It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (34 page)

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I had one last hurrah!

And that’s not even including the $33 I spent on lipstick. Despite how much time has gone by, I still think about Twenty-Six and us every single day. Things constantly remind me of him. People remind me of him. When I see a couple holding hands, I am reminded of the days when we did the same. When I pass by a restaurant we used to frequent, I can remember all of our Friday night dates once filled with kisses and laughter. When I walk by the park we used to visit on sunny days, I can still picture us lying on a blanket in the grass while we played with our dog. Though I’ve seen the same couples and places for months, my feelings toward them have changed. The bitterness I thought would never go away has turned into nostalgia. Sure, it makes me a little sad to remember the good times, but the lack of animosity when I remember also brings me peace.

Because I know, no matter what, that once upon a time I was engaged to a man whom I loved very much. He was a man I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with, the man my children would make Father’s Day cards for, the man who would be by my side for eternity. Until, he wasn’t.

Do I think I made a mistake in getting engaged? Yes. Obviously, considering it didn’t last. Do I regret it? Yes. I regret the fact that I will never get that first proposal back; that moment won’t go to my husband, but rather will always belong to my ex. But, I’ve never believed in living life free of regrets, it’s too much pressure. In fact, I regret plenty of things: the terrible bangs I had in third grade, the hideous sequined corset I wore to the prom—hell, I regret what I wore last weekend. Regrets are mistakes that we learn from. They don’t dictate the rest of our lives, they’re just little glitches, and impulsive choices we made in the moment. But it’s just that, a moment and the moment eventually passes.

It reminds me of the winter after I landed my first job. As a reward, I decided to save a few hundred dollars each pay period until I had enough to buy my dream purse: a Louis Vuitton Speedy. It took months, but finally I had saved enough to buy it. I loved that purse, from the smell of new leather to the tan trim, all the way down to the damn box it came in. I was in love with my bag and wouldn’t go a day without it. But guess where that bag is now? . . . your guess is as good as mine. Odds are it’s somewhere in my parents’ attic or buried in a box deep in my dusty storage unit. Turns out, the bag wasn’t that cute to begin with. And while I still have fond memories of saving up for it and the pride I felt handing over a wad of hundreds to the saleswoman and toting it around everywhere I went, the love for the actual purse has worn off.

And my relationship is no different. Yes, I’m comparing it to a Louis Vuitton purse, which I think is actually quite generous. But like the purse, I can still remember the pride and love I felt whenever I talked about my future with Number Twenty-Six. But just as the purse went out of style, so did my relationship. And now they both belong in the past.

I won’t deny that I loved that purse once upon a time, just like I won’t deny I loved Number Twenty-Six once upon a time. Doing so would just be a slap in the face of love. The truth is, the moment Number Twenty-Six asked me to marry him was, to this day, the single most glorious moment of my life. I can’t deny that the kisses I shared with him were the best I’ve ever had; that the laughs made my abs sore for days, but I didn’t mind; that the gaze in his eyes made me feel happier than I ever had; and that the feelings I felt were deep and beautiful. And I don’t want to deny it. I fell in love, and it didn’t work out. And now, it’s just part of my history.

Isn’t that what all our relationships that end are, anyway? Little chapters in the pages of a book known as the story that is your life. Sure, you could tear out the pages because you don’t like them, skip them, pretend they don’t exist. But they do, and they always will. So why not just accept your story, as it is, for better or worse? Why not accept responsibility for the feelings that swept you off your feet, the emotions that made you giddy and the kisses that made you grin. Why not step away and see your relationship from the outside as just another chapter in an epic story? A chapter with two main characters who fell in and out of love in a story full of riveting plot twists, swoon-worthy characters, blow-up fights, and passionate makeups. A story that isn’t over yet. Not even close. Because you’re still in the thick of it. You have no idea what awaits you in the next chapter, nobody does. All you really know is that there
is
a next chapter. And now it’s time to see how it begins . . .

Lesson learned:
Bad relationships go out of style, happiness never does.

I
t’s my last night here in Kelly’s house, and the word “bittersweet” doesn’t do this feeling I have justice. Tomorrow, I officially embark on the next chapter of my life starting with my big move to New York City. I am excited, nervous, and downright terrified all at the same time. Though I’m not sure I’m making the right decision, I know moving away is a hell of a lot better option than being where I am now. I’ve come a long way, sure, considering fifty-nine days ago I thought my life was officially over. I have to chuckle knowing that my engagement ending was really my life beginning.

With my flight now less than twenty-four hours away, I look around the room that has served as not just my living quarters, but my sanctuary. So many tears have been shed in this room. So much pain exists in it. But, so much progress does too. And of all the memories that could come to mind in this moment, the one that, surprisingly, I haven’t thought of in all of this time, is the one moment I can’t ignore any longer. It’s the moment that brought me to this room in the first place: the moment it all ended. In truth, the moment my relationship ended wasn’t sudden. In fact, it had been looming for months. But one trip to Los Angeles would be the final straw that broke the back of a very weak, very exhausted and very unhappy me.

Number Twenty-Six and I had been invited to Los Angeles by the producers of our show to attend the live premiere of the latest season. It was to be an unprecedented shindig complete with a red carpet and a bevy of past contestants. The night before we were scheduled to fly out, another heated argument ensued, over something I can’t for the life of me remember. That’s the thing with volatile relationships, you start to forget what the fights are even about. Odds are it had something to do with how unhappy we were. That’s another thing with volatile relationships; you actually find yourself having to discuss your happiness or lack thereof.

During the fight, as usual, we said our “it’s over”s and “I’m done”s and went to bed in silence, unsure if we would even be getting on the plane the next day. And just like clockwork, the next morning was filled with “I’m sorry”s and “I love you”s. Hours later I would find myself feeling the high as I sat next to him on the plane, laughing and kissing as if everything was fine. But no high could change the fact that our relationship was in a very bad state, and we both knew it. To make matters worse, we were a day away from walking a red carpet where everyone was expecting us to gush about how insanely in love we were. There was no winning when it came to this trip; not going would set off alarms and spark rumors, but going could result in a disaster on live television. And though we chose to stick it out on this trip and hope for the best, I knew in my heart we were close to the end of the road. I just didn’t know how close.

A few cocktails and four hours later, we arrived in L.A. all smiles. Maybe it was something about the California air that made us forget the previous night’s fight—and the past three months of fights, for that matter—or maybe it was the buzz from all the screwdrivers we had sucked down. Either way, we had arrived in the city where we’d created so many beautiful memories together. If any place could magically press the Restart button on our relationship, it was this place.

Not so fast. On the ride from the airport, the buzz must have worn off because before we even made it to our hotel, another fight erupted.

“I wonder if [insert random chick’s name] is here, she lives here now,” Twenty-Six mumbled as he scrolled through Instagram on his phone.

Now, ordinarily, this wouldn’t mean anything to me, but for some reason this name was suspiciously familiar. Certainly, he couldn’t be talking about the girl he told me he had hooked up with days before coming on the show, right? No way. I knew about his past, so it wasn’t news to me that he had hooked up with chicks before me, and this one in particular. There were no boundaries between us, and that included his dating history, which in all honesty I found funny. Plus, it wasn’t as if I didn’t have a past of my own. But there was no possible way he was actually referring to a prior hookup by name, let alone “wondering” if she was in town. No way.

Curious, I asked, “Wait, [random chick’s name]? That’s not the same chick you hooked up with days before you met me, is it?”

He stuttered nervously, “Umm yeah . . . it is, but it’s not what you think. You see, umm . . . She just started working for me, selling vitamins on my team and I don’t even really . . . I don’t even have a lot of contact with her, someone else umm handles that.”

I stared at him, bewildered, as I waited for his nervous rant to continue. “I mean, I would have told you, but I figured you’d probably get upset. It’s not even a big deal, she works for me now,” he said with more guilt in his voice than Lindsay Lohan at her trial.

What the fuck
?

He continued babbling bullshit about how he didn’t tell me because he knew I would get upset and he didn’t want that. Effing right I would get upset. Let’s think about this—rationally, of course. Our relationship is basically in the toilet, and the only reason it’s not down the pipe is that neither of us has the guts to flush it like we should. We are in Los Angeles and will have to talk publicly about how happy we are, even though “happy” has become an extremely relative term in our relationship vocabulary. And before we even get to the hotel you’re talking about a chick you used to hook up with? Oh, and let’s just stab the stiletto in my eye and tell me that she now works for you and that you’ve kept this a secret. I can’t possibly imagine why I wouldn’t be over the goddamn moon hearing that a former booty call of yours has reentered your life. Hang on, let me open up the toolbox and get an effing screwdriver out so I can bolt this smile to my face, because that’s the only way I am going to look happy about this.

Who the hell was this man sitting next to me? Who had he become? Had I turned him into this monster, or was the monster always lurking inside the dark-haired, athletic man with the megawatt smile I had once loved so much? I don’t know, but I knew this wasn’t the man I had agreed to marry. Tossing this woman in my face so casually (and yet awkwardly and guiltily) went against everything he supposedly stood for, and I was certain that had this conversation been the other way around, he would have lost his shit right there in the middle of Sunset Avenue.

Even thinking about that moment right now as I’m preparing to make my move to the Big Apple pains me, because it makes me realize how far gone our relationship was. Why did I not just get out of the car and walk away? Forget my asking who
he
really was. The real question is: Who was
I
to be letting this nonsense happen?

Later that evening, we decided to go our separate ways for a few hours so I could enjoy dinner with the girls and he could hang out with the guys from our season. It was a much-needed break for both of us. As I sat at dinner with my girlfriends and reminisced about the good ol’ days over cocktails, I was relieved to be away from Number Twenty-Six and feel happiness. But that feeling came to a screeching halt when mid-entrée my phone, which was rudely sitting out on the table, chimed, notifying me of a text from my “lovely” fiancé.
Oh boy
, I thought as I read it.

26:
So, I hear u r at dinner with some dudes. Cool, Andi.

This allegation was followed by a thumbs-up emoji, which had become one of his trademark ways of expressing anger.
Gag me!
He was an artist when it came to accusing, blaming, and belittling all in one low-blow text. I looked around the table of eight women, and knowing a simple denial wouldn’t be enough for him, I snapped a photo of the table clearly filled with girls and only girls. This wasn’t the first time I’d felt the need to defend my innocence with the physical proof of a photo. I’m ashamed to say that this had become my usual response to his allegations of the sort. He didn’t respond, but in my mind, it was strike two, and we’d been in California only a few hours.

After dinner with just the girls, we met my fiancé along with his friends at a bar across the street. After several awkward conversations, plenty of glares from him when I casually chatted with his guy friends, and a few too many drinks, I decided to call it a night. Tomorrow was the big day, and though inside I was struggling, as a firm believer that the only bags you should wear are on your arm and not under your eyes, I was determined to look damn good on the outside, which meant I needed my beauty rest. He, on the other hand, didn’t have to worry about bags under his eyes and thus wasn’t done for the night. So, as I meandered my way back to our hotel alone, he headed off to more bars with the guys.