The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir (2 page)

I shifted on the couch and moved closer. “Beth
is
my stage name, my real name is Annette.”

I peeked up to look at him and our eyes connected. His were magnetic— an electric blue that glowed against his tan skin. Kevin's hair had a slight curl to it that he obviously fought to control. I reached out to touch a stray curl.

Kevin sat ramrod straight with his hands gripping his thighs. “This is the first time I've ever been to a place like this.”

“So, you're a virgin? I love virgins.” I couldn't keep the smile from spreading across my face.

It was true. Doing a private dance for a guy who'd never had one was infinitely more fun than dancing for a regular customer; there was such a feeling of innocence in the way they watched you that first time.

I could tell Kevin was uncomfortable, so I made small talk: told him about my aspiring screenwriting career, my son, and asked him about his job and his life. At least an hour passed while we laughed and talked.

“Hey! Did I waste my twenty bucks or are you going to do a dance for my friend?”

Kevin and I leaned over and looked down to the far end of the couch. Kevin's friend slouched low on the seat with a beer in one hand, and Sasha, a busty blonde, shimmying her sequined bra above his face. He motioned for me to stand up and twirled two fingers like dancing legs.

I stood and stepped in front of Kevin. “I guess I have to earn my money…”

“You don't have to dance for me if you don't want to.”

“I want to,” I said.

The next song started and I moved my body to the tempo while I slipped out of my floral-print dress. His eyes passed from the small swell of my breasts encased in a matching bikini top, down my lean torso. I swayed my thong-clad hips like a hypnotist's watch. A few times, I dipped in and hovered my lips seductively close to his. Close, but not touching.

I studied Kevin's face as I danced. Fleeting expressions moved through a range I'd seen so many times before. Embarrassment. Curiosity. Arousal. The emotions ran on a loop for the duration of the three and a half minute song. When it ended, I wiggled back into my dress and flopped casually onto the couch beside him.

We picked up the conversation where we had left off, the topics skipped tracks from tangent to tangent, two people excited to know each other. In his company, the afternoon disappeared.

“Will you dance for me again?”

His question surprised me. I so badly wanted to tell him I'd do back flips to the moon if he asked.

“Sure.”

The second dance was different than the first. The sense of awakening was gone. Longing had taken its place. His or mine, or both, I didn't know which.

Happy hour started and Kevin said it was time for him to leave. All of a sudden, neither of us knew what to say. He couldn't ask for my number. We were both awkwardly aware of how that would look considering his situation and my work environment.

“Well, if you ever want to learn how to play golf,” he said, digging a business card out of his wallet, “you could come by the course for a lesson.”

I took the card from his outstretched hand. After we exchanged a hug, Kevin stepped through the exit. He turned once and lifted his hand in a still wave before the door closed behind him.

I stood in the dim club, music pounding around me, and tucked his card into my small, silver moneybox. I couldn't care less about golf, but I couldn't deny that there was more than chemistry between us.

During our five-hour conversation, there was a connection. A feeling. A belief. Something that defied logical description. Something that spoke from my core saying, this is THE ONE. The other half of Aristophanes’ divided whole. The match. My true soul mate.

Sadly, there was a sick, cosmic joke in all of it.

Life is unfair on so many levels.

How could Kevin dump me two weeks before our anniversary? What kind of sadistic prick breaks up with his girlfriend right before an anniversary? It would have been the two-year anniversary of our first date.

Well, technically, it wasn't really a date. It was a golf lesson.

I had scheduled the lesson for the first Monday of November, a week after I met Kevin. But that morning, I awoke to a giant red pimple, blinking like a beacon on the end of my nose.

When he met me, I was wearing stage makeup in perfect, soft, pink lighting. Which meant taking a golf lesson in broad daylight, while I sported a zit the size of Jupiter, was definitely not going to happen.

I called the golf course and asked the guy in the pro shop to reschedule my lesson for the following Monday.

When that morning came, it was overcast, cold, and spitting rain. I stood at the window and watched the drizzle darken the black canvas top of my convertible Celica.

The natural wave of my hair would never last out in the damp weather. I'd look like a walking warning about the hazards of sticking a fork into a light socket. So, I called to cancel, again.

I was surprised when Kevin answered the phone. His voice sounded as crisp as that fall day. “No way. You're not canceling today. I've been looking forward to seeing you since last week,” he said.

“But the weather looks—”

“It's not really raining over here,” he said quickly.

After we hung up, I stepped into the bowels of my walk-in closet.

What do you wear to a golf lesson when the instructor is married and you wish he weren't?

God, I'm such an idiot.

I stared at the racks. The colors, organized in perfect tonal harmony, striped the length of the dowels: red, pink, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, white, brown, black. I flipped through each color category one at a time. The plastic tube hangers clicked like typewriter keys: strapless, spaghetti strap, tank style, sleeveless, short sleeve, three-quarter sleeve, long sleeve. I reached the end of the rainbow, and still didn't have anything to wear.

Why was I even going? Good question. Absurd answer: Because being near him, even to whack a stupid white ball with a metal stick, was better than never seeing him again.

I turned to the shelves. Since it was cold and rainy, I figured I'd pull a pair of sweats out of the stack. But that wouldn't work. At every country club, the women always wore tennis skirts or plaid pants. At least, that's what I remembered from watching
Dynasty
back in the '80s.

My wardrobe contained nothing remotely close to plaid pants and I had no idea where to buy a tennis skirt. I finally settled for one of my University of La Verne hoodies, an Anaheim Angels baseball cap with my ponytail pulled through, Avia cross-trainers, and a white mini skort.

Voila. Suburban country club chic.

Judging by how many times the maintenance guys circled the practice green in their little carts, I must've looked either very all right or definitely all wrong.

It was hard to concentrate on chipping the golf ball onto the green. Kevin was so damn beautiful. Whenever I looked at him, it was difficult to draw a full breath.

He was patient as he guided my hands to swing the club. Gentle and warm. I could feel the heat coming from his body when he leaned close to adjust my grip. I wanted so much to turn around, press up against him, and taste his lips. I knew it wasn't an option, but it was sweet torture just thinking about it. My heart hammered so hard that it felt like the only organ in my body.

When the golf lesson ended, I noticed the quick, thirty-minute lesson had become two languid hours.

Kevin returned my club to the bag on the back of the golf cart and climbed into the driver's seat. “Would you like a tour of the course?”

“Sure,” I said too quickly. Anything to spend more time with you.

He guided the cart along the winding path to the back nine. The grounds were immaculately manicured and framed on both sides by a densely wooded stand of trees.

It was a soundless, secret place created in a dream. The cart path led over a bridge spanning a small creek and curved along rolling hills. Moist grass filled the quiet valleys with the smell of sweet earth. As Kevin drove, the cool air brushed along my bare legs, but the shiver I felt came from deep inside and had nothing to do with the weather.

Kevin pulled the cart behind the pro shop and parked. “Would you like to grab something to eat? I cancelled my other lessons for the day.”

“Sure,” I answered instantly. It seemed like the only word I could manage.

We settled into a cozy booth at a sports grill a mile away from the course. After browsing the menu, I couldn't decide what to eat, so Kevin ordered a picnic of appetizers.

Growing up. College. Dreams. Life. We laughed and talked and gorged ourselves with fried finger foods. The hours passed like minutes.

“I want to tell you something,” Kevin said, “but I don't want you to take it wrong.”

“Okaay,” I said, not sure where he was going with his disclaimer.

“Remember I told you when we met three weeks ago that I was married?”

I swallowed hard around a jagged tortilla chip. “Yeah.”

It was so much easier just to block it out and enjoy his company—wishing life was somehow different.

“Well, I don't want you to think this has anything to do with you.” He lowered his voice, “I asked my wife for a divorce.”

My head swam and my eyes darted to his ring finger. The wedding ring was gone.

Kevin leaned forward, his forearms braced on the lacquered wood table. “You said something the day we met that stuck with me. And it made so much sense.”

I wracked my brain, trying to think of what I possibly could have said that was so profound. I replayed the pieces I could remember of our long conversation. The tavern noise receded to a soft hum. I must've been staring at him blankly.

“You said life is too short to be miserable.”

“I was talking about life in general. I didn't mean for you to divorce your wife!”

Somehow I felt sickly responsible and secretly happy all at once. If he wasn't happy with her—maybe he could be happy with me.

“Don't think I did it for you,” he said. “It's been on my mind for the last few years, but that night when I got home, I knew I finally had to do it.”

I felt like I was slowing down at a car accident on the freeway and craning to see if anyone was wounded.

“How did she react?” I couldn't stop myself from asking.

Kevin twisted a napkin in his hands. “It was really hard.” He stared at the table. “When I told her, she fell on the floor crying and threw up.”

The image of that day wet his face with tears. His voice cracked as the story tumbled out. Kevin seemed so lost, torn between feelings of obligation over the time invested in his marriage and his desire to leave.

“I tried. For so many years, I tried, but I can't do it anymore,” he said.

I moved beside Kevin and wrapped him in a hug that was both close and fierce. I wanted to take away his pain. My heart ached for Kevin and I dared to let it beat a quiet, hopeful rhythm for the possibilities of a future with him.

When Kevin came to me that day, I benefited from what had resulted in Joanne's sorrow. I took her place in his life.

Two years later, I finally felt her raw, bleeding loss. Now, it was my turn to spend my days crippled and vomiting emotion.

And somehow I thought I deserved it.

makeover madness

Thursday, October 25

“Sorry, Mom. See you later. Love you.” Josh shot a quick peck onto my cheek then jumped out of the passenger seat and ran up the sidewalk to the schoolyard. Getting caught up in morning cartoons had made him miss the bus.

I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse, scanned the internal phonebook, and punched the call button. The ringing echoed from somewhere on the dark side of Saturn.