Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story (13 page)

The phone rang in the distance
and I turned
off the blow dryer.
Few things irritated me more than being interrupted
while in the bathroom. Grabbing my cell, I was taken aback by the name flashing
in front of me before pressing the green button. “Jonah,” I answered, “to what do
I owe the pleasure?”

“I thought you’d be surprised,” I could hear him smile on the other
end. “How’s the birthday girl doin’?”

“She’s well,” I laughed. “Maybe a little terrified of turning 25 but
I guess that’s the quarter-life crisis, right?”

“Quarter-life crisis, indeed,” he paused. “So tell me what I’ve missed.”

“Well . . .” I let my
voice trail off. It’d been six months since our stars collided in Madrid, a friendship
instantly born out of three fateful days away from the intricacies of real life.
I returned to Miami to gainfully
employ myself once again and find an apartment. He toured the rest of Europe for two months
and sent pictures when he remembered. We didn’t talk much during that interval,
our methods of communication a simple text here and there saying “Hello” or “How
goes it.” Since then, he’d taken up martial arts and hunting, a sport fitting for
a country man (even if I completely disapproved of it). One could say I’d been busy
myself, meeting the nicest guy in the world two months after coming home, and accepting
his proposal four months later when he asked me to be his wife. I had the slight
notion I was supposed to feel giddier about becoming a blushing bride, yet all I
felt was a quiet despair that grew with each passing day. I attributed my uneasiness
to cold feet, and the fact that I’d only known my fiancé for a very short period
of time, convincing myself it would all be okay if I just moved steadily forward.

When pleasantries were out of the way, he wasted no time in explaining
the reason for his call. “So I wanted to ask you something . . .”

“I’m all ears,” I interrupted him, suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling
of nausea.

“Want to come to Australia with me in the spring? My parents have
a timeshare there and remember how we talked about going down under? It’s my treat,
so declining isn’t an option.”

It was hard to hate someone with means that far exceeded your own
when you were madly in love with them and couldn’t quite find the words – or balls
– to tell them. I sighed and said nothing, the weariness in my soul making speaking
all but possible.

“Is that a yes?” he prompted.

“I wish it were, Jonah,” I swallowed hard and fired away with more
confidence than I felt. “I’m getting married next November, so a trip of any kind
is probably a bad idea.”

I heard him clear his throat on the other end and snort. “Of course
you are,” he exhaled after a while. “What’s his name?”

“Vin.”

“What kind of a name is that?”

“A nice name,” I retorted. “A nice name, for a nice guy.”

“So you’re doing what you swore you’d never do, huh? Taking the easy
way out. Annah’s getting married to a nice guy named Vin because she’s having a
quarter life crisis and doesn’t know what to do about it.”

“I’m doing what people are supposed to do as they get older, Jonah.
Meet someone who is good and will take care of them. Get married. Have babies. What
else is there?”

“Nothing that you’d know off,” he growled and the line went dead.

A beep notified me the call had dropped and I sat on my bed staring
at the phone for what seemed like an eternity but was only minutes. That evening,
he sent me a mostly insincere message as an offering of peace:

I am happy for you, even if you caught me off guard. You’ll
certainly be missed in Sydney, but I suppose we’ll get by without you. When you’re
good and ready to send out the invites, I hope mine doesn’t get as lost as you seem
to be at the present moment. Love you, J.

As I finished reading the last words, it was evident he’d intended
it to be comforting but instead felt like the kind of blow one would give their
opponent when they’re not looking. Months later, it still stung like hell, and as
I wove through the intricacies that come with undoing huge mistakes, he placed 9,000
miles between us and swore me off for good once he returned on home.

Being in your twenties is usually a sweet ride
,
especially if you’re blessed with the gift of real estate independence. Before I
decided rescuing four stray dogs was a good idea and moved to a house with a backyard,
where they carry on their doggie shenanigans, I lived in a fabulous apartment I
still weep for, especially when I have to shell out $30 for some teenager to cut
my lawn every other month. Said apartment was part of a community mostly comprised
of older couples and what I like to call, “the settled folk.” When a young girl
moves in and has 10 to 12 people over on most weekends, it is hard to prove that
you are a functioning member of society and not some hussy who turns tricks in order
to pay her rent. It takes effort to uphold your righteous persona, which may often
entail baking your neighbors cookies or carrying their groceries while you casually
mention you volunteer with the elderly.

Living on your own sometimes means your house will become a makeshift
brothel for buddies who still live at home with their parents. Meaning, there are
times where your friends will get busy in your guest bedroom because paying for
a hotel is expensive and why-would-you-waste-$40-when-Annah’s-house-is-totally-free-and-has-the-good-beer?
I didn’t mind these scenarios on most occasions, mostly since it entailed going
out, and the friend who intended to use my quarters buying me drinks as a “thank-you-for-helping-me-get-laid”
sort of gesture.

Quite often, being wingwoman to this sort of situation is great fun,
as long as you get to pick someone up yourself once your friend is settled with
her new conquest. Twiddling your thumbs alone while drinking a vodka tonic in a
corner wondering how the hell you ended up there is about 10 notches less fun. Even
more miserable than that, is your friend deciding to take her new love back to your
apartment and getting stuck having drinks with his ugly short friend in your balcony
while the other two finish the deed. This was the case when my friend Aria picked
up a very cute guy who played basketball for UM and I was left to entertain his
less-than-charming
amigo
.

“I’m an aspiring reggaeton singer,” he told me as I surveyed a bottle
of Patron in the liquor cabinet and wondered if six in the morning was too early
to do shots. The other two were getting it on in the spare bedroom, and I reluctantly
watched Daddy Yankee’s “first single” on YouTube while contemplating slitting my
veins vertically with a butter knife.

“It was really, nice to meet you,” I whispered as soon as the video
ended and stifled a fake yawn, retreating to my room and locking the door behind
me just in case he tried to murder me in my sleep.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get better, I got woken up four hours
later by the guy my friend had slept with, apologizing for waking me so early but
needing a ride back to his car while Aria pleasantly slept behind closed doors after
large quantities of the horizontal mambo.

“This is your friend, right?” I asked the first guy about the
reggaeton singer sleeping blissfully on my couch.

“Yeah, that’s Jackson.”

“Uh-huh. And will Jackson be going home with you as well?” I inquired.

“Of course,” he responded sheepishly and woke up the dude.

And so we all made our way down the apartment stairs and I prayed
the whole thing ended quickly so I could get back to bed.

But as I descended on down and the sun raped my eyes with its
shiny splendor, I realized my hair was a mess and the previous night’s makeup was
still layered on my face, while two dudes trailed behind me talking about kinky
sex.

And at that precise moment, my next-door neighbor was returning
from getting the mail and I prayed she didn’t hear what Asshole #1 was explicitly
depicting to Asshole #2.

But of course she did.

And this, boys and girls, is how you shit all over years of
careful attempts at acting civil around the older members of your living community.