When Girlfriends Break Hearts (20 page)

The fishmongers, shouting at their highest octaves, were in full force, tossing fish to eager (and brave) shoppers and from one monger to the next. The aromatic scent of freshly brewed espresso lingered about and I couldn’t resist. A girl cannot start a day off without a freshly brewed cup of coffee, a latte, or a steaming shot of espresso.

As was often the case, Katie had me take a morning trip to the market to pick up an assortment of items our day’s menu called for. Sometimes she would make the market trips herself, which had to be done on an average of four times a week, and occasionally someone else from the kitchen would make the rounds, but whenever I was asked I was all-hands-on-deck. I loved walking the cobblestone streets, fresh food and local market vendors crowding every possible inch of space as they shared their delights with the world. I especially loved making the market runs early in the morning when usually only the locals were there, with a handful of early bird tourists on their way, too.
 

The vibe of the market was precisely why I wanted to work in the baking industry. Local artisans, bakers, baristas, chefs, aspiring cooks, and the top-notch marketers all converged near the Seattle Waterfront to relish in all-things-food. And seductively fresh and delicious food, at that. Passion for fine foods and fun dining experiences were in the air, in the scent, the sight, the tastes, the sounds. Secret recipes were baked, the freshest of fish were flying through the air, Seattle’s finest coffee blends were being brewed, the morning’s mushroom finds were on display, and the season’s nuts and berries were being snagged off the shelves. Pike Place Market had essence—an essence of everything great.

Once I had gotten myself a good morning pick-me-up cup of a smooth roast blend with a hint of cream, I got a call from Claire. I had hit the road early as the traffic of the morning commuters was not to be toyed with, especially if I wanted to get to the market right when it opened. Parking is a royal pain and damn near impossible around the market so I was left to the reliability of the nearest bus, and that meant heading to the market when the bus left and running out the door just as the sun was coming up. Suffice to say I left without ever seeing Claire or Conner that morning. Claire was calling to tell me what a dreadful morning I had missed out on at 1247 Parker Lane.

Conner and Claire had danced another rendition of “will you marry me or shall we move to Los Angeles?” and Claire was beside herself as she headed to work.

“Claire, you need to sit down with him and have a serious talk. No arguments or pointing fingers,” I said. “You need to sit down, like two grown adults, and talk this through.” I squeezed some apples on display at a quaint corner vendor.

“I tried to do that,” she retorted.
 

“Really? When?”

“This morning.”

“Claire.” I motioned for the vendor to hand me a paper sack so I could bag some of the ripe apples. “I highly doubt you actually sat down and had a well laid discussion
this
morning.”

“We talked.” She was taking the defensive route.

“What, while you were blow drying your hair? While he was toasting Pop Tarts and putting on his shoes? Claire.”

“Alright. So it wasn’t exactly a sit-down kind of thing. But it was another talk. And I was serious.”

Basically, Claire (or Conner, not really sure which) had initiated the dreaded discussion of marriage and moving. One defended, the other defended back. Claire said Conner went on the offensive at some point and told her that she needed to “ride that red wave already,” to which (and rightfully so) she responded by throwing her hairbrush at him. That’s when, as Claire put it, “He stormed out. Like a total jackass.”

“Claire,” I told her. “Brandon was a jackass. Conner didn’t want to be assaulted by beauty products. Not the same thing.” I pulled my cell phone away from my mouth and asked the vendor how much the apples cost, then paid and thanked him before moving on down the street.
 

“And get this,” she continued, voice harsh and sharp. “He texted me after he left for work, right after he stormed out of here without saying goodbye, asking if we could go out to dinner or something tonight. Like
that’s
going to make it all better. Push it all under the rug. Like we’ve been doing for months.”

I let Claire run on about how much she loathed Conner’s behavior, and how she had all the right to turn down his date. She ranted about how he now made her whole day an upsetting one. And how selfish he was to act like that.

“Claire,” I interrupted. “I think this is all getting out of hand. Like I said: you two need to sit down and have a serious face-to-face, no anger or screaming or arguments, kind of talk. Hey, if you need a mediator, count me in.”
 

I headed towards an appealing herbs and spices stand that caught my eye.
 

“I’m not going to stand by and watch you two go at it like wildcats over something so ridiculous,” I told her. “You’re angry with him because he doesn’t want to change a perfect relationship with someone he’s crazy about. He’s angry with you because you don’t want to move to a new city with him. This is smaller than both of you.”

She told me I had a point and that sitting down to talk things through was really the only next logical move. Ranting and raving about the same thing for months on end wasn’t going to do anyone any ounce of good.
 

“I think you should go out to dinner with him and…here’s this,” I said. “You guys have your serious talk right there in the restaurant. A nice quiet corner, but still public so you can’t get all loud and angry with each other. No more childish blow ups. How’s that sound?”

“I guess you’re right.” She sounded hesitant. “I don’t feel like going anywhere with him, but I guess that’s a good idea.”

“You’re going to figure this out. Put your rational cap on, Claire, and go out to dinner with the man you love. Talk things through. Make up. You know…work this out like you guys work everything out.”

After some more encouragement that eventually evolved into talking about my chat with John, and finally about a particular client that Claire was on her way to see that morning—“the cute old veteran who dabbled in watercolors”—I finished up my day’s shopping. And before I grabbed a cab back, my arms full of the shopping rewards, I picked up two artisan cinnamon rolls—one for myself and one for Claire. Sometimes broken hearts or troubled minds need girl talk, and something sweet to nibble on. I have always said that…and those combinations always seemed to do the trick.

***

When my cell phone vibrated with a new email that evening, I was ecstatic to see that it was from Emily. It felt like it had been forever since I sent my email three weeks ago.
 

Conner and Claire were out at their favorite Indian restaurant, leaving me with the pooch from hell; but contrary to my expectations, Schnickerdoodle was particularly calm and easy to handle. I wasn’t sure if he missed his mommy and daddy, or if his dinner hadn’t sat well with him; I was just counting my lucky stars that he wasn’t bouncing off the walls or dragging his leash around the house begging for yet another walk. He probably figured I’d be the last person in the world who would consent to giving him a stroll around the neighborhood.

I scrolled through the email excitedly as I munched on my dinner of fish tacos.

As was Emily’s trademark, her email was concise, but offered most of the basic information you’d want in an email: big news, highlights, a fun, random quip of a particular adventure she had, the “I miss you can’t wait to see you again” spiel, and advice of her own. And the best part—a photo. She attached to this particular email a picture of herself with some of the village children, an abundance of colorful clay pots and jugs in the foreground.

Apparently Emily was learning how to dye and weave clothing and blankets in her African community, and looking forward to learning how to balance water jugs on her head. She had already attempted to carry a small jug and only attracted stares and giggles from the village’s young children. Rest assured they found her attempt endearing, and encouraged her that eventually she could take on the heavy water jugs that their mamas carried. Emily said she was enthusiastic about the prospect. I loved Emily for so many reasons, her enthusiasm for anything new one of them.

Her email’s last paragraph dealt with the situation at hand in my corner of the globe. She had kept it simple and straightforward, which was most welcome, given my recent epiphany and state of mind that forgiveness (and maybe forgetting, when it came to Brandon) was the answer to my plight.
 

Emily simply told me that she was in shock over the news and very sorry. She said Robin’s behavior was completely unbecoming. But then she said that sometimes things like this happen in life. And it wouldn’t be the only time. Things in life were tough sometimes and it wasn’t the moments in our life that defined our lives, but our reactions to them. She suggested that I take the time to grieve. Maybe even take a sabbatical to India for a week-long vow of silence, or take a life-altering hike through the Andes, both trips she took that “changed my life forever in unbelievable ways.” Then she suggested that I see how I feel after I give it some time. And she figured I’d realize on my own, probably, what kind of important friendship I had with Robin. That I wouldn’t want to turn my back on her forever.
 

As I finished the email I started to think about how I would approach Lara and Robin. Talking with Lara would be easier, no doubt, so imagining how I’d go about that particular hurdle was less difficult to think about. But I shuddered at the thought of having to go through the awkward phone calls to
both
of them, the sweaty palms I’d have as I stood at their front doors, the frog that I’d swallow as I said “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you.” I knew I had to do it alone, as much as I wished I could have the comforting hand of Claire’s to hold.
 

I had to muster enough courage to make the next step and try to set things right. I was sure it took a lot of strength for Robin and Lara to apologize to me and to try to reach out. The ball was in my court now, and as much as I cringed at the thought of hearing the coach call out “Sophie Wharton, your turn,” I knew it was the right thing to do. A weight would be released, and, hopefully, I would have two of my best friends back in my life.
 

But
would
they have me?
 

I figured as much, seeing how they had already approached me and begged their apologies, but after I had given them the cold shoulder and refused any contact would they still feel as open to a second try at a friendship?

I looked over at Schnickerdoodle, who had planted himself next to me on the sofa. He was lying there, just less than a foot from me, his head resting on his two front paws. He wasn’t sleeping, his eyebrows raised, and his eyes scanning the living room.
 

“Whatcha think about that?” He perked his head up and cocked it to one side, giving me a sappy little look. “Whatcha think about this craziness, Schnicker?”

He reached a paw toward me. He knew, just as well as I did, that he wasn’t my favorite four-legged creature, but he also knew that I had a tiny soft spot in my heart for the little bugger. So he smelled funny, had way too much energy, barked mindlessly at birds twenty feet away, ran after cars, and took up space on my sofa. Schnickerdoodle had never done anything wrong to me (aside from possibly stealing one of my Keds that I still couldn’t find).
 

“Huh?” I piped in a high voice, making him cock his head to the other side, eyebrows raised even higher. “This crazy, crazy life.”

I heaved a heavy sigh and led him into the kitchen, where I retrieved a small rawhide stick for him to munch on. He was delighted and immediately ran to his pillow near the television. Schnickerdoodle wasn’t exactly the most well-trained, but Conner had taught him that his treats had to be eaten on his “treat pillow.” He chewed loudly and happily on the rawhide as I shuffled off to the shower.

“Oh, this crazy life, Schnickerdoodle. What am I going to do?”

***

The springtime scent of peaches from my freshly shampooed hair tickled my nostrils. I had slipped into a comfortable pair of lounge pants and a favorite fitted U Dub Huskies t-shirt, ready for a lazy evening. Yet not before I made an important move.

I talked with Claire briefly after she returned home from her dinner date with Conner. Evidently it turned out to be a disaster. Barely a word was spoken. Claire had told Conner that she wanted to have a calm and collected discussion about the topics of marriage and moving to California. He told her that all he wanted to do was forget about it and enjoy a meal out. From that point on not more than a few desultory remarks about how good the food tasted were said.

I told Claire that perhaps the best next move would be to tell Conner that she wanted to set a time to talk, seriously, to put the entire mess to rest. No complaints or excuses. The time had come. He couldn’t run from it and she couldn’t keep hammering away at it. They were going to have to face the music sometime.

“That’s just what I’ll do now. He has no choice,” Claire said. “We have no choice.”

I then broached the topic of reconciliation with Lara. I wanted Claire’s opinion; I considered sending Lara a quick text or an email, asking if we could talk about things. Claire’s opinion, her advice, and of course her support would be a great help. Claire agreed that if I wasn’t comfortable with calling Lara up, then a short text or email arranging for a call or a visit was the next best thing.
 

Starting that text to Lara wasn’t any easier than when I had sent similarly dreaded bad-news texts to boyfriends when we “needed to talk.” And how would she react? I hadn’t exactly been rational or kind to her recently. I’d just have to send the text, then a silent prayer upward, and wait.

What should I say?
 

Keeping it simple and direct, as Claire suggested, was probably easiest. It wasn’t like I wanted to apologize or make amends via text. The point of the message was to see if Lara would be interested in talking, maybe even meeting up. But though simple, it was still difficult to write. Hints of reconciliation would stand strong behind the text, naturally. Why else would I be contacting Lara?