The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir (7 page)

Within a half hour of returning home, Josh fell asleep on the living room floor watching a Jackie Chan DVD. Buddy and Nina lay stretched out beside him. I stepped through the obstacle course of bodies to retrieve the remote and click off the TV.

The silent house made me feel restless and the room held a damp chill. I reached for a throw blanket to cover Josh, but it only covered to the back of his knees, so I flipped the switch on the fireplace.

Instant flames. No logs. No newspaper. No matches. No fuss. No ambiance either, but at least I wasn't crouched over a pile of wood shavings clicking two rocks together.

I wandered into the kitchen and stared into the gaping ‘fridge. I bypassed the real food and pulled a jar of hot fudge topping off the door rack, popped the safety top, and dug in. A thick wad of fudge clung to the spoon. Each lick smeared my tongue with smooth, sweet chocolate. I held a strip of cool fudge in my mouth until it melted—creamy and satisfying. I sat on the carpet in front of the fire and ate the entire contents of the jar while staring into the flames.

Kevin always said eating the fudge straight out of the jar was disgusting. God, I miss him so much.

My cell phone rang, interrupting my thoughts.
The Addams Family
theme ringtone signaled that it was either my mother, my sister, or my cousin.

“Hey, what're ya doin’?” Cousin Melissa exhaled a breath that sounded like it held a plume of cigarette smoke. “Let's go hang at the Yard House in Irvine Spectrum.”

“Nah, I think I want to stay home tonight.”

“It's Friday night,” she informed me like it mattered. “Get off your ass and let's go out.”

“No, really, I'm planning to take a bubble bath and read.”

“Bullshit. You're gonna sit in a tub of water until it gets cold and cry about Kevin. You better get ready, I'm coming over.”

“I'm not going,” I said.

She ignored me and kept talking. “You can drive us there, so I can get drunk. Oh, and I'm spending the night, so change the sheets. I don't want to sleep in your old, dried-up tears.”

Family. You can't stand them, but you can't kill them.

Black suede boots. Black skinny jeans. Black V-neck top. Mascara. Lipstick. Done.

I shook Josh's shoulder. “Hey, Wonderboy, wake up. Let's get you upstairs to bed.”

“Huh?” Josh wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth. He blinked and rubbed his eyes open. “Why are you all dressed up?”

I hooked a thumb in the direction of Melissa who leaned against the doorway. She fiddled with the belt of the black leather jacket cinched around her narrow waist.

Buddy nudged Melissa's leg, looking for someone to rub his head.

“Go away, dog. You're getting hair on me.” She pushed against him with her knee.

“Hey Cousin Mel.” Josh lifted a droopy hand in her direction. “Have fun, Mom.” He plowed a kiss along my cheek and staggered up the stairs, dragging the blanket behind him.

Buddy left Melissa and galloped up the stairs ahead of Josh. Nina quietly followed.

“Goodnight baby, I'll be home in a few hours. Call me on the cell if you need anything.”

“G'nite,” I heard Josh call out just before the flop of his body hit the mattress.

Melissa smoothed her platinum blonde hair and rubbed her pink, glossy lips together. “Aren't you glad I'm getting you out of this zoo?” She stepped out the front door into the glow of the porch light.

I locked the door behind us. “Yeah, I'm sure it'll be fun,” I lied.

turkey fest

Wednesday, November 21

“I called-in to ditch work. Let's go bar-hop.” Jaimee's tone sounded like she was preparing for a ten-day vacation instead of one night out.

“I don't know…” I paused with the phone cradled on my shoulder.

I'd have to call off work too. And dealing with drunk guys at a nightclub was too much like being at work—minus the tips as an incentive. And going places with Jaimee made me feel invisible.

Tall, and darkly exotic, she immediately attracted attention. Jaimee could make a burlap sack look like haute couture, but her six-pack abs were always displayed between the standard clubbing gear of low-rise jeans and a body-hugging, cropped top. I knew exactly what people thought when they saw us together: the carousel horse and the wooden pony.

“We have to go out tonight,” Jaimee whined. “The night before Thanksgiving always goes off the hook.”

I switched the phone to my other ear and made an audible groaning noise in my throat.

“C'mon, go with me. I don't want to go alone,” she said.

“Okay, fine. I'll go.”

We hung up and I dialed the number for the club. I had to yell to be heard over the music. “Sunshine, transfer me to Nate.”

He picked up on the first ring. “Yeah?” His voice rumbled from his chest like it emerged from the depths of a canyon.

“Nate, this is Beth. Take me off the schedule for tonight. I'm having some trouble with my eyes.”

“What's wrong with your eyes?” I could hear his smile tugging at the end of the question.

“I can't see coming in to work tonight,” I said.

It was a joke we shared over the last five years. Nate was the most laid-back manager I'd ever worked for. Corporate middle management could've taken employee relations lessons from him.

“Haven't seen you in a couple weeks. You back in writing mode again?” he asked

“I wish. I just need to get out tonight. I'm on the schedule for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. From nine until two. I promise I'll make it in.”

Nate had plenty of girls who wanted to make money, so he never made a big deal over call-ins. A part-time job working as a dancer was an unfortunate necessity, but until I became rich and famous from my writing, it would help pay the bills. And best of all, it was flexible.

I waited in the parking lot of Del Taco. It was a halfway point between our houses, just off Interstate 5 at Alicia Parkway.

Jaimee pulled up in her slick, black BMW and I slid into the smooth leather seat.

“I brought that belt you wanted to borrow,” she said, motioning to the glove box.

I pulled out the belt and worked it through the loops of my jeans. The rhinestone buckle glittered in the passing streetlights.

Jaimee merged at the Y to the 405 Freeway North toward the Newport Beach 55. Destination: Josh Slocum's, Dennis Rodman's nightclub.

“I wonder if Kevin is coming down to his Mom's tomorrow.” With my forehead resting against the window, I watched the ribbon of asphalt slide under the car.

Maybe I should pop by to visit. Or maybe I should just poke a fork in my eye. That would be equally painful.

“I think you should stop wondering what he's doing and get on with your life,” Jaimee said as she pulled off the exit. “You need to get over it.”

“Like you're over your ex?”

“Well at least I'm trying. Why do you think I wanted to go out tonight?” she said.

At the club entrance, we flashed our pink VIP cards to the gatekeeper. Rodman's freaky face was nowhere to be seen, but it was only 11:30—still early. We weaved our way toward the bar. The music pumped and a melding of bodies bumped together rhythmically on the tiny dance floor.

Jaimee squeezed between the mass of people waiting at the bar to flag the bartender. Several guys turned to check her out.

I watched a parade of twenty-something hoochies pass. The mandatory attire for the evening seemed to be thong underwear pulled high enough to pass for a back brace and breast implants the size of geography globes.

I'm old and grossly overdressed. Now I remember why I never go north of the Y.

A gorgeous nightclub panther appeared from behind my right shoulder. “What're you doing here all by yourself?” he asked. His dark hair stood up, perfectly gelled into dangerous-looking spikes.

I couldn't help but notice the size of his arms. The curve of his biceps strained against the armholes of his black knit shirt. A tribal band tattoo ringed one arm. My eyes followed the shirt stretched smooth across the square muscles of his chest and down to the outlined bars of his abs.

Maybe twenty-five years old—max.

When I dragged my eyes back up to meet his, he smiled. It was a smile that said he knew exactly how good he looked.

With our gaze locked, he flicked the tip of his tongue out just enough to show off the silver toggle pierced through it. He caught the toggle between his front teeth and jiggled it slightly before letting it retreat back inside.

Did he just make a blatant offer of oral sex?

A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. His eyes slowly roved over my frame, coming to rest solidly on my lips.

I felt my body flush and tingle.

“Finally!” Jaimee stepped beside me, a glass of cranberry juice in her outstretched hand. “I swear that was the slowest bartender.”

“I'll be right back.” I motioned toward the bathroom and launched into the crowd.

I stepped into the dim shoebox and took a deep breath to shake off the encounter with Junior the Tongue Stud; I definitely wasn't ready to go down that path. I leaned toward the mirror to touch up my lipstick and see how the Botox had settled in.

My Achilles Heel: I don't want to be old. In South Orange County, visible aging is considered a serious affliction. Inside the Newport Beach city lines, I'm pretty sure it's against the law.

Jaimee heard Botox called a miracle cure for wrinkles and she twisted my arm to get me to go with her to the dermatologist a week ago to try it.

Okay, so maybe she didn't have to twist too hard.

There is definitely something to be said about a woman who will actually pay hundreds of dollars to have a doctor inject a deadly bacterium into her face just to avoid having wrinkles.

I'm not a needle person, so it took a rubber stress ball squeezed in one hand, and Jaimee's hand in my other, to keep me from taking a knee-jerk kick at the doctor's nuts. The needle pricks didn't really hurt, but every time he pierced the skin, my forehead squeaked like a sautéed onion. I could hear it inside my head and the sound made me shudder.

When the Botox started to kick in, my left eyebrow sat a quarter of an inch higher than the right. I had an involuntary perplexed look on my face for two days. During which time, I contemplated sneaking into the dermatologist's house and killing him in his sleep. Then it evened out.

I finished applying lipgloss to my peach-colored masterpiece and leaned closer to the mirror to touch up my lashes. I lifted my eyebrows and went slack-jawed in the typical trout-mouthed application of mascara. Then my forehead seized up.

What the hell?

Both eyebrows were stuck in the upright and locked position like an airline tray table. I looked like someone had just surprised the shit out of me.

“No! No! No! No!” I smacked my forehead with my palms trying to get it to let go.

I can't go out there looking like this.

An image flashed in my head of the dermatologist standing blindfolded in his office, a bottle of vodka in one hand, and a Botox needle in the other, playing a game of Pin-The-Eyebrow-On-The-Old-Lady.

Fucker.

Now what am I going to do?

A few minutes later, Jaimee pushed open the door. “Annette, are you—” She stalled when she saw my face. “What happened? You look…scared.”

“My forehead is stuck.” The complete absurdity of my situation balanced my emotions precariously; my eyes filled with tears.

“Holy shit.” Jaimee stifled a giggle. “That sucks.”

We burst out laughing together.

“Here, let me help.” Jaimee paddled my forehead with her fingertips while holding the back of my head with her other hand.

It looked like a Benny Hinn spiritual revival. The only thing missing was some zealot yelling: “You're saved.”

I pulled away from Jaimee when two girls entered the bathroom. “How are we going to get me out of here?” I whispered.

“Just walk behind me and keep your head down,” Jaimee said.

We pushed through the crowd toward the front door. Junior the Tongue Stud didn't notice when we passed. He was too busy chatting up one of the contestants for Miss Rocky Mountains in her thong suspenders.

Outside, Jaimee rushed the valet to get the car. I could feel my forehead beginning to release. Within seconds, the cramp, or whatever it was, completely disappeared.