BreakupBabe

by Rebecca Agiewich

I missed LTLB desperately, but that was better than missing Loser. At least with LTLB there was a teeny-tiny possibility that we could someday be together. Not that we’d discussed that this time around. I’d been too shy to bring it up, too afraid of getting shot down in my already vulnerable state. LTLB, of course, had not come forth with any marriage proposals.

  I missed my mom, too, and Barney. The morning before I left, he’d jumped into the bed with me and lay down within licking distance of my cheek. He had to be removed bodily by my mother when it was time for me to get up, because he’d pinned the comforter on top of me and blocked all movement.

  I roused myself enough to give my coffee order to the excitable and flamboyantly gay barista at the register. Today, when I arrived at the register, he looked at me slyly and said, “Do you know what band this is that’s playing? QUICK!”

  “Aztec Camera?” My voice was hoarse, this being the first time I’d spoken today. I was not normally an expert on music trivia, but for some reason I’d purchased this relatively obscure album back in tenth grade.

  “YES!” he yelled, his small body wriggling with excitement. Then he high-fived me. “Good job!”

  Jolted awake by that minor success, I was now realizing—not for the first time—how the best moments of my day happened when (1) I was halfway through my first cup of coffee, and (2) I was writing. Today was no exception. General C. (along with Sensible Girl and Needy Girl) was, apparently, the product of just the right amount of caffeine. Enough for my brain to be awake but not overstimulated.

  I was worried, though, about how much detail I was going into about the wedding. Did my readers really want to know all this? How the flowers smelled? How the music sounded? I wasn’t writing a novel, after all. Wouldn’t my readers enjoy it more if I was just funny and snappy, giving ironic commentary on everything rather than plunging into the particulars?

  Then I remembered something that Wes, a former writing teacher of mine, used to say. “You are building a world for your reader, one that is made up of very specific sights, smells, sounds, and sensations. The more concrete the details, the more the reader will be submerged in your world.” Wes taught creative writing for the University of Washington Extension program, where I’d taken classes several years back. He was a great teacher—so much better than the famous Roger Garth, who’d condescended to teach undergraduate creative writing at U.C. Berkeley.

  After reading my first story aloud in class, Garth announced, “I have nothing, really, to say about this story.” Then, all jowls and world-weary green eyes, he looked at the rest of the class and waited for some poor soul to jump into the void and say something, anything, nice about my beginner’s attempt at fiction. Garth helped destroy what little confidence I had in my creative writing abilities by my sophomore year in college.

  So it wasn’t until age twenty-seven, my self-worth boosted by my minor success in the journalism world, that I dared to attempt fiction again in my class at the University of Washington.

  I was hoping, when I signed up for Wes’s class at U.W., that fourth grade would not forever remain the pinnacle of my creative career. Back then, encouraged by my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Bloomstedt, I had produced an entire book of short stories, hand-printed on colored index cards and bound together with brass tacks. Mrs. Bloomstedt read one of these stories—“The Man Who Paid Only in Change”—out loud one rainy November day, and I remember the pride I felt as my ten-year-old classmates listened in stunned silence (or was it abject boredom?) to the tragic ending of the tale, the part where the protagonist collapses fatally on the street due to the immense weight of all the change in his pocket.

  After finishing the story, Mrs. Bloomstedt lowered the book with a rhapsodic sigh and said, “I do think Rachel is going to be a famous writer one day, don’t you, class?” She was not the most nonpartisan of teachers (while my talents were always expounded on, for example, Davy Nystrom was often dragged around the classroom by his ear), but her adoration did wonders for my self-confidence. I decided right then that yes, I probably would become a famous writer, thank you very much. That is, if I decided not to become a rock-and-roll singer or a movie star—two of the other options I was considering.

  Over the years, though, after countless professors tearing my writing to shreds, I was no longer so sure of my calling. So I was thrilled to discover in Wes’s class, seventeen confidence-busting years later, that my imagination was still alive. That I could, in fact, finish a fictional story (something I’d failed to do since my Roger Garth days), and that my writing teacher, as well as my fellow students, had good things to say about my efforts.

  “Your stories always have great details,” one of my fellow students had commented. “They really bring me into the scene.”

  Ah, what the heck. If my blog readers didn’t like the details, they would tell me, right?

  When I sat down next to LTLB, tripping on the hem of my dress, he looked at me and said, “Wow, you look great.”

  “Thanks.” I tried to sound calm. The sight of LTLB momentarily replaced my anxiety with lust. To think—this glossy-haired, high cheekboned, well-built man was my date! Due to our frenzied make-out session in the car last night, I knew this was one of our on-again times. I was praying that we’d be on again at least one more time after the wedding.

  The sound of a saxophone startled me. I looked over to see my uncle Simon, professional musician and debonair bachelor-by-choice, puffing away. The song he and my sister had agreed upon was Debussy’s “Claire De Lune.” The sweet and slightly melancholy tune brought tears to my eyes even before Li’l Sis appeared with my mom at the back of the gazebo.

  “Tears are okay,” whispered General C., his gruff voice surprisingly gentle. “But try to hold off just a little bit before you start with the waterworks.” He sounded a bit choked up himself. “You’re doing good, kid. Count down twenty-five minutes and then you can get shit faced. Now, make me proud!”

  I grabbed LTLB’s hand and he held on to it in return. His hand was warm and steady, in contrast to mine, which was clammy and trembling. My sister looked tan and sensational in her sparkling champagne dress. She was also smiling what looked like a real smile—not just her normal nervous facsimile of one—and was turning this way and that to make eye contact with people as she walked down the aisle. Li’l Sis, unlike me, did not like to be the center of attention, and so her poise impressed me. My mom, dressed in an olive and silver concoction, was also smiling broadly (she didn’t mind the spotlight), and I was glad to see that she was not bawling yet.

  I looked over at Super Brother-in-Law, waiting for my sister. If Li’l Sis looked calm, SBL looked positively serene. For a few seconds, I couldn’t look away from him—the way his green eyes shone as he watched Li’l Sis advance toward him, at the way he looked so sure of things. What the hell was he on anyway?

  And I realized, with a start, how much harder this would have been for me if Loser were here. Whenever Loser and I were around Li’l Sis and SBL, the tension in our relationship stood out in stark contrast to the ease and peace in theirs. It never helped that they could barely hide their dislike for him. I hadn’t felt sure of Loser the way Li’l Sis and SBL felt sure of each other, and I understood now that there had been good reason for that.

  As I watched my little sister—former archenemy and closest playmate combined—marry this man who totally adored her, I cried for both of us. I cried a little bit because I was unlucky, but mostly because she was so lucky. And when I stood up to clap with everyone else, I was clapping not just for her but for myself, because I knew, at least for the moment, that my loss was not nearly as big as her gain.

  Seven hours, four glasses of champagne, two glasses of Merlot, and three pieces of wedding cake later, I was lying next to LTLB in bed, waiting for him to go to sleep. I’d been giddy ever since I’d chugged my first glass of champagne. I’d given a witty yet sniffle-inducing toast. I’d charmed friends and relatives alike. I’d danced for hours with a variety of sma
ll children, nearly throwing my back out to lift them up and twirl them around. I’d posed for an endless number of pictures, looking like a flamenco dancing queen. I’d honestly felt nothing but selfless joy and happiness and proved to my family that I could be strong when it counted. Best of all, I’d managed to slip over to spend the night at LTLB’s parents’ house (they were conveniently out of town) without upsetting my mother.

  But now I was paying for it. The sadness and anxiety that had unsuccessfully tried to worm their way in all evening had breached the champagne- and Celexa-fortified gates. General C. seemed to have gone AWOL after his hard night. (When he’d promised me earlier that I could get “shit faced,” he’d directly contradicted Dr. Melville’s warning to “drink alcohol with moderation while on Celexa.”) Even sex with LTLB had distracted me only briefly. Or maybe even made things worse. I was now headed full speed toward a complete crash.

  I’d been so excited to come over here and take up where we’d left off during our last on-again time. I knew it wouldn’t go anywhere, but it would feel good, I knew that. And it would help me forget Loser.

  Ha.

  As soon as I heard LTLB’s gentle snoring, I rolled into a fetal position and started to cry. I cried quietly, so as not to wake him. He already felt insecure enough. Ever since we’d climbed into bed, he’d been asking questions like “What do you want me to do?” and “Did that feel good?”

  The truth was it felt fine—great, even—but immediately afterward the downward spiral began. Instead of making me forget Loser as I thought it would—instead of liberating me—having sex with LTLB only made me miss the lying, cheating weasel.

  Besides, LTLB and I were never going to be together. Why had I made myself emotionally vulnerable by sleeping with him when I was already so messed up?

  My tears dripped onto the soft flannel sheets, which were white with little blue sheep on them. Against my will, I could smell Loser’s green-apple shampoo. I could feel his soft lips on mine, the weight of his thick chestnut hair in my hands. I remembered how he used to kiss me so much, before, during, and after s*x. How we knew each other so well in bed. I was remembering how, every time it was over, he’d wrap his long, thin body around mine, and whisper in my ear, “I love you.”

  I stopped typing. Swiped at my eyes. Damn it. I was not going to cry here in Victrola. This was the happy place, the place where I wrote my troubles away and got high on caffeine. I grabbed my Americano and took a slug, then put it down too hard on the shaky table, where it splattered slightly. I looked around, embarrassed. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.

  The cute barista. He’d somehow slipped in unnoticed again, and was now behind the counter in a sky blue T-shirt that flattered his fair complexion. He was also—no. That couldn’t be. Was he looking at me? When I met his eyes, he gave me a quick, shy smile and looked away.

  Oh God. He’d seen me crying, hadn’t he? But maybe he hadn’t even been looking at me. I glanced around furtively to see if there was someone else he might have been smiling at. There was a girl with her back to me at the table just in front of me. She had long blond hair streaked with expensive-looking copper highlights. She wore a mauve sweater with a black feather boa at the neck and a black beret. Maybe it was her he’d been smiling at. In fact, hadn’t I noticed her talking with him recently?

  Yes. I had. I recognized the beret. She’d been chatting him up the other day as she bought her double-tall-nonfat-no-sugar-vanilla-soy latte. And she looked like a fucking model. I, on the other hand, had rushed out of the house today without a shower and stuck my hair up in a high ponytail that had strange bumps in it and lots of hair falling out of the rubber band. I also hadn’t been able to find any usable eyeliner. Things were still in disarray after my move. And, of course, I hadn’t unpacked anything from my trip to California, either.

  Of course he was looking at her. Not me.

  Whatever.

  This interlude, however, at least had the effect of drying my tears. Funny how heartbreak could disappear in an instant in the face of possibility, no matter how remote! Casting an annoyed glance at the long, graceful neck of Beret Chick (how pretentious to wear a fucking beret!), I reread what I’d just written. Then laughed to myself when I realized I’d written a whole paragraph about sex. Or, rather, s*x. (I’d learned from other bloggers about the judicious use of asterisks in any sex-related words so as to cut down on hits from porn seekers who might leave rude comments. People seeking online gratification were much more likely to Google the word “sex” than “s*x” or “fuck” than “f*ck.”) And to think, just a couple weeks ago, I’d hesitated to even hint at sex.

  Hmm. Well, for now, I would leave it in. It was integral to the story I was telling, after all. If it hadn’t been for the sex, I might not have gotten so depressed, right? I could only hope LTLB would never find the blog and read about how our sexual escapades had thrown me into despair.

  I pulled my knees closer into my chest and worked harder to stifle my sobs. After about ten minutes, the sheets were wet beneath my face. I opened my eyes and saw that all the blue sheep in my immediate vicinity were stained cobalt blue with tears.

  I really wanted to wake LTLB because I did not want to be alone with this grief. But that’s what it means to be single, doesn’t it? You go through the scariest sh*t in life without anyone to hold you. There’s no for better and worse, in sickness and in health. There’s just you, crying alone in strange beds, counting out the days until you die alone, like Eleanor f*cking Rigby.

  Then a chill went through my body. The feverish memories disappeared. And for the first time all night, for the first time through all the jittery prewedding preparations, the beautiful ceremony, the champagne-dazzled reception, I was jealous of my sister.

  She got to marry the man she loved. She would have babies before she was too old. She would never have to deal with sleazy, noncommittal men again. If she became incontinent, there would be someone to change her diapers. I, on the other hand, was equally deserving of a husband, if not more so. I’d had more boyfriends! I was older! Thinner! More glamorous! Wasn’t I? But when I became ready for Depends, she and SBL would put me in a nursing home and forget about me, leaving me to the mercy of sadistic half-wits in white coats.

  So why her and not me? Maybe, I thought, feeling the heat from LTLB’s body—so close and yet so far away—I’d been too busy chasing Mr. Wrongs down deserted back alleys. All that time, Mr.

  Right had probably been waiting in the wings and I’d missed my chance.

  Suddenly, LTLB rolled over onto his side and draped his arm across me. I held my breath, willing the tears to stop, hoping he wouldn’t say anything to me. A few seconds later, he started to snore again. As I listened to him, and moved my head so that my face was resting against warm, dry flannel, I started to calm down. I let my breath out. A couple more halfhearted sobs escaped.

  I was cold now, so I moved in closer to LTLB. His body radiated heat. It was bigger than Loser’s. Stronger, bulkier, more muscular. But it was familiar, too, in its own way. And after a little while, I fell asleep, my arms intertwined with his.

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  I checked my watch. Shit. 10:30! Time always flew when I was writing. I packed up my laptop quickly. At least no one at work cared if I got in at 11—as long as I had no meetings to go to and got my work done.

  As usual after writing my blog, I felt cleansed. High. I would probably crash when I got to my pile of boring work and my dark little office, but at least for the twenty-minute drive there I could crank up the radio and enjoy the creativity and caffeine buzz.

  When I strode out of Victrola, I tried not to look at the cute barista. Play it cool. You look like crap anyway. But I couldn’t help it. He was right there at the counter. I glanced his way and—he looked up at me. His brown eyes locked onto mine. Then he smiled. Yes!

  I practically did a little jig when I got outside, where the September sunshine put a honeyed sheen on everything.
I breathed in the warm air, with just a hint of fall on its edges, and thought, I still got it.

  POST A COMMENT

  Glad you got some, anyway. Things have been a bit slow around here.

  Delilah | Homepage | 9/4/02—3:13 P.M.

  OMG, I recently had to go to my best friend’s wedding after being dumped by the guy I thought I was going to marry. The only way to get through it was with loads of alcohol and flirting with every single guy there (of which there were about two). I can totally relate to everything you went through, only I didn’t get as lucky afterward. nukie | Homepage | 9/4/02—9:37 P.M.

  Chapter Six

  Sunday, September 15, 2002

  10:03 AM Breakup Babe

  The phrase “up and down” fails to do justice to my emotional state about as much as the word “hot” does to Benicio del Toro.

  Just last night, I was sprawled on my velvety red couch from the Bon Marche ($750) sobbing yet again. I was alone, except for Mr. Pickle, a gray stuffed elephant my mom had bought me in the midst of The Great Unpleasantness. My housewarming party had just ended. The last of my friends had tumbled cheerfully down the stairway, all chatting and laughing, loud and half drunk.

  Half an hour after that, I was on top of the world again after making a date with the hottest man west of the Mississippi (save Benicio del Toro), who we will dub “Sexy Boy” (SB).

  Let me explain.

  SB has been an acquaintance of mine for some time now. I’ve always thought he was cute, but when he walked into my housewarming party that night, I saw him in a whole different way. God, he was sexy! That soft, tousled brown hair! Those green eyes! That strong yet comforting-looking body.

  Maybe it was the big shot of tequila I’d just tossed back, but still—the feeling was so novel, yet also so familiar. That pow feeling I got in the pit of my stomach, the high that took over when hormones mixed with hope. I took one look at him and he went into soft focus. My legs became weak and I felt sparkly little stars shooting out of my eyes à la Davy Jones of the Monkees (for whom, at age six, I’d declared my true love).