The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir (28 page)

I glanced up and over at Steven as he reached to ring the bell at the top. Josh had already been to the top, rappelled down, and was working his way up again.

I was stuck in the middle of the wall. I looked up to the bell, and it seemed so steep and far away. Then I looked down. Big mistake. Clinging more tightly to the artificial rock handles, I pressed myself against the face of the fiberglass mountain; I couldn't move. I'd always had trouble with heights, but didn't expect climbing an amusement park toy would be a problem.

On his way rappelling down, Steven stopped beside me. “Going up? Or going down?” he asked.

“Neither.” I stuck to the wall like a smashed spider. “I think I'll just stay right here for a little while.”

Steven looked at me curiously. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just thought I'd hang out here.”

He must have figured out my problem because his tone changed from playful to soothing. “Just let go with your hands and push away from the wall with your feet.”

Let go? Funny guy. I wasn't letting go of shit.

“Hey Mom!” Josh yelled from the ground. “Hurry up so we can ride the race cars.”

It was clear I couldn't exactly spend the day where I was. My fingers were already getting sore from hanging on so tightly.

I looked over at Steven and managed a weak smile. He smiled back and stayed beside me while I slowly backed down. I stretched each foot and hand to reach the next lowest rock until finally I stood on terra firma, my legs quivering slightly. Okay, note to self: No more feet-off-the-ground stuff.

Racing go-carts was a totally different story. Heart like a wheel, I channeled the spirit of Shirley Muldowney. “Catch me if you can,” I called out to Steven and Josh as I pulled out of the starting area.

We whipped around the small track. I cut in close at the corners, squeezing the boys out of the turns and pressed the throttle open through the entire race, using the body of the small cart to maneuver to keep the lead, not allowing anyone to pass. Wild laughter bubbled up from my chest and I let out a shriek of victory at the end.

“Mom, you're nuts. I could've beat you if you weren't driving so crazy mean.” Josh looked surprised and a little amused.

Steven pulled me against his side and kissed the top of my head. “Wow. You're a little terror behind the wheel.”

Something about the speed and the competition made my pulse quicken. “Someday I want to try the real thing on a NASCAR track,” I said.

“That would be scary,” Steven said.

The day passed with laughter and all the giddy excitement of adolescent fun. Bumper cars. Batting cages. Air hockey. Video games. After a while, we collapsed into a booth to refuel with greasy pizza and chocolate milkshakes.

On the drive home, Josh fell asleep on the backseat of the Suburban. Steven held the wheel with one hand so he could hold my hand with the other while he drove.

I had a sense of peace I hadn't felt for a long time. Steven seemed to fit so well into our lives; it was as if he belonged there all along.

a date with hedonism

Tuesday, December 17

Steven called The Four Seasons in Carlsbad to schedule a massage and facial for us. Then we'd have the private room to ourselves for another four hours.

When we walked in, flute music whispered in the background and a gas log fire flickered, casting shadows on the walls of the warm room. Twin chaise lounges curved around a small table set with wine, fruit, and cheeses.

Once settled in the couple's spa room, we waited for the massage and skin therapists to arrive.

“Try this.” Steven held a cracker supporting a thick slice of brie.

I took a bite. The cheese stuck to the roof of my mouth and a piece of the cracker dove between the folds of my robe.

My first brie. I giggled a puff of cracker dust. “It's good,” I mumbled around the cheese.

Steven held the top of a crimson strawberry, offering me a bite. He leaned over, and with the tip of his tongue, licked a drop of juice from the corner of my lips. We kissed the sweetness between us.

When the therapists arrived, we settled ourselves on each of the tables under the soft, warmed sheets.

I started with the facial; Steven with the massage.

It was my first facial, so I wasn't sure what to expect. I thought for sure I was going to smother when Skin Lady steamed me and wrapped the hot towel around my face like a swirled cone. Hoping I wouldn't die from asphyxiation, I took little breaths and concentrated on trying not to hyperventilate.

I heard Steven groan. I tried to peek through the cloth covering my face, and wondered if guys ever got an erection during a professional massage. Rub—rub—BOING. Instant pup tent with no campfire or marshmallows in sight. A giggle slipped out.

“So, you're enjoying your facial over there?” Steven's voice was slightly muffled in the cushioned face rest on the massage table.

“This is great. And by the sounds of it, I'm going to really enjoy my first massage too.”

“We should do this at least once a month.” Steven groaned again.

How could I argue with that? And why would I?

Steven and I switched tables and my massage began.

I tried to will my muscles to feel firm and less jiggly. Massage Lady seemed to spend far too long squeezing and kneading my lower back fat. It was like she was trying ever so unsubtly to tell me I needed to go to the gym more often. I just knew she thought my body felt like soggy Playdoh.

Concentrating harder, I sucked it in, but it didn't seem to be helping. I finally decided that since she'd never see me again, it was okay if I was a little squishy. As I relaxed, my body sank into the cushioned table, and I gave in to the kneading motions of her hands.

I awoke just as the therapists left the room and closed the door quietly behind them.

When I climbed off the table, my muscles felt like they hung loosely from my bones. I wrapped myself in the warmed robe and felt it cling to my lightly oiled skin.

“How was that?” Steven opened his arms and pulled me into an embrace.

I rested my head against his robe and circled my arms around his waist. “Absolutely wonderful,” I said.

“Would you like to go into the heated pool?” Steven pushed open the French doors to the private patio.

It was chilly and the dark clouds threatened rain. We ran barefoot across the flagstones, tossed our robes onto a table, and plunged into the steaming water. When we surfaced, the sky opened to shower us with cold rain.

We moved to the far end where a patio umbrella near the edge of the pool sheltered us from the sky. Steven sat on the bench seat and floated me onto his lap. My cheek rested on Steven's damp shoulder and his arms wrapped around my body underwater. Raindrops splashed into the pool and bounced, creating hundreds of tiny rippling circles on the surface. The steam cast a low fog around us and we kissed while the rain beat a soft rhythm on the umbrella overhead.

All of it had been so magical. It was something I could only imagine in a scene from a movie. Every minute I spent with Steven was better than the last.

“I'm getting pruney,” I whispered against his lips.

“Let's get out. My head is getting cold too.”

We ran for our robes and ducked back into the room. Steven pulled a chaise lounge close to the flickering fire and we cuddled together on it.

“In case I forget to tell you later, this has been an amazing day. I love being with you,” I whispered in his ear.

Steven turned to face me, capturing my gaze. “I think you're an amazing woman.”

He slowly pulled one end of the sash on my robe until the bow untied. Then reached to part the folds, exposing my bareness to the warm glow of the fireplace. He began at my neck, kissing and tasting down the length of my body. I closed my eyes, reveling in the feel of his hands and mouth touching and exploring. I looked down to run my fingers through the damp waves of his hair.

Steven lifted his body and poised above me, our gaze shared the intimacy and desire we both felt. He entered slowly and our lips met in a deep kiss.

Hedonism at its best.

the grinch who skipped christmas

Monday, December 23

It was two days before Christmas and I wandered from room to room— irritated.

I always enjoyed the bustle of mall shopping during the holidays, often stopping to sit on a bench to people-watch. I loved spending the entire day trying to find exactly the right gift for someone.

Last year, Christmas was a disaster. Between Buddy's destruction of the tree and the tow truck incident, I knew this year's celebration would have to be exponentially better. I looked forward to sharing our Christmas with Steven. When the starting gun for Black Friday went off, I had called him to chatter about my grand plans.

Steven sounded less than thrilled. He admitted Christmas had always been a huge disappointment when he was growing up. I could feel his discomfort; it was so strong it was tangible. He had a certain cynicism toward the huge commercial ritual and said it never lived up to the expectations it promised.

I had approached Josh about it while he was watching a DVD. “Hey Wonderboy, can we talk?”

He pressed the pause button on the remote. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, I just wanted to talk to you about Christmas. Steven's not really a big holiday guy, so I was wondering if you'd mind if we skip it this year?”

Josh considered my question a minute before speaking. “Can we buy a few things on my list?”

“Of course. We'll still exchange a few presents, we just won't do that whole traditional decorating thing.”

“Okay, that's fine with me,” he said, clicking the play button to continue watching his movie.

So, it made sense. We would avoid the chaos and the hype. Not bother hanging lights on the house, or buying a tree, or decorating. We would just skip Christmas.

The weeks had passed with holiday images plastered everywhere. Even after ten years, I still marveled at the fact that in South Orange County, all the block walls around the gated communities were decorated with bulbs and garlands, the trees in the beltways laced with blinking lights. In my old hometown, the decorations would've been stripped bare as soon as the city's seasonal maintenance truck reached the end of the block.

Everywhere I looked, it was festive. But in our house, it looked like any other day.

I just couldn't shake my ratty mood. In the last few days, it had amplified. By the time Steven came over after work, I was hanging on to the brittle edge of reason.

“Hello, Beautiful.” Steven wrapped me in a greeting embrace. He pulled back and searched my eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. I don't know.” I pressed my face against his white T-shirt. A wave of sorrow washed over me and my shoulders shook with silent sobs.

He led me to the couch and pulled me onto his lap. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I don't know why I'm crying.” I kept my eyes lowered, staring at the floor.

“Are you PMSing?” It was that tentatively asked question, the one with the potential to provoke an instant masticating decapitation.

I shook my head. No period, just an overwhelming, unexplained sadness.

The memory caught me by surprise: I was ten, maybe eleven. Dad crouched in the corner of the living room, screwing two wooden poles together, fitting them into an iron stand. He smiled over his shoulder. “Nettie, sort the branches in piles by the color of paint on the end of the wires,” he said.

Of course I knew what I was doing. I'd helped put up the artificial tree for as long as I could tell my colors. I reached into the huge, tattered, cardboard box with the yellowed tape on the corners and pulled out the next limb.

I truly loved that ugly, plastic Christmas tree with the storage-mashed branches.

“I think I do want to have Christmas,” I whispered to Steven while tears flowed freely down my cheeks.

“Is that why you're crying?” Steven's tone carried the full weight of his confusion.

Why? There were so many little reasons why.

“I had to run around the tree to fluff the nylon needles because they were always flat,” I said. As a girl, my tiny arms only reached halfway up the tree, so Dad ruffled the rest before he put the lights on.

“Mom stuck the hooks in all the ornaments and I would hang them. And it was my job to watch Tiki, our Siamese cat, and chase her away if she tried to eat the tinsel.”

I struggled to answer his question. “Every morning I used to wake up early and lie on the couch in the dark, watching the tree we decorated blink colors across the wall. It was a magical, quiet time when everyone was happy.” Another tear rolled down my cheek.

Steven's XY problem-solver gene kicked in. “What can I do?” he said. “Do you want me to buy you a tree?”

I wanted to share every detail of our family Christmas traditions. Each memory came back so vividly that I could almost feel Dad's presence in the room. “He used to tease me by opening his presents so slowly that I had to run over and tear off the paper for him. Then after we were done, he'd bake blueberry muffins for breakfast.”

Steven guided me off his lap, and pulled me by the hand toward the door. “Let's go get you a tree,” he said.

I thought I could skip Christmas and it wouldn't matter, but there was so much more beyond the chaos and hype. A love of family sharing decorated the tree and my soul every year. I realized having that again was more than a want; it was a need.

starbucks & the lottery

Friday, December 27

Steven looked at me across the small table. His hand curled around his cup of espresso. “I don't understand why guys you've been with in the past have never invested in your dreams.”

I stirred the whipped cream into my hot cocoa. “I don't know. After I helped them, I guess they just left before it was my turn.”

But how was it that I never saw it coming? Bonita said it was the Florence Nightingale Complex: I found broken men and tried to make them whole. Maybe, but it still didn't explain why they always left.

Steven reached across the table and covered my hand with his. “I don't understand how anyone could ever let you go.”