The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir (12 page)

Josh shoved the dog out the doorway into the backyard and slammed the slider. “No. It was wide open.” He glared at the dog through the glass. “He stood right there in front of me, lifted his leg, and peed on the table leg.”

I blotted up the wetness and then called the carpet cleaners to make an appointment. I decided to call Mom for advice. She'd bred, raised, and shown Russian Wolfhounds before I was born, so I figured she'd have some good suggestions to keep it from happening again.

Mom was predictably direct. “That dog is out of control. You should've never bought him for Kevin. Or the least he could've done is take that damn dog with him when he left you.”

Nothing quite like a little motherly compassion to help me get through a tough time.

“Buddy's such a sweet dog. I know he'll be wonderful once he's past his destructo-puppy stage.” I bent to pick up a chunk of drywall he chewed off the corner of the kitchen entryway. “Maybe I can wait it out.”

Just the thought of giving up Buddy felt like losing another piece of Kevin.

“Then you need to take him to obedience school or send him to a trainer. Those are really your only options at this point,” she said.

I didn't have the emotional energy to deal with any of it.

After I got off the phone with Mom, I decided to call Kevin. The knot in my stomach tightened with every ring of the phone. I carried it upstairs to the bedroom so we could talk privately. I knew Josh would be upset if he discovered I was considering getting rid of the puppy.

“Hi,” I said without introduction.

“Hi,” Kevin echoed.

I wondered if he felt as uncomfortable as I did.

“I called to see if that guy at the golf club still wants Bud-dy.” My voice cracked and I knew it was only a matter of seconds before I'd begin sobbing. “Please ask him and get back to me as soon as you can. I just can't keep him,” I said, rushing to get off the phone.

“I'll find out and let you know. Is everything else okay?” Kevin asked gently.

“It is what it is,” I said, gripping the receiver tighter. I longed to hang up and end the emotional torture of hearing his voice, knowing the words
I love you
would never cross his lips again.

Kevin pressed a little more. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm not any different from the way I was back in October. I have to go now.” When I said goodbye, he was quiet. “Just say goodbye, Kevin.”

“Okay.” He sighed and there was a long pause before he finally said it. “Goodbye, Annette.”

I hung up and sank to my knees, rocking, with my arms wrapped around my body.

Will the pain ever go away?

The phone rang a few minutes later: it was Kevin, crying. “I'm so sorry for hurting you and for leaving you with the dog,” he said.

“It doesn't have anything to do with Buddy,” I whispered past the lump in my throat.

Josh must have let Buddy back inside the house because I noticed the puppy now lay curled on the floor at the foot of the bed. Looking sweet, soft, and oblivious, he pulled himself more tightly into a ball and closed his eyes.

I sniffed. My nose ran almost as quickly as my tears, but I tried to sound forgiving and rational. “Kevin, you shouldn't cry. You didn't do anything wrong. I can't force you to love me and stay with me, I know that.”

“I just want you to be happy,” he said.

“I was happy,” I said softly.

He wouldn't let me off the phone. His apologies flowed while the room swam in a blurry haze and my head throbbed.

“We have nothing more to talk about. I know it's over,” I said.

“Are you sure you don't need anything?”

Only you
—I wanted to scream over and over until he finally understood. But instead, I said, “Dealing with the break up is my problem and it doesn't affect you.”

“Just because I'm not with you doesn't mean I don't care about you.”

I couldn't stay on the phone any longer. A painful choking feeling seized my chest, making it impossible to breathe. Kevin kept repeating that he was sorry. I couldn't listen any longer, so I said goodbye and hung up.

Pushing the emotion aside, my rational mind began to churn. It was my coping tool, but at that moment, I welcomed it openly.

I'd been bargaining with myself for too long. He wasn't waiting for me to get my writing career going and move to Los Angeles. That was my twisted fantasy. He was done.

Thanks for picking me up and showing me I can love again, but it's time for me to go. Sorry I hurt you. Now get over it.

I was only a bridge from where he was after his divorce to where he is now. Unfortunately for me, that bridge was made up of my heart and soul.

the wish list

Tuesday, February 12

I started The List when I was nineteen. My friends always asked why I bothered keeping a list of everything I wanted in a guy.

Why? Because it made sense. And according to Bonita, my obsessive list-making also happened to fit my DSM IV profile.

My rationale was that if I determined ahead of time what I really wanted, and what was really important to me, then I'd have a better chance of actually finding it, and not wasting time and emotional energy dating Mr. Wrong.

It was my Obsessive Compulsive Girl's Guide to Dating.

Everyone who had ever heard about my list insisted I would never find a guy who had everything I wanted. Could that be why, at thirty-four, I was still single?

Over the years, I had added to the list, but never subtracted. As I learned more about what made me happy, I used it as a blueprint for my perfect mate.

Only by dating a few gazillion Mr. Wrongs, could I have come up with the list for what makes a man Mr. Right-For-Me.

THE LIST

Kevin was the only guy I'd ever met who had everything. I pulled the original list out of my filing cabinet one day to show him. The page was old and yellowed. Changes in the maturity of my handwriting over the years sloped down the length of the page. Kevin laughed when I assured him that he was the perfect guy. Everything I ever wanted.

Now that he was gone, I didn't think anyone else existed who was better for me than he was—I mean is.

Am I doomed to settle?

zen & chocolate

Wednesday, February 13

Everything that has a beginning has an ending. Make
your peace with that and all will be well. –Buddha

The Complete Idiot's Book to Living Buddhistly. Zen Stuff for Totally Clueless Dummies. Seven hundred pages later, they both said the same thing and I just wasn't feeling “well” with it.

Somehow I don't think Buddha ever got dumped; otherwise, he'd know there's no such thing as peace the day before Valentine's Day when you're alone.

This is the last major holiday in the first Chinese year of The Break-Up. Kevin managed to hit every one of them in rapid succession: Halloween—no couples costumes, Thanksgiving—no lover to be thankful for, Christmas— no mate to sing Christmas carols and exchange presents with, New Year's Eve—no partner to celebrate with the beginning of another wonderful year. And now, Valentine's Day—with everyone walking hand-in-hand like they are about to board Noah's Fucking Ark.

I sat in the corner of the living room on Josh's videogame rocking chair, overdosing on Hershey's Kisses and feeling like a loser.

Buddha, I'm definitely not well with it.

I was sure that if I saw another pink and red, heart decoration, I'd kill something. On the phone today, Bonita said, “Congratulations, you're now officially out of the bargaining stage and into the anger stage.”

I can't believe Kevin was stupid enough to ruin such a good thing. It played over and over in my head like a loop. I pushed myself up from the foam rocker and gave it a sharp kick, turning it onto its side.

“What a moron!” I screamed to the empty house.

I snatched the bag of Kisses and thrust my hand inside, grabbing a handful.

“Don't you realize you're screwing up our destiny?” I threw the chocolates across the room like so many foil rocks.

Mind-boggling.

“How can you be so stupid? Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” I yelled.

I knelt to pick up one of the stray Kisses. Then I crawled across the floor picking up the others. I gathered my thoughts and the scattered chocolates.

This residual break-up crap was affecting my happiness. I compared every new guy I met to Kevin and they all came up lacking. I tried to move on, but how the hell was I supposed to do that when I had the best guy out there?

It's over for me.

I leaned against the wall and stretched out my legs with the candy in my lap.

Demographic reality check. I was in my mid-thirties, which meant that shopping for guys in my dating pool was like sorting through the remainders on the clearance table at Walmart: they were either hideous looking, they didn't fit, or they were damaged.

Never married.

Teenage son.

No plans for additional birthing.

I mentally pie-charted my options: At least 85% of single guys in their thirties would rather not date a woman who already has a child. At least 99% of single guys in their thirties wanted to get married and have children of their own. I absently divided the chocolates into rows along the length of my legs to build a 3-D graph.

My math got a little fuzzy here, but that might leave an odd 1% of single guys who would even be remotely interested in signing up for the mentor-manning of a teenage boy and then D.I.N.K.ing toward happily-ever-after, which leaves me with the divorced guy option that usually comes complete with phone calls about alimony payments and a brood of small children more than five years away from empty-nesting.

I wasn't exactly ready to sign up for that.

That's it. I know it. I'm doomed. Doomed to live alone in a dilapidated old house, reading romance books, wearing chenille sweaters, and feeding forty stray dogs. Okay, so it's a slight tweak to the old spinster cliché, but I can't wear wool sweaters—much too itchy. And I'm not really a cat person.

Thanks, Kevin. I hope you have a Happy Fucking Valentine's Day too.

girlfriend in a box

Sunday, February 17

I brushed a lock of hair from my face with the back of my hand. Up to my ass in cardboard boxes and packing paper, I sorted through the contents of the garage. I packed Kevin's PGA books neatly into a box, labeled the side, and taped it closed.