rather do. I just wanted the date to go on and on.

  “That would be great,” I said.

  Steven threw his backpack over his shoulder and I followed him down the narrow stairs toward the sand. My eyes passed from his broad shoulders encased in a white T-shirt down to his—YIKES. Hideous shorts. Navy blue corduroy OP shorts resurrected from the early 1980s.

  But I suppose I can overlook the shorts. A smile pulled the corners of my lips. Steven's hips were narrow like his waist. From the back, he looked like a Calvin Klein underwear model. His thighs were shapely and strong and he had amazing calves—rounded and well muscled. I was glad he couldn't see the appraising look on my face.

  We stepped into the sand and Steven held my purse while I removed my sandals.

  When I finished, I reached out and said, “I can take it now.”

  He adjusted the strap over his left shoulder. “It's okay. I'll carry it for you,” he said, taking my hand in his.

  Funny. If I had asked an American guy to hold my purse in public, he would've acted like I handed him a flaming tampon. I almost laughed out loud at the thought. I liked that Steven was different.

  We walked in the dark, spongy sand at the water's edge. One stream of conversation flowed into another and Steven's pockets filled with the shells I collected along the way. Sandpipers skittered up and down the shoreline with the ebb and flow of the tide, their little legs an animated blur of motion.

  It was the most perfect day on Earth.

  My hand felt warm, cradled in the slightly rough cushions of his hand. It was comforting, the feeling of strength and tenderness in the way his wrapped around mine. From one end of the beach to the other, and back again, the rhythm of our conversation matched our languid pace.

  Steven told me how he fell in love with the United States when he came for a year as an exchange student in high school. Then he returned to Denmark, but promised himself he'd be back. He applied for a student visa and came to attend Northeastern University. After college, he started a business cleaning houses, and twelve years later, had become a general contractor who built and remodeled custom homes. Word of mouth as his only advertisement.

  “I love being here, love what I do, and my boss allows me to take long lunches,” he said, adding a smile to go with his joke.

  I couldn't help but admire someone so solid, so self-made—with such quiet confidence. No silver spoon. No self-importance. So real.

  I bent and picked up a milky-colored stone. Turning it in my palm, I found it was a smooth piece of glass tumbled and fogged by the sand. I rubbed it between my fingers as we walked.

  “What about you?” He swung my arm gently, our fingers laced together.

  “There's not much to tell. Grew up on an Arabian horse ranch, but always wanted to live near the ocean. My dad was a sergeant for the L.A. County Sheriff's department. I was a daddy's girl and he was my Superman. He died at forty-six of congestive heart failure when Josh was only four months old.”

  I could've spent all day talking about what it was like to lose my Dad, but it was always easier to gloss over it than relive the darkness. I didn't want to drag down the mood of the date, so I continued on. “I have a little sister who is nine years younger. We've never been very close. She's in Afghanistan right now, in the Army. My mother moved to the high desert, and still has a few horses.” I wrapped up my less-than-interesting autobiography. “And some day, I'm going to be a rich and famous writer.” I nudged my shoulder against him.r />
  “Well, maybe I should ask for your autograph now,” he said.

  “Maybe you should,” I teased.

  Steven stopped and looked across the horizon. “I know we've spent the entire day together,” he said, turning to face me, “but would you like to stay and watch the sunset?”

  “With you? Definitely.” I gathered my skirt against my legs and lowered myself onto the sloping hill of sand.

  He moved to sit close beside me, our shoulders touching.

  The sun sank slowly, spreading a red-violet banner across the sparse clouds. The sand shifted under me as I leaned against him. He wrapped his warm arms around me and I wanted so much to turn and kiss him, but I wanted him to kiss me first. Everything about the day felt so absolutely perfect; I didn't want to do anything to ruin it.

  The sun disappeared into the ocean and faint stars appeared, dotting the twilight sky.

  “We know they had good food for lunch. Maybe we should stay to have dinner.” His tone sounded like he was joking about the time, but the look on his face said it was a real invitation.

  “I can't believe how late it is. I have to get home.” I felt like my carriage would turn into a pumpkin if I didn't leave while everything was still perfect.

  We collected my car from the valet and I drove him to where he had parked, pulling up behind his Suburban at the curb. I watched him walk to his SUV and, for the second time, marveled at his fitness.

  “I have something for you,” he called out over his shoulder.

  I saw him lift a parking ticket from the windshield and flip it onto his dash. I crossed my arms on the frame of my open window and watched him as he pulled a box from behind the driver's seat. Steven walked back to my car and folded himself into the small passenger seat of my Celica.