Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story (4 page)

I initially relished the idea of writing about my first
love and his deceitful ways,
spinning me into a web of insecurities and
trust issues that comes with the territory called womanhood. The truth is I’d probably
bore you to tears when all the fun is beginning, and that’s the last thing I yearn
for in this quest of progressive awesomeness. Also, I have an inkling that every
girl’s “first love” story is exactly like mine, so there’s really no point to retelling
it in detail.

• He was beautiful.
  
• He pretended to be in love with me to get what he wanted.
  
• He eventually did.
  
• He followed it by breaking my heart.
  
• Then promptly left me for a model who worked in Milan.*
  

*Milan, Italy. Not to be confused for Milan, Tennessee. Although
I’m sure the models in Milan, Tennessee, are much nicer and speak better English.

It is my deep belief that in love and war fat girls always finish
last. While I can’t exactly claim to have been a chubsters in my early youth, when
your nemesis weighs 90 pounds wet, you’ll eternally be the fat girl in a tragedy
you never want to revisit (unless you’re drunk at a bar talking to a stranger who’s
possibly passed out or dead). The thing I didn’t know then but realize now after
having friended many a model and fat girl, is that we all suffer the same when men
of the handsome kind are involved.

• We begin to doubt ourselves.
  
• We turn to mush.
  
• We settle for less.
  
• We take their shit.
  
• We crumble to nothing.
  
• We ultimately send them to hell.
  
• We eat a lot of cupcakes.
  
• We down too many mimosas.
  
• Then one day, we snap the hell out of it.
  

And just when we thought we were wiser to no one’s surprise,
we do it all over again with the next guy.

Months spent in tearful agony came and went as I got over
the fact that most times, destiny knows best.
I harbored a tiny shred of
hope that at some point the idiot you just read about and his model girlfriend would
break up (which of course they did), and he’d come to his senses (which he eventually
did), and I’d love him forever (which I remarkably didn’t). That’s the beauty of
fretting over something for so long, just when things start going your way, you
no longer give a shit.

After getting over my little existential crisis, life went on and
it was time to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up. I first took a chance
on journalism, thinking reporting in front of a camera wouldn’t be such a bad way
to earn a living for a young dreamer like myself. I quickly changed my mind after
interning at Telemundo and realizing reporters work nights, weekends, and every
single holiday known to man, including every apocalyptic scare. I preferred spending
those times cuddling in bed with a burrito supreme, so there went that idea. I then
turned to business and marketing, but seeing I could hardly balance my personal
check book, it’s safe to say those were fleeting ventures. After much deliberation,
I decided on psychology. Here’s what no one will tell you because they’re assholes:
Psychology isn’t a real major unless you’re going for your masters or beyond. If
this isn’t the case, save yourself and go for stripping.

After declaring psych as my main interest of study, I worked full
time and attended classes in the evenings and weekends. I took every summer off
because summers-are-for-fun-and-I-stick-by-my-choice, even though it only delayed
my graduation about, say, 27 years. The summer was almost over and I was miserably
single, spending a lot of time with one of my closest friends, Michael. People often
assumed we were more than pals since we spent every breathing moment together, but
M and I shared one of those rare friendships where both people are straight and
marginally attractive yet never consider crossing the friend zone line. One Saturday
morning, I woke up alone in Michael’s bed. He’d left me a note on his computer saying
he’d be at the gym and to “make myself at home,”
as if I needed him to tell me
that.
I quickly looked at the time and realized it was past noon. Seeing I was
still living with my parents and they would never condone me sleeping over a guy’s
house, I hurriedly put on my sweatpants and ran out of his room, grabbing my purse
on the way out.

“Where you rushing off to?” said Michael’s mom from the kitchen.

“You startled me, Mrs. Hernandez,” I gasped, forcing myself to slow
down and walk over to greet her with a kiss.

“Did Michael leave you for the gym again?” she squeezed my cheek fondly
and returned her attention to the oatmeal she was making. “That boy is obsessed.
Here, have some breakfast before you go.”

“No, thank you. I can’t really stay,” I kissed her cheek again and
started walking toward the door. “I’ll see you later.”

“Another Blockbuster night?”

“Most likely,” I yelled before shutting the door and finally heading
home.

After opening the electric gate and parking my car, I felt lazy
and decided to wait for the elevator instead of taking the three flights up to my
apartment. I was distractedly going over my to-do list for the day as the elevator
took its sweet time. When the beat up door finally opened, I was lost in thought
doing mental laundry and smacked right into someone coming out, knocking a bag full
of candy to the floor. I instinctively got to work and began to pick up the contents
of the bag, stuffing them in without looking up. “I’m so sorry,” I muttered.

“No big,” the guy standing in front of me replied.

I didn’t recognize the voice but looked up anyway and became paralyzed
to find him looking down at me. You know that older guy who lives in your building/goes
to your gym/washes your car, whom you harbor the biggest crush on ever? That was
Noah. Handsome. Boyish. Totally unattainable. Wearing a burgundy Seminoles t-shirt
with tanned cargo pants and flip flops, he never looked better. He grinned, and
I spotted a hint of pity in his brown eyes as he stared at me in thoughtful silence.

“I’m so sorry,” I said once again, barely a whisper this time.

“It’s not a problem,” he blessed me with a megawatt smile. “You weren’t
looking.”

I handed him the bag and stepped past him into the elevator, pressing
the button for the third floor violently as the door slowly groaned its way shut.

“See you around.”

“Uh-huh.” My heart pounded loudly and I saw my reflection staring
back at me from the elevator mirrors. Sweatpants, oversized t-shirt that belonged
to Michael, hair piled in a messy bun atop my head secured with a pencil, and a
look of dejected terror in my eyes.

The following Saturday morning,
a loud pounding on my door woke me. I dragged my numb behind out of bed and opened
to see Michael holding a six pack of Bud Light and a plastic bag. “Let’s go to your
pool,” he announced cheerfully and took out a purple bong from the bag.

“Good morning to you too, cupcake,” I yawned.

He smacked a loud kiss on my forehead and sat at the dining table,
totally unfazed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m smoking weed. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“My parents are going to kill me. Stop that right now!” I did my best
to sound angry.

“Your parents are in Cuba for a week. We’ll Febreze the shit out of
this place before they come so, please, try to relax.”

I walked over to my fridge and pulled out some milk to make
café
con leche
while he cheerfully inhaled from the bong at warp speed. When he was
done, he stood up and stripped to his swimming shorts right in my kitchen, revealing
the results from long hours at the gym. I tried hard not to stare, but it was a
futile effort considering he looked like he’d just stepped out of an Abercrombie
ad and into my apartment. I felt a twinge of jealousy laced with desire as I looked
at him, fully aware I didn’t look anywhere near as fit in my bikini.

“I look good, don’t I?” he winked at me. “Say it.”

I shrugged my shoulders and remained silent, waving my finger at him.

“Yeah right,” he sneered. “You totally want me.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were tanning by the pool trying to survive
in the sauna that is Miami on any given summer day. We hadn’t been there long when
Noah showed up with a group of girls and a cooler the size of a truck. My heart
skipped a beat when I saw him but I succeeded at pretending I was unaware of their
arrival. Michael was elated to be entertained by the new boobs and making a spectacle
out of ogling them in his very high state. I was sipping a Diet Coke through a straw
when Michael turned to me and asked, “Do you know that guy over there with those
hotties?”

“Not really,” I offered nonchalantly. “I think he went to high school
with us during our freshman year or something but I’m not a hundred percent sure.
Why?”

“He keeps staring at you,” he smirked. “Maybe he likes you, in a creepy
pedophile sort of way.”

“Maybe I have big booger in my nose,” I tilted my head back so he
could see, “and he’s only three years older.”

He brought my head down and frowned. “You don’t have any boogers that
are visible, stupid. And you’re an okay looking girl,” he sighed. “I mean, nothing
compared to those hoochies he’s with, but you’re alright.”

“Thank you so much, honey,” I said sarcastically. “What would I do
without you?” I rolled my eyes and lay back down, blocking the hope that reared
its head out in my mind in light of what I’d just learned. Asides from a refreshing
swim in the pool, nothing meaningful happened that afternoon, yet every time I sneaked
a peek at Noah, his eyes were boldly locked with mine.

I was on the phone with Britt that night while cooking, filling
her in on the Noah gossip and his strange behavior at the pool. “I don’t know what
the big deal is,” she sounded annoyed. “Why wouldn’t he be looking at you?”

“Um, because he never so much as glanced my way in high school? Maybe
he’s just sorry for me.”

“Sorry my ass,” she laughed on the other end of the line. “He saw
you with Michael and now he wants you. That’s how men work.”

I pondered the thought for a moment and couldn’t help but acknowledge
that even though her brain was like a Taylor Swift song on replay, Britt often times
struck genius when it came to the opposite sex. “Michael
is
pretty hot. Maybe
it makes me look more attractive to be hanging out with him.”

“Pretty hot? I don’t know why you’re not screwing him instead of day
dreaming about Noah, you fool.”

“Men and women reserve the right to be friends without sleeping together.”

“And you reserve the right to be an idiot,” she shot back with conviction.
“You and Michael do that well. He’s gay and you’re a
come mierda.
” With this
she hung up and I was left without the chance to defend myself or Michael’s heterosexuality.
I took out a jar of alfredo sauce from the cupboard and began to pour its contents
into the skillet while a
No Doubt
song played in the background. Pounding
at the door startled me and I dropped the empty jar of alfredo, the shattered bits
of glass and sauce spreading on my kitchen floor and walls. The pounding continued,
louder this time.

“I’m going to kick your ass, you know that?” I shouted at Michael
over the music as I carefully stepped over the mess and opened the door.

“Delivery for Ms. Rondon,” he bowed dramatically and handed me a note.

I opened it curiously and blood rushed to my cheeks upon reading its
message.

“Guess who has a date with a certain pedophile tomorrow night?” I
gushed to my friend, who quickly tore the note and threw it in the garbage dismissively
before grabbing himself a beer.

The next evening, I ransacked my closet looking for an outfit
that didn’t scream desperation. Under no circumstances did I want him to think I
put too much thought into what I was going to wear for the night. I finally decided
on a casual but sexy ensemble consisting of jeans, a fitted tank top, and heels.
I had Michael coach me on the phone all afternoon and my nerves were pretty much
under control. That is, until Noah knocked at my door.

“Ready?” he kissed my cheek and sized me up.

I was born ready, Noah.

“Sure thing,” I replied.

Dinner with Noah to me was like a date with all the members of N’Sync
to a teenage girl in the 90s (that’s if all the members of N’Sync were Justin Timberlake
and you were into orgies, of course). After the movie we bought a bottle of wine
and headed to a spot on Rickenbacker Causeway where people – mainly couples – park
their cars to stare at the ocean and do inappropriate things like make out, smoke
weed, and, sometimes, have sex. We sipped our chardonnay from Styrofoam cups in
silence, holding hands and staring out at the ocean in front of us. The inevitable
first date banter took place and I tried my damnest to make the knot in the pit
of my stomach go away unsuccessfully.

“You seem distracted,” he said to me, inquisitive eyes attempting
to stare deeply into mine.

“Not really,” I scoped out our surroundings. “Just kind of paranoid.
I heard people get mugged here all the time.”

“I’m really glad you came tonight,” he caressed my jaw line with the
back of his fingers and ignored my last comment. “I wouldn’t mind spending more
time with you during the next two weeks,” his hand went slowly to the back of my
neck, fingers firmly massaging the area and then moving back to my jaw line, caressing
softly again, “only if you want to, obviously.” Those words were magic to my naïve
ears, all inhibitions out the window along with the last Styrofoam cup of chardonnay.

I closed my eyes and let him continue caressing me, fully aware he
was playing a game in which he was the star athlete. When I opened them again, his
face was dangerously close to mine. Emboldened by the wine and years of fantasizing
about this very moment, I kissed him. My hands moved up to his hair and I pulled
his face against mine. We made out with a sense of urgency, forcefully sucking and
biting each other’s lips. I wanted to tear off his Hollister t-shirt with my bare
hands and jump his bones right in the driver seat. I scratched his back while he
kissed my neck, his hands already unbuttoning my jeans. Fighting an internal battle
between the need to not sleep with him on the first date and the want to ravish
him right away, I pulled back.

“Wait,” I panted, not really sure why I was stopping him. “We can’t
do this here like this.” I pretended to be insulted even though I was dying to seal
the deal.

“We?” a grin flashed across his face as he undid my zipper. “I’m the
only one doing anything tonight, Annah.”

And with those words and experience none of the high school boys I
dated ever possessed, Noah took me to the moon and back with nothing but his lips
and tongue.

The following days were heaven personified. Noah and I spent
most nights at the movies making out like teenagers, oblivious to what was playing
on the screen. Our little rendezvous at the causeway was never mentioned and it
was just as well, considering I was immediately mortified the day after. He never
tried to touch me again in a sexual manner or bring me to fruition as he had done
so flawlessly that night in his car. I found this odd but never questioned it for
fear of messing up whatever wonderful thing we had going. Was it so bad to think
that maybe, by some fateful cosmic alignment, I
was
going to end up with
my teenage crush?

Fate is a funny thing, though, and the series of events that followed
didn’t exactly resemble the beautiful picture I’d constructed in my obviously delusional
mind.

The day before Noah departed for school again, I called in sick
and we made plans to go on a picnic. Considering most of our time had been spent
inside, a day in the park sounded like the perfect finale to our two weeks in the
clouds. We had not spoken about starting a serious relationship, but he kept dropping
hints that alluded to him wanting to solidify something with me. He spoke of wanting
his own place in Miami once he landed a job after graduation, insinuating that I’d
sleep over and describing all the fun we’d have once he was back in town. I wasn’t
into the idea of a long distance relationship anyway and trusted he’d follow through
on his promises once graduation took place.