Room for Love (6 page)

“Where's Boytoy?” Jeremy asks, referring to Jake.

“In the shithouse,” I slur.

“No blowjobs for a week.”

Courtney takes the opportunity to cut in. “Would you miss his birthday, Jacq? I don't think so.” She kisses Jeremy before running off to supervise the quarters game.

“Oh, baby, you need a drink.” Jeremy orders me another, after taking his cell phone out of his pocket, looking at it puzzled, and putting it back. I shake my head. Jeremy is a victim of what I call compulsive ob-cell-sive disorder, an affliction that causes poor souls like Jeremy to constantly hear their cell phones ringing when in fact they are not. A bus screeches to a halt and he thinks it's his phone. A baby cries, gunfire roars from a TV set, the Beatles sing “Magical Mystery Tour” on the radio—and Jeremy fumbles frantically for his cell, which is silently snoozing in his pocket.

“Looks like you could get Stefan in the sack,” Jeremy says, checking his silent cell again and sadly putting it back in his pocket. Stefan, the chiseled, still-struggling actor who once trampled my heart, throws a practiced come-hither look my way from the back of the bar, his scruffy bangs falling seductively over penetrating brown eyes.

“You think so?” I ask. “He just told me my tits look terrific.”

“Isn't that what you were going for in that dress? He's looking good.”

“I can't go back there. Our breakup landed me in therapy for two years.” Jeremy puts his arm around me in commiseration. “You know, Jake had this really important meeting tonight with a gallery owner. They probably had to have drinks afterwards or something,” I tell him. “Maybe it's a good sign?”

“Did he say he was coming?”

“Well, he was going to try, but it wasn't definite,” I say.

“Pardon me while I cringe,” says my sister, appearing from out of nowhere, a phantom invoked by any reference to my bad boytoy.

Courtney is on her heels. “Stop making excuses for him,” she says. “He should be here.”

As I slam the rest of my drink, wincing as the lime juice burns the back of my throat on the way down, my phone rings: Boytoy dialing up from the shithouse.

“Hey,” he says in the I'm-so-tired-I-can-barely-move-let-alone-get-on-a-subway tone I recognize as the one he uses every time he flakes. “I just woke up.”

“I didn't know you were sleeping,” I say, pushing my way to the front of the bar to escape the indignant glares of my friends.

“Yeah, I stopped at home to drop off my stuff and passed out in front of
Seinfeld,
” he says. He's missing my birthday for reruns.

Courtney, Alicia, and Jeremy circle like vultures. I know if I talk loud enough to alert my protective posse to this turn of events, my relationship with Jake will be in peril. There's always someone trying to guilt me into breaking up with the assholes in my life. As if I didn't know they were bad for me without my loved ones' disapproval. Don't they know that I choose the drama? That I thrive on it? That I wouldn't know what to do with a life empty of senseless acts of self-destruction?

“Jake, can I call you back in two secs?”

“I'm going to sleep, Jacquie.”

“It would take you, like, half an hour to get here. Less in a cab.” I lower my voice and press my forehead against the front door of the bar, just in case the birds of prey are near enough to sense my defenselessness and come in for the kill. “I'll pay for it.”

“I can't do it. I'm sorry,” he says. “Look, can I take you out for dinner tomorrow night? For your birthday?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Hey, sorry,” he says.

Tears well up in my eyes. “You're always apologizing these days.”

“Yeah, I know. But I am sorry. I'll call you tomorrow.”

When I swing around, Courtney, Alicia, and Jeremy are standing shoulder-to-shoulder an inch from me, forming a barrier between me and the crowd of people I'd like to escape into. They're an angry mob, eyes blaring, out for blood. I compose myself. “He's taking me out to dinner tomorrow night.”

They become a sort of Greek chorus hurling modern-day moral code at me—or hurling something, anyway. It goes a bit like this:

Courtney:
“Tell me you broke up with the jerk.”

Alicia:
“Loser.”

Jeremy:
“Inconsiderate turd.”

Alicia:
“Let's hire someone to break his kneecaps.”

Courtney:
“Burn down his house.”

Jeremy:
“Cut off his balls.”

Alicia:
“He'll never have sex again.”

Courtney (giggling):
“He'll talk like a twelve-year-old girl.”

Alicia (eyes gleaming):
“He'll be in so much pain.”

They all pause to savor the thought of it.

Jeremy:
“A boytoy has only one purpose in life.”

Courtney:
“To make you happy.”

Alicia:
“When he stops?”

Jeremy:
“Unplug him.”

Alicia:
“Cut off his cajones.”

Jeremy:
“What was it this time?”

Courtney:
“Taking a nap?”

Alicia (sarcasm):
“Making a masterpiece?”

Jeremy:
“Washing his hair?”

Alicia:
“Clearly something much more important than…”

“HIS GIRLFRIEND'S BIRTHDAY!” shout all three evil preachers masquerading as my friends.

“I'm not his girlfriend!” I shout back. “Not really. He's not ready for a relationship.”

“Duh,” says my mean gay boyfriend. “If he's not ready for a relationship with a goddess like you, he doesn't deserve you,” he adds, swooping me into his arms and nuzzling my neck. It makes me horny.

Just then Samantha strolls over to say goodbye.

“Jake didn't make it?
Quelle
surprise,” she says, kissing both my cheeks. The four of us watch as she cinematically flings her long, blond locks over one shoulder and glides out into the night, as if the sidewalk was a stage and she a diva making her entrance, her engagement ring glistening as it catches rays off a streetlight.

“I gotta go. I'm not feeling so hot,” I say, surveying the bar and deciding that my friends will live if I don't say good night. I grab my purse and a shopping bag bulging with the books, smelly candles, flowers, and sexy underwear my friends gave me, avoiding the eyes of the scary threesome studying me with concerned looks, and run out of the bar.

The icy air braces me, sobering me up ever so slightly. I lean against the wall, throw back my head, and close my eyes. The world spins and I open them again quickly, taking a couple of deep breaths before beginning my walk up Avenue C. I stumble left onto Ninth Street and let my fingers run along the chain-link fence bordering the community garden on the corner. The cold feels good on my fingertips. Jagged aluminum pinwheels in a variety of colors adorn the top of the fence. Most are rusted from years of weather. Some are twirling frenetically. Gazing up, I feel a gush of affection for my strange little neighborhood. One of the primitive sculptures looks like a gigantic sunflower with pointed, razor-sharp petals that would not feel so good if they fell on my head. I move swiftly away from the fence and spot a stack of terracotta flowerpots in perfect condition on top of a trash can, some of them painted in bold shades, probably by a local artist who got bored with them. I could use those, I think, wrapping my arms around them. I hear music in the distance as I cart my treasure down the sidewalk piled high with garbage bags just beginning to stink.

When I climb into bed, the world is still spinning so badly I can't close my eyes. I guzzle a glass of water and take two aspirin, but it doesn't help. After staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, I get up and stick my fingers down my throat. Up come the contents of at least seven mojitos (I lost count), a jug of sake, and some sushi. Tuna, I think. My eyes water and sting and my mouth tastes like vomit. I brush my teeth again, get back into bed, and vow never, ever to drink again—or at least not more than two (or three) cocktails in one night.

I close my eyes and imagine Jake spooning me, his arm tightly wrapped around me, his hand between my breasts, my hand clutching his.

“Fuck him!” I say aloud and try to come up with another guy to insert into my bedtime fantasy. Johnny Depp? That guy from yoga I'm pretty sure is straight? (He smiled at me when I stumbled out of Ardha Chandrasana pose and onto his mat.) The Italian barista at the café on the corner of First and Tenth with the hazelnut eyes and perennially pursed lips?

Ever since I was old enough to envy the girls making out with dreamy-looking men in the moonlight on
The Love Boat
and
Happy Days,
I've lulled myself to sleep with fairy tale love stories I make up in my head. They go something like this: On a perfectly glorious sunny day, I am strolling alone down an East Village street (in Central Park, through SoHo), dressed in something flattering in red (pink, yellow), maybe with polka dots. This guy—say, Cute Café Boy—is walking his golden retriever (mutt, beagle), sort of running, laughing, playing tug-of-war, not looking where he's going, and he crashes right into me. He looks up, stunned, apologetic—“I'm sorry, are you okay?” His voice is raspy, masculine, full of emotion. When I look into his electric-blue (brown, green) eyes, the attraction is instant and mutual. I assure him that I'm fine, I forgive him; the bump and bruises won't be so bad that I can't cover them with makeup. He laughs and invites me for coffee (brunch, dinner) to make up for it. We get lattés-to-go and sit on a bench in the park. Conversation gushes like a waterfall onto slippery, wet rocks below. Coffee becomes drinks become dinner, and then we're back at my place. The sex is a revelation. His dog mopes in the corner, neglected, and then licks my feet, making us laugh till our sides hurt. We stay in bed for days. He calls his boss (agent, partner) to say he's coming down with the flu, and by the end of the week, we announce our engagement. I'm pregnant. We're thrilled and planning the wedding at his family's sprawling villa on the Amalfi Coast.

I am an Aries woman, and we, the most relentlessly wide-eyed, trusting, and optimistic sign of the zodiac, are not known for great patience. I for one want it all and I want it now. (My ex-therapist confirmed the diagnosis, although she failed to recognize the astrological correlation.) I don't want to wait for the whole getting-to-know-you thing. I want Harlequin Romance Man to emerge from the mists on his towering black steed and carry me off into a fiery sunset. I want
Romeo and Juliet
(without the death part). I want insta-bliss: love, babies, lifelong commitment—at first frig-gin' sight. Unfortunately, I have yet to meet the guy who is willing to comply.

So, Cute Café Boy's strong, protective arms are wrapped around me, his hand fondling a boob. Not even this soothing vision is capable of getting me off to sleep. Handsome Café Boy keeps morphing into stupid Jake. I keep changing positions. Café Boy can barely keep up. I grab the phone.

“Jake?” He's totally asleep. “Wake up. I need to talk to you. You awake?”

“Now I am.”

“Please come over,” I say in my most irresistible voice. “I can't fall asleep.”

“Goddammit, Jacquie!” The force of his outburst blows me into sudden sobriety. “I told you I'm fucking sleeping! I'm so sick of this shit.”

I don't know how to respond to his unexpected fury. Every other time I've called him in the middle of the night he's at least indulged me with conversation.

“Fuck! I'm so sick of this ‘you always disappoint me' shit and you expecting me to act like the good boyfriend on your birthday and making me feel all guilty if I don't. I'm not your fucking boyfriend. I've told you a million times. I like you and I'm cool hanging out or whatever, but I told you:
I can't do this.
Every time we have this fucking conversation we end up staying together, you know? I never wanted to have to not see you anymore, 'cause I like you, but you're driving me crazy. I can't handle you crying and that sad voice. Fuck! I have enough things to worry about without you being mad at me all the time.”

It's the most words I've ever heard him string together. I'm in shock.

“You there?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can I call you tomorrow?”

“I don't think so.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

“Hey,” he says. “Call me when you feel okay talking to me.”

“Okay,” I say. And I hang up. And cry. And cry and cry and cry and cry. I'm lying in my bed, naked and squeezing my teddy bear, Chubby Joe, the same one I've squeezed at times like these ever since my “Secret Santa” in my freshman dorm, a skinny guy named Joe, gave him to me.

I know Jake's right that this pseudo-relationship has gone on too long. And yet more than anything I wish he were here with me. I want Jake to comfort me about getting hurt by Jake. I feel completely distraught that I won't see him anymore, stunned that I won't sleep with him again, furious with him for saying I was driving him crazy and with myself for not breaking up with him before he broke up with me. I was supposed to break up with him first. My pillow is drenched. Chubby Joe is soggy (and pissed). My abs hurt from heaving. Maybe I'll look skinnier in the morning.

I close my eyes and imagine myself walking down Prince Street in SoHo. It's late at night, long shadows falling across the cobblestoned streets, lights eerily illuminating the empty storefronts. And suddenly the cute Italian guy who works at the café on my corner appears staring into the window of a furniture shop. It's funny to see him outside the neighborhood, and we both smile shyly as our eyes meet. He asks me if I'd like to get a drink with him. Later that night, he winds up with his arms wrapped tightly around my waist, his hand nestled lovingly between my breasts, and I finally drift off to sleep.