by Beth Merlin
“I seriously doubt that.”
“I understand you feel that way now, but I can rattle off the names of dozens of women who’ve sat right where you are and come out the other side.”
I reached for the box of tissues on the side table, pulled one out, and dabbed the corners of my eyes, which had become like faucets these last few weeks.
Regan reached into the envelope and pulled out a small pamphlet. “Here, this is for you. I can’t recommend this program enough. A former classmate of mine runs it out of Topsail Island in North Carolina.”
I scanned the top page. “Retreat House Breakup Boot Camp?”
“It’s a two-week retreat that includes sessions led by the top psychologists, behavioral scientists, coaches, energy healers, meditation teachers, and personal trainers. Heartbreak is a real thing. An all-consuming thing. It’s like having a broken rib. Nobody can see it, but it hurts every time you breathe.”
“Yes, it’s exactly like that,” I admitted.
She nodded and continued. “The resort’s a beautiful beachfront property with surfing and yoga. All the meals are cooked by an on-site chef, using organic and local ingredients. It’s really the perfect place to take a timeout and heal.”
“You sound like you speak from experience?”
“I was in an almost four-year relationship with the man I thought was going to be my husband. Looking back now, I can see how I ignored dozens of red flags, but I was in love. So in love, that when it ended, I could barely function. I fell apart. A friend of a friend had attended the Boot Camp and recommended it to me. Admittedly, I was a skeptic, but the weeks I spent there absolutely changed my life.”
I folded the pamphlet into my tote. “I’ll think about it.”
She nodded. “And the dress? Any decisions there?”
I stood up and walked over to where my wedding gown was hanging off a large hook and carefully unzipped the garment bag. Regan came up behind me.
“It’s a stunner,” she said.
Tears were brimming in my eyes. “Why don’t you keep the dress here. I haven’t even moved into my new place yet. I’m not sure if I’ll have the room to store it.”
“That’s not a problem,” Regan said, zipping the bag back up.
“Is that it, then, are we finished here?”
Regan nodded and passed me the envelope. “Joanna, I urge you to consider the Boot Camp. We employ people to help us fix things all the time, dish washers, car engines, bones. Why should a broken heart be any different?”
A broken heart, sure, but what about a shattered one?
Chapter Ten
Merritt’s friend Nick’s apartment was in the heart of the West Village. It was a small but very charming studio in a classic New York red brick townhouse. It had a wood-burning fireplace and small terrace that looked out onto a beautiful tree-lined and cobblestone Perry Street. As part of the subletting deal, Merritt agreed I’d watch Nick’s two Yorkies, Chaka and Kahn, while he was in Vancouver. Though I had never been much of a dog lover, I found myself feeling glad for their company and the excuse they gave me to get out of bed every morning.
I was looking forward to going to work for the very same reason, desperate for any distraction that might take my mind off Sam. Over the weekend, Colin called and filled me in on everything I missed at the agency in the week I was out. Fortunately, there wasn’t much. They’d held a second casting call for the role of Grizzabella in Cats and settled on three actresses for callbacks, which Stephen had postponed until I was back.
Walking back into the office felt eerily like when I returned to work after my mother died. Nobody knew quite what to say to me, but everyone felt they had to say something. Having worked for the Gerber Agency since college, it had seemed only right to invite the whole office to my wedding. They all knew Sam. He’d attended every Christmas party, every Gerber Agency show opening night, every company picnic. A few weeks ago, the other agents threw me a shower, and just last week, the support staff surprised me with a one thousand-dollar Amex gift card to put toward my honeymoon. I could only imagine their surprise when they received the carefully worded email from Merritt, saying the wedding of Joanna Kitt and Samuel Calver was postponed, indefinitely.
Over the course of the morning, dozens of people stopped by my desk to share their own personal anecdotes of heartbreak and betrayal. Although they all meant well, I was in no mood to commiserate and beyond grateful when Courtney sent me an email letting me know the callbacks for Cats would be at our usual audition space in Times Square at 3:00 PM.
I clicked into the email attachment with each of the actress’s headshots and resumes. All three were relative newcomers, with just a smattering of acting credits. Stephen was famous for his ability to match little-known actors with their first star-making role. He’d launched the careers of dozens of Broadway’s elites by simply casting them in an unexpected part or show. He was at it again, this time angling for an ingénue to take on the headlining role of Grizabella and the beloved ballad, “Memory” in the newly reimagined production of Cats.
A few hours later, I was only halfway through my inbox when Courtney stopped by to let me know she was heading to the auditions if I wanted to walk over with her.
“Stephen’s at a meeting with the Wicked producers, so he’ll meet us over there,” she said.
I nodded and grabbed my coat from behind the chair.
“I’m so happy to have you back,” Courtney said, holding the lobby door open for me. “Guess who was put in charge of getting Stephen’s breakfasts and lunches while you were out? I screwed up about half a dozen times.”
“He doesn’t look much worse for the wear.”
“No, but my nerves are completely shot. I’m almost relieved you aren’t going on your twelve-day honeymoon anymore.” Courtney froze in her spot and smacked her forehead. “Christ, that was insensitive of me. I just meant, Stephen relies on you so much, it’s nearly impossible to fill your shoes.”
I ran my fingers through my hair. “I knew what you meant.”
“No, really, that was a completely thoughtless remark. I’m so sorry.”
I could tell she genuinely felt terrible for what she’d just said and cut her some slack. “Courtney, it’s fine.”
“I don’t even know how you’re functioning right now, let alone back at work. I was so shocked when I got that email. I made my boyfriend read it out loud to me twice just to make sure you were actually calling your wedding off, and I wasn’t crazy.”
“You’re not crazy. I was the one who called it off. Sam cheated on me,” I answered matter-of-factly.
She put her hands over mouth. “No way. Not Sam?”
Apparently, he’d fooled everyone into thinking he was the perfect fiancé.
She lowered her voice. “Did you catch him? Like, in the act?”
“Not quite, but I saw enough to know we were over.”
“Jesus Christ that’s rough. Shoot look at the time.” She squeezed my shoulder. “I’m going to go get Stephen his Macchiato. Want anything?”
“I’m good, thanks. See you upstairs.”
I pulled open the elevator’s heavy rusty gate when a voice yelled out, asking if I could hold the door. A woman slightly out of breath came jogging into the doorway.
“Thank you,” she said, tucking her phone into her jacket pocket.
I immediately recognized her from her headshot as one of the three actresses we were meeting for callbacks. The sheet music for “Memory” was poking out from inside her overstuffed bag.
“Here for an audition?” I asked.
She pulled two small buds out of her ears. “Sorry, what?”
I pointed to her tote. “Auditioning? The sheet music?”
She nodded. “This is the farthest I’ve ever gotten in a callback process. I’m so nervous, I almost didn’t show up today.”
Light red splotches started to break out across her neck and chest that she rubbed with the palm of her hand.
She co
ntinued, “I didn’t even tell my boyfriend about this audition, in case I decided to pull out at the last minute. He’s so supportive, I didn’t have the heart to disappoint him if I couldn’t get up the nerve.”
I felt for her. This was a huge opportunity, a make-it-or-break-it opportunity. An audition that could change the course of a career. The kind of auditions I’d bombed at least half a dozen times since I declared myself an actress over a decade ago.
“Can I give you a piece of advice?” I asked.
She lowered her arms to her sides. “Please.”
“During the audition, the casting agents may ask you for something completely different, in which case you’re going to want to do something completely different. Take the direction and make the adjustments to the best of your ability. And don’t be shy. Go for it.”
The elevator door opened, and we both stepped off. Her eyes were narrowed and fixed on me. “Thank you for that. Can I ask, are you a casting—”
I tilted my head toward the audition room. “I have to go inside. Break a leg.”
An hour later, I learned the woman from the elevator’s name was Lena Moore, and she was Stephen’s front-runner for Grizabella. After she was finished performing “Memory,” Stephen made some small performance notes, which she responded to immediately. Stephen’s whole face lit up. He loved an actress who could take direction. Lena glanced over at me and flashed a small smile. My advice had worked. Stephen was positively smitten with his latest discovery.
Lena left the audition room, and Colin, Courtney, Stephen, and I huddled up to discuss the performers. Colin and Courtney weren’t quite as sold on Lena and felt she was a little too green for the part. Stephen and I argued that Lena’s take was far fresher than any of the other actresses. She’d somehow managed to turn “Memory” into a ballad of empowerment and self-affirmation, which we believed was perfect for the newly reimagined production.
After much debate, Colin and Courtney acquiesced. I knew they would. When Stephen set his sights on an actor or actress for a part, he usually got his way. The Gerber Agency would put Lena forward to the show’s producers as their top choice for Grizabella. She’d have to audition again for them, but Stephen’s track record was so outstanding, he rarely, if ever, got pushback on his recommendations.
After a successful audition round, Stephen liked to take the team to a bar around the corner to celebrate. The team begged me to stay and have a few drinks, but I’d promised my best friend, Grace, I’d meet her for dinner. I’d been avoiding Grace’s calls ever since the email canceling the wedding went out, but she managed to hunt me down through Merritt and threatened to show up at my office if I didn’t agree to see her.
Grace was almost eight months pregnant, and I didn’t want her traveling all the way downtown, so we decided to meet up at a small Italian restaurant near her apartment on the Upper East Side. Grace had been my roommate at NYU and fellow alumnus of the Tisch School of Music, where she also majored in Musical Theater. She grew up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where her family owned at least half a dozen dry-cleaning businesses.
Having been born and raised in New York City, she knew all the best restaurants, stores, and nightclubs. She taught me how to use the subway system and explained how most of the city was designed like a grid, the avenues running horizontally and the streets vertically. We shared many of the same interests and became fast friends, rooming together the entire four years of college.
I walked into the restaurant, and Grace was already seated at a small booth in the back. She waved me over to the table. I bent down and kissed her hello on the cheek.
“Stand up and let me look at you?” I said.
She slid out from the bench and did a full turn. She was wearing the cutest red-and-black checked baby doll maternity dress that perfectly hugged her round bump, a cropped black leather jacket, and motorcycle boots.
“Even eight months pregnant, you’re still the chicest woman in the room,” I teased.
“I definitely don’t feel that way.” She pointed to her feet. “These are the only shoes that will zip past my ankle. Jesus, you’re thin,” she said, eyeing me up and down. “Is this all the work of that psychotic wedding Boot Camp?”
“I can’t give the Boot Camp all the credit. The breakup is what finally got me to my goal weight.”
She eased back into the booth. “You’re joking, right?”
I sat down across from her. “Yeah, I’m joking.”
She leaned into the table. “God, Joanna, what happened? You and Sam, you guys are an institution. What was it? Cold feet?”
“He’s been seeing somebody right under my nose for at least the last six months.”
She put her hand over her mouth. “No, not Sam.”
My lower lip started to tremble. Grace rushed over to put her arm around me.
“What can I do? How can I help?” she asked.
“Merritt took care of everything when she was here. She canceled The Pierre and the photographer and florists. She sent out emails, and even found me a new apartment.”
“What does Sam have to say for himself? Does he want to be with this girl? Is he in love with her?”
“We haven’t talked since everything came to light. He’s tried. He’s left messages and emails, but I haven’t responded.”
“Jo, you have to talk to him.”
“I can’t right now. I can’t face him. I don’t think I’m strong enough.”
She covered my hand with her own. “You’re one of the strongest people I know.”
I knew she was referring to the way she thought I’d handled my mother’s illness, but I hadn’t been strong at all. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was about six, and she’d been battling the disease for most of my life. So long, in fact, I could hardly remember a time before she got sick.
In my mother’s final weeks, Merritt and my father both let me know how sick she’d become, but at that point, I was so detached from her illness it didn’t register. I continued with life as usual, hoping when I lifted my head out of the sand, the prognosis would somehow be different. I missed out on months I could’ve spent with her. Months that she was battling cancer, yes, but was also still vibrant and present.
By the time I came home to California, she was a shell of her former self. By then, the cancer had spread to her brain and spine. The medications barely touched the pain but mercifully allowed her to sleep for days at a time. The last real conversation I had with her was over the phone. She asked me to come visit, and I promised I would when Sam’s work schedule let up. She begged me to come on my own, and I gave her excuse after excuse. The flights were too expensive. Work was too busy. My father still hadn’t forgiven me for not showing up when I had the chance, and the truth was, I hadn’t yet forgiven myself.
Grace turned to face me and squeezed her eyes shut. “I hope you don’t hate me for this, but I told Sam you’d be here tonight.”
I pulled back and away from her. “You did what!”
“He called me and begged me to help him see you. I didn’t know about the cheating. He conveniently left that out of the conversation. All he told me was that you were the one who called off the wedding, and that you weren’t taking any of his calls. I thought maybe you had cold feet. I honestly thought I was helping. It’s you and Sam. I mean, if any couple deserved a second chance.”
“What time did you tell him to be here?”
She glanced down at her watch and closed her eyes. “Now.”
I spun around and saw him walking into the restaurant. My eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape. There wasn’t one. I’d have to face him. There was no other option.
Grace stood up from the booth. “What do you want me to do? Go? Stay? I’ll do whatever you ask.”
“I don’t know. Go, I guess? I should do this on my own, right?”
Grace reached down for her purse. “If you need anything, call me, okay? I can be back here in under five minutes. Under two if
I ditch the boots.”
I nodded her off as Sam approached the table. Grace shot him a dirty look and mouthed the words call me later as she walked out the door. Sam sat down in the seat across from me.
“Hey, kid,” he said softly, and I all but crumbled onto the ground. “I hope you aren’t upset with Grace. I pleaded with her to help me see you.”
“I’m not upset with Grace,” I answered sharply.
It had only been a little over a week since I last saw Sam, but he looked different. More mature, maybe? More relaxed? I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. His normally clean-shaven face was covered with a light layer of scruff I wasn’t used to seeing. He’d replaced his tailored three-piece suit with relaxed fit jeans, white T-shirt, and a black Patagonia vest.
“I know you’re upset with me,” he said.
“Well, if that isn’t the understatement of the year,” I muttered.
He pounded his fists onto the table. “Jo, you canceled our wedding . . . in an email. Do you know how that looked? To my colleagues. To my clients. You didn’t want to talk to me first? You had to go and make everything so final?”
“It is final. How could it be anything but final? You cheated on me, Sam. You lied and schemed for months and months.” I looked him square in the eye. “That dick pic you sent, that wasn’t meant for me, was it?”
“What dick pic? What are you talking about?”
I’d spent the last few days obsessively reading old emails and texts from Sam, looking for any clue to his infidelity, and I’d stumbled back to the dick pic from the night I’d gone to The Cubbyhole. The realization the picture wasn’t meant for me struck like a lightning bolt.
“Last week, when I was out with Merritt, I sent you a topless picture of myself from the bathroom bar, and you texted back a picture of yourself. That was for her, wasn’t it? That snapshot was so out of character for me that you didn’t even realize you were replying to one of my messages and thought it was one of hers.”