The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club (3 page)

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, of course not.” He shook his head. “I guess I’m just not looking for perfection.”

“Clearly.” All the stories he’d told me about Lauren made that fact obvious.

“I know this won’t make sense to you, but I need to be with someone who doesn’t have it all figured out. I need someone who doesn’t make it so easy.”

You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me, I thought. “Are you freakin’ kidding me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen,” I blurted out, not so much at Jeff as at the world. “It’s supposed to be you and me. Jeff and Cassie. Not Jeff and Lauren. Not you and some stick-thin, neurotic cellist. It’s supposed to be me in cream Vera Wang and you in pale gray pinstripes. It’s supposed to be a partnership for you and a corner office for me. It’s supposed to be a house on the water and a boy and a girl and Christmases at your parents’ cabin and Sunday brunches with Sam and Trish and group vacations to Puerto Vallarta every winter . . .” My unlived future came pouring out of me, blending eventually into chest-heaving sobs. Jeff didn’t say a word, only sat looking stunned and too scared to speak until I reached the end of my fairy tale.

“I know that’s what you wanted,” he said. “But I don’t think I ever really did.”

“So why . . .” I lifted my hand and rubbed my thumb against the diamond’s surface.

“I don’t know.” He looked away, ashamed maybe, and spoke to the floor. “You needed it to happen so bad.”

“But I thought . . . I thought.” I thought we were in love. I thought we were forever. I thought I was getting everything I’d dreamed about. I didn’t know what I thought anymore. My chest began to tighten, my breath quickening. Please, God, I pleaded in my head, don’t let me hyperventilate. Not now, not in front of him. I took a deep breath and let it out. I was deflated. There was no better word for it.

“It’s for the best, Cassie. Trust me.”

“How the fuck can this be for the best?” I shouted. “Please tell me, because I’d really like to know.”

“I’m sorry.” He lifted his eyes, and I saw instantly that it was over. There was nothing I could do. There would be no revision to the plan. I would not be a star Web producer. I would not be getting married. There would be no Vera Wang dress, no house on the water, no Mexican vacations with all our friends. What was left? I wondered. So much had been stripped away, I wasn’t even sure who I was anymore. All I knew was that there was nothing left for me in that room.

“I have to go now,” I said the way you end a conversation with a telemarketer, perfunctory, detached. And that’s how I felt. Detached from the moment, from my life as I’d known it, from the room in this stranger’s apartment. I was floating up and away, and there was nothing to grab hold of anymore, nothing to keep me grounded. I picked up my box of office supplies, stepped over Lauren’s wayward shoe, and walked out of the apartment. When I reached the sidewalk in front of the building, I stopped. I looked left, then right, then left again. For the first time in my life, I had absolutely no idea where I was going.

CHAPTER TWO

I
’d never felt so completely lost. It was a dry Seattle day, but it might as well have been pouring down rain for the dark cloud that was following every aimless step I took. I must have wandered the streets for hours, my box of office supplies locked protectively under one arm and a blizzard of questions thrashing about in my head. Were there signs I didn’t see? Did Jeff ever love me? Was this all really my fault? What did I do wrong? What didn’t I do right? What are all those stupid love songs about, anyhow, all those tear-jerking movies? Wasn’t love supposed to conquer all? What was so great about love if it didn’t make everything perfect? I could have drowned under the weight of all those questions.

Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing was the way it should have been. I’d stuck to the plan, done all the things I was supposed to, and now everything was wrong, wrong, wrong. My life—the life I’d thought I had before being abruptly awakened into my current nightmare—was upside down, inside out.

My life was spilling out onto the road. Well, the remnants of it, anyway. Notebook, purple pencil, butterfly paper clips I’d bought with my own money—it all toppled out of the box that I’d apparently been squeezing tightly enough to rupture. Everything landed around my feet. I stopped, unsure what to do, only vaguely aware of a car screeching to a halt somewhere nearby. I poked at the notebook with a pointy leather toe, kicked lightly at a cluster of paper clips. Even office supplies know when they’ve outgrown their usefulness, I thought. I lifted the cardboard lid, retrieved the manila envelope, and rested what was left of the box gently on the ground. A car honked loudly. I looked up and saw with a start that I was in the middle of the street. I crossed quickly, and the car roared by, crushing the box under its right tires. There was a slight popping sound, and that was that.

I turned away from the cardboard carcass and found myself at the pier. I’d always loved it down there, especially in the summer, when the shops and restaurants came alive with tourists happily enjoying this Tom Hanks version of the city and tanned locals vying to see and be seen. Now it was empty and gray. I walked to the edge of the wharf. There was nothing before me but cold, dark sea. The end of the world as I knew it.

The reality of the situation began to really sink in. I didn’t have a fiancé. I didn’t have a place to live. I didn’t have a paycheck. I needed a cup of coffee.

I ducked into a coffee shop for a latte and my bearings. I didn’t even get to enjoy the first hot sip before my cell rang. Jeff! It had to be him, calling to take it all back, to tell me he was an idiot, out of his mind to give me up. I fumbled through my pocketbook for my phone and caught it at the last ring without checking the number on the display. That was my first mistake. The second was telling my mother what had happened.

“What did you do?” Even through the cell phone static, I could hear the panic in her voice. My mother has some lovely qualities, but I could hardly expect empathy from her in this situation. It’s not that she doesn’t love me, it’s just that she comes from a long line of disappointed women who have passed down hard-won lessons in self-preservation (and oddly small earlobes) to their daughters. She’s been married to my sweet, devoted stepdad for over twenty years, but she will always be the woman my father walked out on when I was seven. Security is to my mother what Manolos are to Sarah Jessica Parker.

“Why do you automatically assume that I did something wrong?” The words came out angrier than I had intended, but her criticism was the last thing I needed right now, especially when it sounded a lot like the criticisms circling in my own head. Besides, I needed to be mad at someone within shouting distance, and that was either my mother or the barista. “Let’s try being supportive for five seconds. After that you’re free to blame me for the world’s evils.”

“You don’t have to snap at me,” she said, clearly hurt. “And I don’t automatically assume you did something wrong, Cassandra. What I meant was what did you do when you found them?”

“Sorry,” I choked out. “I’m just a little . . .” Destroyed. Amputated. Flailing like a headless chicken. “On edge.”

“Of course you are, sweetie.”

“I don’t know what to . . . I can’t seem to . . . Mom, what did I do wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything. Men cheat. Period. End of story.”

“He said I’m too perfect.”

“Too perfect? What the heck does that mean?” Now she was the one getting angry, which was possibly the nicest thing she could do for me at the moment. A little parental indignation can go a long way in the right circumstance. Then she took a deep breath and added, “Okay, let’s not overreact.” And just like that, the old Gwen was back. “We can get through this. Let’s give him some time. Maybe he’ll—”

“Give
him
some time? He’s not exactly the injured party here.”

“Of course, sweetie.” She put on her best mom voice. “But we’ve still got some damage control to do. We need a plan.”

Her words triggered something inside me, and I couldn’t hold it back a second longer. This wasn’t going to be discreet. This was going to be Niagara Falls. I cupped a hand over the phone and held it out at arm’s length. My mother had begun talking about some woman named Margaret whose daughter had been left at the altar, and I was falling apart at the seams right here in the coffee shop beside a display of oversize, overpriced mugs. The guy behind the counter smiled sympathetically. He couldn’t have been over nineteen. This was probably his first job, some part-time work to put a bit of spending money in his pocket while he finished school. He had his whole life in front of him, years and years to get it all right.

I wanted to punch him in the face.

Instead I collected myself, told my mom I’d have to call her back, and finished my latte. The coffee was good and strong, and I felt better—for about ten seconds. No amount of caffeine and soft amber lighting could keep the day from playing over and over in my head. I needed advice from an impartial (nonparental) party. I needed a shoulder or two to cry on. I needed a drink. I called Sam and Trish’s office—so convenient having best friends who work together—and asked if they could cut out of work early and meet me at Jimmy’s. This was an emergency.

“What’s going on?” Trish asked over speakerphone. “Big sale at the Bon?” I started to speak but choked on Jeff’s name. All I could manage were several big gulps of air before I broke into sobs. “Hang on, sweetie. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

When I got to Jimmy’s, our regular après-work venue, there was no sign of Sam and Trish, so I sat at the bar and sipped on a martini. Jimmy’s looked a lot different at two in the afternoon. In place of generically cute, suited guys swigging Heinekens, and PR bunnies spinning on the small dance floor at the back, were scruffy freelancers hunched over their laptops, modern-day cowboys roaming the cyber range. We used a lot of freelancers at my company, and I’d always assumed that to live without any real job security, you had to be either incredibly brave or incredibly crazy, maybe a bit of both. Yet at that moment, sucking back bar coffee and free wireless Internet access, they seemed full of direction. They had project, deadlines, purpose. What did I have? Termination papers, an eviction notice, and a two-carat diamond ring worth as much to me as the beer-stained cocktail napkin stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I threw back my drink and, choosing to ignore the bartender’s mixed expression of disapproval and curiosity, ordered a second. The girls would have to catch up.

Halfway through my third drink, Sam and Trish plopped themselves down on the bar stools on either side of me. I hadn’t told them anything on the phone, but Sam took one look at my face and threw her arms around me while Trish signaled the bartender for a round. “What did you tell them at the office?” I asked, always amazed by how much freedom they had at the market research firm they worked at.

“What we always tell them,” said Trish. “Field research.” She passed a martini to Sam and took a big swallow from her own. “Now start from the very beginning.”

I took a deep breath and started from the beginning, not sparing even the smallest detail. Sam and Trish listened. The bartender listened. I think a couple of the cyber cowboys might have been listening, too. Most importantly, I was listening. By the time I got to the nineteen-year-old barista, I was more depressed than ever. I’m too perfect. I’ve got it all figured out. I don’t take risks. Could it be that the qualities I prided myself on were actually faults? Jeff’s words, my boss’s words—it all flashed in my brain like giant road signs telling me I was going the wrong way. Instead of speeding down the fast lane to Success City, I was rolling into Loserville on bald tires and an empty tank of gas.

Sam and Trish stared, looking dumbfounded. I’d never seen them speechless before. Of course, it was only natural that they’d be surprised. If not about the job, then certainly about the guy. They’d liked Jeff. Everyone had liked Jeff. Jeff was very, very likable. Just ask Lauren.

“Unbelievable,” said Trish.

“Un-fucking-believable,” agreed Sam.

“He’s an idiot,” said Trish.

“They’re all idiots,” added Sam.

Trish slammed a hand down on the bar. “Screw ’em all. This could be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

I winced. That’s what people tell you when something truly, horrifically awful happens. I’ve said it to pining ex-boyfriends to alleviate my own guilt. I’ve said it to friends who fell victim to downsizing. Now I was the ex. I was the jobless. I smirked at myself, which seemed to make Sam and Trish feel better.

“That’s the spirit,” said Sam, giving me a squeeze. Trish took my hand and smiled enthusiastically. I nodded and forced a small smile. They were trying so hard to be helpful, needing me to be okay, that I couldn’t possibly tell them I knew it was all bullshit.

In fact, the only thing that made me feel even the slightest bit better came in a ridiculously shaped glass seemingly designed to maximize spilling. Cocktails thinly disguised as martinis for the I’m-not-really-sophisticated-but-I-do-drive-a-Jetta crowd are the best invention ever. I downed the drink in front of me, which may have been Trish’s, judging from the look she gave me, and ordered another.

“Maybe you could use a break,” said the bartender.

“Look, friend,” I began, though it sounded more like “Lick, fren” (those martinis were really strong). I was about to give him a piece of my mind. Who did he think he was telling me when I needed a break? Did he just lose his job, his home, and his Jeff all in the same day? I don’t think so. I leaned back, almost fell off my stool, and then tipped forward again, ready to let him have it, but as I opened my mouth, it hit me. The bartender was a genius!

A break. That was exactly what I needed. Not from martinis—from my life. I had worked long and hard to get the right job, the right fiancé, the right apartment, and I’d done it all wearing the right shoes. For over a decade, I ate, slept, and breathed The Plan. Hadn’t I earned some time off? You get two weeks for every year in a job, right? With a bit more difficulty than usual, I calculated in my head: ten years times two weeks . . . twenty weeks . . . five months. Heck, let’s call it six for good measure.

A girl could do a lot in six months, I figured. A girl could also do absolutely nothing. I could go somewhere I’d never been, spend time by myself. Hello, self. I could learn. Reflect. Get perspective. And, naturally, come up with a new plan. I’d come back six months later from Italy or Morocco or whatever fabulous place, tanned and thin and glowing with inner peace. It was all so Oprah. Maybe they’d feature me in her magazine. Maybe I’d get invited to appear on the show—one of those people who sit in the front row of the audience because their stories aren’t quite amazing enough to earn them a spot onstage but are still special enough that you’re on-camera and Oprah might even walk down and hold your hand while you tear up. Maybe I’d end up famous, or at least with an endorsement deal for a yogurt company. Maybe I’d even meet someone new.

My brilliant genius bartender was leaning across the bar, waiting for me to say something, his arms folded in that resigned, unshakable bartender way. There was only one thing to do. I grabbed his cheeks and kissed him, a big sloppy wet one, my long-lasting lipstick leaving an optimistic smudge under his nose. He jumped back, blushing cherry red. Sam and Trish laughed so hysterically, I don’t think they even noticed me throwing down a couple of twenties and tearing out the door.

The door swung shut behind me, muffling their calls as I stumbled into a cab. There was no time for goodbyes. I was too excited about my new plan to take a break from my old plan so I could figure out a new new plan. I couldn’t wait to get started. I’d explain it all to Sam and Trish tomorrow, and they’d understand. How could they not? It was so genius!

“Where to?” asked the driver.

“Any goddamn place I want,” I answered smugly. He looked at me in the rearview mirror as if trying to figure out whether I was high. “Oh, you mean right now.” I smiled sheepishly. I couldn’t go back to the apartment and there was no way I was going to my parents’ place, but other than a last twenty, all I had on me was the credit card that Jeff had insisted I get for emergencies. There’d never been one—until now. “To the most expensive hotel in the city,” I commanded. It was the start of a new plan, a new life. Might as well start it with crisp white sheets and room service. The cabdriver smiled approvingly into the rearview mirror and took a left.

We pulled up to the W Hotel on Fourth Avenue. I gave the driver my twenty, swiped a finger under the bottom rim of each eye, sensing smudged mascara, and staggered into the most beautiful hotel I’d ever seen. The walk to the check-in counter was a bit awkward, what with the room swaying the way it was, but the clerk was either too polite or too sophisticated to acknowledge this minor point. She took my platinum card happily and called me Ms. Moore. I felt like a movie star. Despite my lack of luggage, a bellhop escorted me to my room on the fourteenth floor. As I watched the elevator numbers rising, my smile got bigger and bigger. Things were looking up already.