The Breakup (19 page)

’Til next time,

V

Detective Avila, as in “please-call-me-Michael” Avila, called today. “To discuss the Zoe Hayes case?” I asked.

“Actually, no.”

I tingled with anticipation. “What did you have in mind, then?”

“I was hoping we could meet for coffee. Get to know each other.”

“That sounds nice.”

“How does Saturday night work for you?” he asked.

Not wanting to appear as eager as I felt, I told him I’d call him back. I said I needed to check my date book. I felt a little
guilty using that old ploy, but I will always be my mother’s daughter, and my mother always told me: Don’t make it too easy.

’Til next time,

V

I went to my first OA meeting today. Couldn’t shake the feeling that I was peeping in on some sort of secret society. It was
weird but also kind of cool. Still, I’m not sure I belong. For one thing, they consider
compulsive overeating a disease. Do I really think I’ve got a disease? Or is it a bad habit? And what about “abstinence”?
Do I really want to give up sweets cold turkey? After the meeting, Anna slipped a brochure in my hand and said she hoped I
come back next week. I told her I needed some time to digest everything. So to speak.

Roger materialized without warning late this afternoon. (Thankfully, Pete was around the block with Jamison, a new friend
from the scouts.) He drove up in a new silver Lexus SUV with a new girlfriend in the passenger seat. He came to pick up the
stereo and his CDs. I expected his girlfriend to stay in the car, but she pushed the door open even before he turned off the
motor.

“You must be Roger’s ex. I’m Kelia. It’s Hawaiian.” Her voice was silky, Southern and young. She extended a hand with annoying
self-assuredness. “A pleasure.” She gestured toward the flower bed by the front path. “I just adore your cosmos. And your
roses! Gorgeous.” She bent over and cradled one plump blossom in her hand. “I’m afraid the Japanese beetles have destroyed
mine. Very sad.”

She had waist-length straight blond hair with blonder highlights. She wore no discernible makeup and didn’t need to. Her skin
was tanned, unblemished. Her hazel eyes were rimmed with dark lashes, her lips naturally pink and full. As if nature hadn’t
been generous enough, the girl had dimples, two of
them. She wore knee-length khaki shorts festooned with pockets, drawstrings, and Velcro tabs, and even through these baggy
clothes I could see the curve of her perfect ass. She wore a handkerchief top held aloft by two thin straps, clearly no bra.
Pink flipflops, tanned feet, pink toenail polish, two toe rings, one tattoo over the left ankle bone. A dolphin. She was twenty-two,
maybe twenty-three years old. She looked like she belonged on a surfboard, not in landlocked Midwestern suburbia.

Roger strode ahead toward the front door. He looked comfortable and happy. He wore baggy shorts like hers, an Abercrombie
T-shirt, and Birkenstocks. “I’ll be just a few minutes, sweetheart,” he called out. “Why don’t you ladies get to know each
other?”

I had nothing to say. I wanted to run back in the house, but I didn’t want to be alone with Roger. Surfer Girl continued to
talk, apparently oblivious to the inherent awkwardness of the situation. I learned that she’s a yoga instructor, loves vanilla
soy milk, broke her toe last year snowboarding, loves doing laundry, aced her SATs, once dated Freddy Prinze Jr., is reading
up on tantric sex, has an extensive collection of troll dolls, doesn’t consider herself a feminist, wants to move to California.
She said she met Roger in Target. (She was in the men’s department buying a pair of silk boxers for herself, and he asked
her to help him pick out a pair. His opening line, as he ran his hands across his crotch, was, “What size do you
think I’d be?”) The girl continued talking as Roger loaded the stereo and a box of CDs into the Lexus. He tossed a CD case
toward me. It landed on the grass at my feet. “You can keep this one.”

I glanced down at the CD. It was the Bruce Springsteen CD I’d bought Roger for Father’s Day. “I never really liked him anyway,”
he said, slamming down the SUV’s back door. “He’s so . . . old.” He ambled over to the girl and reached for her hand. “Come,
my sweet. The movie starts in twelve minutes.” He put a hand on the small of her back and moved her gently toward the curb.

“You know, Rog,” drawled the girl as she tilted her head to appraise me, “you were right. She
does
look like my mom. She really does.”

Roger tilted his own head and squinted. “Yes, it’s a remarkable resemblance, isn’t it? Except that your mother hasn’t let
herself go.” He pulled her toward him and kissed her hungrily. He slid a hand down the back of her shorts and stared at me.
“Eat your heart out,” he said, and the girl laughed and playfully swatted him on the arm.

“Come on, honey,” she giggled, “leave her alone.”

“My pleasure,” Roger said. “That has always been my goal, after all.” I gulped back my rage and turned away. At that point
I had only this thought to console me: The guillotine clause.

’Til next time,

V

Debra Kent writes the Diary of V for
Redbook
and Women.com and has contributed to such magazines as
Cosmopolitan, Family Circle, Mademoiselle
and
McCall’s.
She lives with her husband and children in the Midwest.