It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (27 page)

If you’d asked me during the early days of my breakup what I would gain from all of this, never would I have thought it would be recognizing the simple yet impactful meaning of friendships. The more I think about those nourishing, positive relationships in my life, the less I think about the negative one that brought me to this realization in the first place. There are so many more positive things in this world that wash away the negative—sometimes I guess you just have to be willing to open your eyes and see them.

Lesson learned:
Think about the positive relationships that surround you, not the negative one that you escaped from.

I
’ve just boarded a flight back to Atlanta from Los Angeles, when I am greeted by the familiar blonde flight attendant with a friendly, “Hey, girl!”

Five minutes after I take my seat, she brings me a screwdriver.

“You still like screwdrivers, right?”

“Yes. Perfect. Thank you.”

“I made this one a little light for you, we’ll make them stronger as we go.”

“We know the drill, don’t we?” I chuckle and she laughs back.

I’m buckled into my seat for what feels like the hundredth time in the past year. I’ve made this same cross-country voyage from Atlanta to Los Angeles and back enough times to achieve Platinum Status on Delta and be deemed a “regular” among the attendants. Come to think of it, I should have gotten some damn wings out of it, but, hey, at least they’re prompt and generous in their vodka pours. I’ve gotten into quite the routine with all the traveling I’ve done. I start by picking the big planes with the pods and flat beds (thanks to networks with deep pockets flying me first class). When I board the plane, I have exactly two screwdrivers before the meal is served, at which point I switch to a glass of red wine before polishing off a few packs of Biscoff cookies while I watch either
The Hunger Games
or
Frozen.

Unlike most of the previous flights, this one feels different. I feel lighter, calmer, and though the screwdriver has me slightly buzzed, I know the feeling that has come over me is a result of what I did yesterday. I purged—figuratively, not literally. I should clarify: Yesterday I purged my heart by doing my first sit-down interview since my breakup.

Despite my family and a handful of my closest friends knowing the gist of why my engagement ended, there’s been so much that I have kept to myself. My feelings have been bubbling up inside me like carbonation in a bottle, shaken and ready to explode at any point. I may have burned every memory of my relationship, but outside spectators don’t know that, and thus the questions seem to become more plentiful by the day. Every time I check an email, a trashy tabloid request awaits me. And though I wasn’t interested in dishing the dirt on my breakup, especially not to reporters whose sole job is to twist people’s words, I’ve been searching for a way to answer the persistent questions. It had become clear that my silence wasn’t going to make the storm pass, and so long as the dark cloud of everyone’s curiosity hung above me, I’d never be left alone.

And then, a few days ago, I found my opening, when I got a call that both startled and intrigued me. It was from my producer asking if I would be interested in doing a sit-down interview with the host of our show, Chris, who had also become a close friend of mine. He explained that it would be whatever I wanted it to be and would take place in Los Angeles, where this entire adventure/shitshow/life maker/life breaker all started. My initial reaction was similar to when I was asked to do the show in the first place, “Hell to the no.” But the more we talked about it, the more I began to wonder if this was the way out of the slump I was in.

I thought about it, and thought about it, and thought about it some more until finally deciding I needed to bite the bullet, rip off the Band-Aid, splurge on new stilettos, and pray I don’t get hit with an overdraft fee. Basically, I needed to suck it up and get the hell over all of this because clearly whatever I’d been doing hasn’t worked (at least not fast enough) and my jeans that now give me six ass cheeks and are missing the button are proof. I figured if this was the way to close the chapter titled “My Disastrous Breakup,” at least I was going to do it with people I knew, people who had seen it all and in a setting in which I’d become weirdly comfortable.

Within twenty-four hours, I was booked on a nonrefundable round-trip flight from Atlanta to Los Angeles. I had debated whether to tell Number Twenty-Six, whom I hadn’t spoken to in at least a week. Regressing back to my teen years, I decided to go the better-to-ask-for-forgiveness-than-permission route and keep my plans to myself. Truth be told, I was scared shitless of what his reaction would be, as well as all but certain he’d go on a Twitter rant or something equally embarrassing and damaging. The bitter part of my hardened soul didn’t care if he embarrassed himself for the world to see, but my sad broken heart oddly did. Though I didn’t know what questions I’d be asked, I knew I wasn’t going to divulge the real and disturbing reasons our relationship had spiraled from enviable to torture so quickly. My love for him kept me from wanting to hurt him, but I couldn’t bear my own pain any longer. I needed closure.

The morning of the interview, I took a deep breath as I exited the sedan and entered Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. I rolled my suitcase up to the check-in counter, where I was greeted by the familiar faces of the employees I’d come to see more often than some of my friends.

“Hello, Ms. Dorfman. Where are we flying to today?” said Anne, the sweet middle-aged blonde and self-proclaimed fanatic of the show.

“L.A.”

“All checked in. By the way, I’m sorry about the breakup. So sad.”

As I walked to the security checkpoint, I didn’t dread taking off my shoes to reveal my mismatched socks, or having to remove my laptop from my carry-on, or getting my larger-than-three-ounce perfume confiscated. Those were small inconveniences compared to the panic I felt about what was wrapped in an envelope and zipped in the small inner pocket of my purse—my treasured eighty-some-odd-thousand-dollar engagement ring. That was the catch with the interview; I wasn’t just going to give up the details of my split, I was also going to give up my engagement ring.

I placed my belongings on the belt, all the while thinking,
God, if I have to have my purse hand-checked and they ask about this ring, I am going to have a TMZ-worthy breakdown in the middle of the world’s busiest airport.
With a pounding heart, I looked suspicious as I anxiously waited for my purse to come out on the other side of the belt. With no purse check, and thankfully no meltdown, I headed toward the gate. I boarded the plane and was quickly greeted by the familiar face of Kate, a tall strawberry-blonde flight attendant who always seemed to be in a perky mood.

“Welcome aboard, Ms. Dorfman!”

“Thank you, Kate!” I gave her a hug. She was one of my favorite flight attendants and I always got excited when she was on my plane because she (a) made the best screwdrivers, (b) dated a super-hot young European guy and always showed me shirtless photos of him, and (3) always gave me an extra serving of dessert, which luckily was the Belgian chocolate gelato. I figured if ever a day to need two scoops, this was it.

Throughout the flight I continued to check the inner pouch of my purse to ensure that the ring, which was worth more than my life, was still there. I even went so far as to take my purse with me to the bathroom, which in hindsight probably looked extremely sketchy. The plane touched down in Los Angeles and, disheveled and tired, I made my way to the baggage claim, where a driver waited to take me to the interview. I arrived at a hotel and was greeted by my producer with a comforting fatherly hug. As we talked about the logistics of the night’s interview, he looked at me with agonized eyes and asked for the ring back. I dug out the envelope, took one last look at the sparkler I had admired every time I looked down at my hand, and placed it in his open palm. I waited to feel something, perhaps sorrow or resentment or even humiliation, but I felt absolutely nothing. It was as if the ring had become a burdensome reminder of a love that was no longer there. The sentiment was gone, and so was its beauty.

During the few hours of getting my hair and makeup done, I wondered what questions would be asked and what my responses would be. Would I cry, or would I be consumed with anger and bitterness? How should I respond to the tough questions I haven’t been ready to face in private, let alone in front of cameras? I needed advice from someone I trusted. I needed to call my mom.

“Just be honest about your feelings,” she suggested.

Yeah, right
. Honesty would mean I call him an asshole who called me a bitch among other things, tell the world I’d been drowning my endless tears with wine, and that I made the biggest mistake of my life, all of which would confirm the fact that even after a month, I’m still a bit of a mess. No, thanks.

“I will. Thanks, Mom, love you,” I lied.

It was time for the interview. I arrived at the host’s house. The last time I’d been there was under even worse circumstances if you can believe that. It was the night when I, along with the final four men of my season, sat on the couch and were told of the death of one of our cast mates. It was a horrible kind of night, life-changing. This house was forever filled with sadness as far as I was concerned. As I walk into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, I had yet another vivid flashback of that evening—the conversation I had with Number Twenty-Six following the news. I’d found him alone perched on the kitchen counter processing the tragic blow we’d just been dealt. I leaned against the adjacent counter and asked if he was okay, to which he responded with a shrug. Nobody was okay in that moment, but it was the only thing I could think to say. There we were, just the two of us, with no cameras or microphones, when he suddenly looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Let’s just leave. Let’s be done with this, go home and start our lives together in Atlanta.”

I looked at him, completely speechless and terrified that the next word out of my mouth would be, “Yes.” Images of us playing with his dog in the yard, cooking dinner, going to movies, and living happily ever after flashed in my mind. My heart wanted to accept his invitation and ride off into the sunset, but my head knew I had to keep going. Despite my intense yearning to be with Number Twenty-Six for the rest of my life, I had to see this “journey” through to the end.

As I stood in that same kitchen once again, I wondered if he had been right. If we had left it all behind and just gone back to Atlanta that evening, would things have been different between us? Would we still be together if I had just said yes? I guess I’ll never know. At this point, nothing could change the fact that I was back in this city, in this house, about to do what I hoped would be my final interview and get the closure I so desperately needed.

A small microphone was placed on me, and I took my seat in the living room across from Chris. Cameras and producers crowded every available space, which made the once mild room uncomfortably hot. A curious silence permeated the air as everyone, including myself, eagerly waited to see what the next thirty minutes would bring.

“How are you?” Chris asked.

I opened my mouth to respond with the answer I had rehearsed, but when I tried to say, “I’m doing all right, given the circumstances,” the words refused to come out. Instead, my jaw began to ache. I knew the tears were imminent. I stared blankly in an attempt to delay the inevitable, but I was no match for them. The breakdown had begun.

During the interview, everything I thought I’d say seemed to vanish from my memory. My heart ached and I didn’t have the strength to hide it anymore. I felt like a failure, an idiot, and an emotional basket case. I felt raw. There I was at the lowest point of my life and to make matters worse, I was admitting it to the world. After thirty minutes of questions and more tears, the interview was finally over. I don’t remember what I said and, to be honest, I don’t think I want to watch the interview, which will air next week. All I remember is standing up to exit the room, taking off my microphone, and feeling something I hadn’t felt in eighteen months since this journey first began. It wasn’t sadness or anger. It was relief.