Your Big Break (6 page)

“Believe me, The Big Jackass isn't dangerous. He's a moron, but he's harmless.”

“So you've never felt threatened by him in any way?” I prod.

“Oh, God, no! He's one of the sweetest, most lovable people I've ever known. He was so considerate of my needs; he treated me so well.” Her lower lip trembles. “He always bought me thoughtful presents, took me to romantic movies.”

I drop my pen and lean forward. “Gretchen, can I be frank?”

“Please.”

“Are you
certain
you want to break up with this guy?”

She nods vigorously. “One hundred percent.”

“Because, from the looks of it, you're still in love with him.”

“Oh, I love him all right. But I'm done with him.”

I lean back, setting down my legal pad. “What did he do?”

“He deceived me.”

“Deceived you?”

“He's a liar,” she says. “All this time I thought he loved me, and he was full of shit.”

“And you came to this conclusion when?” I ask.

“When I found out that the jerk has a wife.”

“So he's a two-timer.”
Now we're getting somewhere
.

She swallows hard. “I can't believe I ever trusted him. I mean, I found out he had a wife a few months ago. But he said they were separated; he said he was in the process of divorcing her so he could be with me. And now I find out that they're still living together as man and wife!”

“Married men always say they'll leave their wife. Most never do.”

“I know, Dani, I know,” Gretchen says, dissolving into tears. “This just feels so . . . it just hurts so much!” she sobs.

I open my desk drawer and retrieve a small box of Kleenex. “It's going hurt for a while.” I get up from behind my desk and walk over to her. “But you'll get over this; you'll get over
him
.”

“I want him out of my life, but I don't know if I can handle being alone.”

I place a reassuring hand on her back. “You'll be fine. You're a strong, independent woman.”

“You barely know me!”

I offer her a tissue. “Hey, you got over that borderline personality creep—that's no small feat.”

She smiles and blows her nose in a Kleenex. “Thanks, Dani.”

“Anytime,” I tell her.

“So, how will you do it?” Gretchen asks. “How will you dump him?”

“I'll call him, preferably at work,” I explain. “Set up a meeting on neutral ground. Break the news to him over coffee.”

She nods, reaching into her purse for a pack of gum. “How soon?”

“With any luck, by the end of this week. We try to do things as quickly as possible. Like pulling off a Band-Aid.” I pick up my pad and prepare to write. “Where does he work? Oh, and what's his name, by the way? I can't just call and ask for The Big Jackass.”

“No, I suppose not.” Gretchen laughs. “Though it would serve him right, the asshole.” She pops a piece of gum into her mouth and starts chewing. “His name's Paul Myers.”

I sit there for a second, staring at her dumbly.

“Paul Myers?” I repeat, struggling to keep my voice steady.
Maybe I didn't hear her right. Maybe the gum distorted it
.

“Yes, he works in the financial district. He's an analyst at Merriwether Payne Investments,” Gretchen says, but I barely hear her because suddenly, my ears, my eyes—my whole body, really—seem to have stopped working properly. I'm slipping, fading fast.

Paul Myers?
Her boyfriend's name is Paul Myers? And he's an analyst at Merriwether Payne Investments? She's got to be kidding. It's got to be a coincidence. Paul Myers is a fairly common name. There must be forty—fifty?—of them in Boston alone.
Right?

“I'll give you Paul's direct line,” she says, reciting the digits, and I don't write them down, partly because I'm in shock and partly because I don't have to.

I already know the number by heart.

6

 
 
 
 
 
My father is having an affair.

This is the man who taught me to ride a bicycle, who took me trick-or-treating, who held my head when I was sick. And now he's diddling a thirty-five-year-old.

My life has officially become a cliché.

I just don't get it. My dad is not the kind of man who runs around on his wife. That category is reserved for cads like Evan Hirschbaum: players, adulterers, cheaters. The kind of guys who make women collectively roll their eyes and declare, “Men are scum.” My dad isn't slick or conniving. He has bifocals, a thinning hairline, and a quiet disposition. He likes playing solitaire, cheering on the Bruins, and reading all the latest sports news online.

The more I look back, the more I review, the stranger it seems. There were signs. Dad spends an awful lot of time on the computer—he always claims to be on
ESPN.com
, but God knows what he's really up to. After all, he met Gretchen through an Internet personal ad.
What if there were others before her? What if he has a whole secret online life, where he visits lurid chat rooms, answers
Match.com
personal ads, and . . .

I'm queasy. I wonder what his ad said?
Middle-Aged Man in Search of Redhead
. Or
Married Bastard Looking to Cheat on Wife
. Yeah, that was probably it. Gretchen's right. He is a big jackass!

Poor Mom. She hits her mid-fifties, and her husband, being The Big Jackass that he is, trades her in for a younger model. No wonder she's been acting so stressed-out lately. Deep down, she must realize something's not right in her marriage.

I can't believe I ever loved my father, can't believe I ever trusted him, thought he was someone good and pure and true when he so obviously was not.

And now his mistress has hired me to dump him.

I told her I couldn't do it, of course. I said I had too many cases, that it sounded complicated, muddled. Not the sort of thing Your Big Break Inc. could get mixed up in. I don't know if she believed my story or not—she looked completely baffled by my sudden shift in personality. I didn't stick around to find out her full reaction. I got the hell out of there, told Craig I had a “family emergency” (it was the truth), and took off running down the street. Trouble is, I didn't have anywhere to run.

Now here I am, standing on the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Inman Street, fighting back waves of nausea and struggling to keep myself from crying.

This changes everything, absolutely everything. No more family vacations down the Cape. No more warm and happy Christmases, sitting around the fireplace, sipping hot chocolate, watching
It's a Wonderful Life
and listening to Sean play Madden NFL 2005 on his computer. And my wedding—the one I'm going to have as soon as I meet a smart, gorgeous, successful man who loves me for me—is totally ruined. How can I have my father walk me down the aisle when he clearly doesn't respect the sanctity of marriage? I can't believe it. I'm not even engaged yet—I don't even have a boyfriend—and already my father has ruined my wedding.

But before I kill him, I'm gonna to talk to him, find out why he did this.
But how? How can I make myself broach the subject? “So, Dad, I met your mistress today . . .” How can I say those words?

I think I'm going to throw up.

I blow off work for the rest of the day and take solace at The Thirsty Scholar in Davis Square. It's a quaint, traditional Irish pub that attracts a crowd of wannabe poets, writers, and drifters. I slump down at a corner table and order a Glenlivet on the rocks. Then I call for reinforcements. She answers on the second ring.

“Fintane Catering; this is Krista.”

I mumble something that sounds like hello.

“Dani?”

“Mmm.” I pull the cell phone closer to my mouth, banging it against my lips.

“You okay?” she asks, sounding concerned.

“I'm drinking Scotch in the middle of the day, if that tells you anything.”

Krista pauses. “Scotch?”

“Yeah. Glenlivet, to be exact.”

“Dani, you don't even like hard liquor! I've never seen you drink anything stronger than a wine cooler.”

She's right. But this day is so horrific, I feel obligated to have something potent. “I'm guessing you're not at work,” Krista says.

“Good guess.”

“Where are you?”

“The Thirsty Scholar in Davis Square.”

“In Somerville?” She sounds baffled.

“Yeah. I left work and hopped on the Red Line and rode around for a while. Somehow, I wound up here.” There's a long silence, and I can tell Krista's trying to figure out what to say. I decide to just come right out and tell her. “My father's having an affair.” He is no longer “Dad.” From this day forward, I will always refer to him as “Father.”

Krista gasps. There's a long silence on the line. Finally, she says, “You're kidding, right?”

“No, I'm not kidding. He's got a girlfriend. I met her this afternoon.”

“Oh, fuck!”

“Literally,” I deadpan.

“Wow . . . that's just . . . how? Did you catch him red-handed?”

“No, but I caught him red-
headed,
so to speak.” I quickly fill her in on what went down. When I finish, Krista lets out a low whistle.

“Jesus, Dani,” she says, and I hear her fumbling around in the background. “Sit tight; I'll be there in twenty minutes. We'll have lunch or something.”

I take a huge swig of Scotch. It goes down like fire, scorching the inside of my throat. “It's three o'clock in the afternoon. Haven't you already taken a lunch break?”

“Nobody will care. Besides, you shouldn't be alone right now.”

She makes it sound like someone's died, but I appreciate her concern. “Thanks, Krista.”

“This is so weird,” she says. “The way you found out. It's so . . .”

“Comical?” I supply.

“I was going for ironic. Or shocking. Or fucked up.”

I snort. “How about all of the above?”

 
 
True to her word, Krista makes it to The Thirsty Scholar in less than twenty minutes. I'm just starting my third drink. I downed the first two in record time, and my head feels light and fuzzy. I'm not used to Scotch, but I'm finding it suits me. Krista comes bustling in through the door and rushes over to my table.

“Hey,” she says, throwing her arms around me in a hug.

This makes me burst into tears. I remember the last time we hung out, at The Cheesecake Factory. Everything's so different now.

“Shhh, Dani, don't worry,” Krista says, stroking my hair. “Everything will be okay. Just give it some time.”

I wipe the tears from my eyes and pull away. “This isn't one of those ‘time heals all wounds' kind of situations. My father's a liar and a cheat. My family is over.” I start sobbing harder.

“Maybe there's another explanation,” Krista suggests, sitting down beside me.

“And to think, I just went shopping with that jerk two days ago,” I say, ignoring her. “I helped him pick out an Anne Klein shirt for my mother—my
mother
! The woman he's cheating on!”

Krista motions for me to keep my voice down. “It's going to be all right, Dani.”

A thought occurs to me. “Maybe this is some kind of karmic payback?”

“Meaning?”

“I make my living ruining relationships; it's only fair that mine get ruined, too.”

“You can't be serious. By the time people come to Your Big Break Inc., they're ready to jump ship. It's not like you tear them apart; if anything, you make the breakup easier on both parties.”

“That's just it,” I say. “I ought to be bringing couples together, not pulling them apart.”

Krista shrugs. “You can't force people to do anything. If they want to break up, they're going to break up. It doesn't matter whether you help them or not.”

My cell phone starts ringing. It's work calling. “Oh, shit!”

Krista looks alarmed. “Your dad?”

“No, it's Craig.” I quickly answer the call. “Hello.”

“So you
are
alive.”

“Barely,” I mumble.

“You left me in a real bind, Dani.”

“I know, and I'm sorry.”

“The phone's been ringing off the hook since you left!”

“It has?” I ask nervously. This can't be a good thing. What if Gretchen somehow figured out that Paul Myers is my father? What if she tracked my mom down and told her about the affair? What if my parents—

“A Jason Dutwiler has called
four
times, looking for you. He says it's urgent.”

Oh, crap.
That's right. I'm supposed to convince Jason's ex-girlfriend Lucy to consider reconciliation. Between the Evan Hirschbaum creep-out and Gretchen's big bombshell, I've completely forgotten.

“He said you promised to get back to him in a few days but never did. That doesn't reflect well on our organization.”