The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir (19 page)

After driving all over town, one after another, I crossed the rentals off my list.

“Oh, you have
two
dogs? No, I'm sorry, you can only have one.”

“You're a writer
and
you work in a bar? Well, I'm not sure this is in your price range.”

“It's just you and your teenage son? And you
homeschool?
Now, isn't that interesting.”

I sat in my car and pulled at the bodice of my ridiculously conservative, ankle-length, floral dress. Halloween in June. This year, I'm dressed up like a woman you'd want to rent your house to.

I read the details of the last house on the list: Cozy two-bedroom. Tile floors. Fenced backyard. $1,550 a month.

When I pulled up in front, I felt a flutter of excitement. It was less than half a mile away from Valerie's house. Small, only 1100 square feet, but totally cute. Slate blue with white trim. It even had flowerbeds and window boxes.

A dour-looking lady walked across the lawn and introduced herself. How convenient. Erma is the landlord—and she lives next door. Quick tally time. Pro: save the cost of a stamp each month by not mailing the rent check. Con: live like a bug under a hot magnifying glass.

Erma unlocked the door and ushered me inside. Tile flooring throughout, except in the two carpeted bedrooms. Just the right size for Josh and me. Plenty of kitchen storage for my Tupperware. Perfect. A grassy backyard; the branches of a big tree on the other side of the block wall created a large pool of shade for the dogs. A two-car, detached garage with laundry hookups. Everything was absolutely perfect. I could barely contain myself from pulling that sour-faced woman into a spontaneous jitterbug.

“I love it! I can give you a deposit right now if you'd like.” I unzipped my purse and reached for my wallet.

“Well…” she hedged, “I'd rather have you just fill out an application. I'd like to give everyone who is interested a chance to apply.”

Nice. Translation:
I'd rather rent to anyone but you.

I wanted to hide in the bushes on the side of the house and tell any other prospective tenants that it was already rented; thereby, increasing my odds of not having to check into a homeless shelter in a week and two days.

I filled out the application. All I had to do was wait for “the call.”

It finally came at ten o'clock at night. First, Erma let me know that the couple she really wanted as tenants had changed their minds. She said it was my lucky day. And by the way, the pet and security deposits are doubled. It would cost $5,000 to move in. I could start tomorrow, but of course, I'd have to pay for the extra days, and if I decided to wait, she might change her mind and rent to someone else. So, naturally, I jumped on it. At least we finally had a place to live and it wasn't a cardboard box in the alley behind the YWCA.

the parting gift

Sunday, June 23

I sat cross-legged on the carpet. Tears blurred my vision. I knew the day would come. I thought I'd be ready to move out of our house. For eight months, it felt like I was in limbo, a thin chain of hope dangling from my neck like a secret locket. A little part of me hoped that still having Kevin's furniture and the house would somehow keep us tied together.

My cell phone rang. I looked at the incoming number. Ryan. Again. I thought about letting the call go to voicemail, but finally answered it.

“Hey, I've been trying to get a hold of you,” Ryan said. “I left a couple messages. I really enjoyed our lunch date on Monday and wanted to see if you'd like to go out again.”

I looked down at the pictures scattered around me in a semicircle on the floor. Kevin's beautiful face smiled back at me. I picked up a picture of him standing in front of Tobi's Shave Ice shop in Maui. Tan and bare-chested, he wore Hawaiian print board shorts, a Titleist baseball cap, and a big smile.

“So, what do you think? How about dinner tonight?”

More tears ran freely down my cheeks. “I don't think so. I have to pack up the last of my things to move tomorrow, so I'm gone when Kevin comes to pick up his furniture.”

“Do you need some help? I could bring my truck and help you load up,” Ryan said.

“No, that's okay. But thanks for offering.” I wiped away the tears that were collecting along my jaw.

“Annette, I know this is hard for you, but like I said in those voicemail messages, if I can do anything for you, just let me know.”

“Thanks, but maybe you should back off for a while. I need to get through this alone.” I didn't want to sound harsh, but there just wasn't any room for Ryan when my heart and head were full of Kevin.

“I understand.” He sounded like he really didn't. “I'll give you your space, but just know I still want to take you out sometime.”

“Okay, thanks. I really have to go.” I hung up and stretched out facedown on the carpet, my shoulders heaved with sobs.

Why couldn't he be Kevin?

“Mom?” Josh stood in the bedroom doorway. “I finished with the last of my packing. Can I spend the night at Adam's?”

I sat up and wiped the tears from my cheeks with the palms of my hands. “Take your toothbrush. I'll call you in the morning to help me load.”

Josh eyed the pile of pictures on the floor. “You've been looking at those for two hours. Maybe you should pack them now.”

I rose from the floor and gave him a hug and kissed his forehead. “I'll see you in the morning. I love you.”

He hugged back. “I love you too.” Josh walked out of the room, looking back once over his shoulder. “Don't cry anymore, Mom,” he said quietly.

After I heard the front door close behind him, I bent to my task of sorting the pictures to compile a small album to leave for Kevin. I slid a picture into the opening of a clear sleeve.

My hand stopped when I reached for the next picture. I held it in my hand and the memories drew me into it. Bel Air. A small bed and breakfast tucked away on a quiet street. Kevin sat on the bed wearing a white T-shirt and jeans with his acoustic guitar slung across his body. He sang “Save Tonight” by Eagle-Eye Cherry.

Behind my eyelids, I could see his head bent over the guitar, his fingers strumming the chords. I quietly joined him and sang the words to my empty room. A new stream of tears rushed down my face and a sob choked my throat. Kevin played that song often as he practiced his guitar. I loved to listen to it over and over. Those lyrics he sang never held any meaning because never once did I think they would come true.

When I finished with the pictures, it was sometime after midnight. Time had passed unnoticed as I relived the events captured by each image.

I reached for the custom jewel case I'd made. The cover was an overlapped photographic image of my hand holding a red pill and a blue pill in my palm. It was a reference from a movie,
The Matrix
, and served as my statement about Kevin's choice to leave. I knew he'd understand.

I'd made a CD of songs for him. Ok, I admit the whole thing was a bit sophomoric, reminiscent of teen-angst mix tapes made back when the songs were recorded off the radio onto cassettes. But the lyrics of the songs I chose said everything to Kevin that I would never get a chance to say. Things I should have said on the last day I saw him.

I pushed the CD into the boom box beside me on the floor and pressed the play button. Savage Garden, Enya, Dido, Everything But The Girl, Craig David, Dirty Vegas, Laura Dawn, Vanessa Carlton, and Maren Ord played on a loop, again and again. I cried myself to sleep on the floor in the darkness.

In the morning with the U-haul truck loaded and waiting, I flipped through the photo album one last time. The chronology of our nearly two years together, smiled, hugged, and kissed in the images on each page. How could Kevin walk away from this? I set the photos next to the CD and left three red roses from our garden in a glass on the kitchen counter.

waves of introspection

Monday, July 1

The sun sank into the horizon and colored the ocean with a tangerine glow. A breeze swept in off the water, carrying a salty mist and blowing strands of my hair across my face. Life went on around me. A couple jogged in the dark, spongy sand. A family of tourists ran from the tide along the water's edge, their pant legs soaked to the knees. Laguna Main Beach looked the same as always, but with sharper edges today.

It was over. The lease expired. I had the final walk-through with the landlord and returned the keys. The house was empty when we arrived. Kevin had moved out the last of his furniture and left a note for me next to the glass of wilted roses.

Leaving the house severed the final tangible tie. That last moment should've ended my torment. But I felt hollow.

I sat staring at the endless loop of crashing and receding waves, and felt insignificant and lost. The evening chill moved me from my perch in the cool sand. I strayed into the Marine Room, a tavern across from the beach, and asked for a cranberry juice, light ice, with a splash of water, and a squeeze of lime. Funny. I can even complicate something so simple as ordering juice.

With the coldness of the glass pressed wetly against my palm, I wandered over to the jukebox and stood mesmerized in the glow. The flipping pages made a tinny clap as I browsed the long list of songs.

I liked the atmosphere in the small bar. It was dim, quiet, and warm. Only five or six people in the room: a few shooting pool, an old guy at the bar watching the game, a couple sipping martinis and leaning close together, the bartender. And me. I chose a table in the darkest corner. A place to listen to music picked to suit my whims. Classic jukebox—Journey, Elton John, Pat Benatar.

I stared across the room, but the scene faded along with the music, and images of Kevin pushed their way into view.

The relationship was really over. He was gone.

It was hard living in that tomb of a house surrounded by his furniture and other things he had no use for. But cutting the final ties felt like starting the break-up all over again. It was square one. The pain was raw and fresh.

I reached to drink from my glass but found it warm and empty. Somehow, the juice and the ice were gone after only a single sip. I thought about ordering another drink. But I knew that if I did, it wouldn't be cranberry juice. And I didn't want to go down that road, so I tucked two dollars under the glass and rose to leave. When I pushed open the door, the marine layer, like a low-slung cloud, rolled inland along Ocean Avenue. I turned my face to the sky and welcomed the salty mist that hung damply in the night air.

no fireworks like the real thing

Independence Day
July 4

I reclined on a lounge chair in Valerie's backyard. My cell phone rang again. The tone played the
Mission Impossible
theme. I pushed the button to send it to voicemail. The smell of barbeque smoke wafted from over the neighbor's fence. I heard Josh and Valerie's three teens shrieking in the front yard, embattled in a water balloon fight.

“He keeps calling. Are you going or not?” Valerie checked the line from the propane tank to the grill then wiped her hands on her jean shorts.

“I don't know. I told him the last time he called that I'd decide later.”

“Later when? After the fireworks start?” Valerie grabbed a bag of chips and reached in up to her elbow.

“That's just crumbs. The kids finished it.” I handed her a new bag. “Maybe I'll tell him I decided to stay here.”

Valerie dug a chip into the mound of guacamole. “Bonita and the boys will be here in a while. We can do the fireworks thing with the kids. I think you should go hang out with Ryan.”

“I don't want to leave you guys. We always do holidays.” I hoisted myself off the deck chair and walked into the house.

I brought out a bowl of fat strawberries and tipped it in offering. Valerie waved it away and bit into another chip. I knew what was coming. We'd been friends for too long not to know each other inside and out.

“Don't think for a single minute,” Valerie said, “that if either Bonita or I were in your shoes that we wouldn't go to a barbeque with a cute single guy.”

Valerie always made it sound like my duty to all single mothers to lure a never-been-married, childless guy into a relationship, like it was some sort of test against the odds of it actually working out.

“Why don't you go?” I said.

“He doesn't like me, he likes you. Besides, it would never work. I have too many kids. And what is he, all of twenty-five?”

“He's twenty-nine. Almost thirty.”

“Who's almost thirty?” Bonita breezed through the patio doorway wearing a sundress, her short dark hair tucked under a woven hat. She set a tray of her famous deviled eggs on the picnic table.

Bonita always decorated each egg half with a perfect swirl of yellow stuff, a little slice of Spanish olive on top, and a tiny parsley leaf tucked into the edge. It was almost an artistic crime to eat them. I once tried to copy her culinary flair and it just looked like a Dachshund with the runs crouched over the egg tray.

I leaned across the table and reached for one of Bonita's masterpieces.

“Ryan invited Annette to a barbeque and she's too chicken shit to go,” Valerie said.

“Am not,” I argued with a mouthful of egg.

“I'll go! I'll go!” Bonita waved her hand in the air and then let it drop. “But he wouldn't like me, I have too many kids.”

Bonita looked me up and down. “You're not going to wear
that,
are you?”

I looked down at my tank top and the frayed, khaki, cargo shorts slung low on my hips—a pair I'd swiped from the Salvation Army box of clothes Josh had outgrown. “What's wrong with what I'm wearing?”

“The ponytail, the flip flops, and those long, baggy shorts—it's just not sexy,” Bonita said.

“It's a barbeque and fireworks. I'm not changing clothes.”

“So, you
are
going?” Valerie sounded pleased.

“Only so you'll shut up about it.” I grabbed a mini gherkin from the relish tray and chucked it at her.