With a Little Luck: A Novel (35 page)

There were no carefree moments; there was no living on the edge. Everything I did was calculated and measured and with the implicit understanding that for every action there is a reaction. My father may as well have been Isaac Newton, and I was his prize pupil. Except in place of physics was fear. And in place of logic was insanity.

Why did it take me so long to wake up?

“Had I been more aggressive in pointing this stuff out to you,” my mother says as she sips her tea, “you would have thought I was pitting you against your father.”

“I know,” I say.

“And I knew you’d ultimately figure it out.”

“I blew it so bad with Ryan,” I say.

“I don’t think so, honey.”

“I did. He made a mistake. He teased me for something that anyone in their right mind would find ridiculous. And I was defensive and cold and freaked out, and I blew it.… I totally blew it. He even sort of apologized the last time I saw him and did I say anything back? No …”

“Have you tried telling him any of this?”

“No,” I say.

“Maybe you should.”

“I don’t see what difference it would make.”

“That’s not a very good attitude. You won’t know until you try …”

“Spoken like a true mom.”

“Isn’t that what I am?” she asks.

“Yes.” I nod. “You are indeed that.”

“Well, as your mom, I am responsible for at least fifty percent of your DNA. So if you’ve spent the first twentysomething years of your life mimicking your father, maybe you can try it my way for the next twentysomething.”

I’m listening to Ryan’s “Dr. Love” show. They do a “mailbag” segment, where a handful of emails get chosen to be read on-air. Sometimes they’re genuine questions, but usually they’re complaints and hate mail. There’s an abundance of crazy rants, too. I’m listening to Ryan read a furious missive from someone whose girlfriend refuses to shave her armpits when I get an idea: I’ll write him a thinly veiled email to gauge his feelings. It’ll be up to fate whether or not it gets picked.

The following Thursday, Ryan’s reading my email out loud. I’m driving in my car, and as soon as he starts, I pull over and roll my windows up. I’m clutching the steering wheel like a panicked fifteen-year-old about to take her driver’s ed test, hands locked at ten and two. Or nine and three. Whatever the rules are these days. And this had better go better than that did, considering poor Mr. McElhenny had to retire after I took out two stop signs and made his airbag deploy.

Hearing my words read in his voice … Well, it’s hot. It’s just hot. Not my words per se, but his voice. God, I miss that voice. Not that I can’t hear it on the radio whenever I want to, but who wants to listen to their ex on the radio with no hope of reconciling? Hearing him read my letter makes me think there’s a chance. Even if he has no idea that he’s reading my words. He chose my letter. They get lots of letters and choose only a few. He chose mine. That’s gotta be a sign. He reads aloud:

“Did you hear that, callers?” Ryan asks. “That was the sound of me rolling my eyes. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t roll my eyes because I think all women are crazy … I roll them because—wait, I take it back: You are all crazy. But … maybe that’s why we love
you? You need a little bit of the crazy to keep things fun. Note: I said a little. What do you think, callers?” Ryan asks, and suddenly my heart is in my throat. “I don’t know. I mean, I can relate to the guy in this situation all too well. Heck, I think every man has been through this one.”

Okay, so far, so
 … I don’t know what to think. Does he know? Did he figure it out?

“Look, Screwed Up: Of course you’re screwed up. We’re all a little screwed up, some more than others. But you kicked this guy to the curb because of something minor and just now you think you overreacted? Guys get hurt, too, babe. How do you think he’s been feeling all this time?”

Okay, that’s all fair. Maybe he’s projecting a bit? Does that mean he was really hurt by our breakup? That makes me feel wonderful and horrible, all at the same time.

“Hey, it’s great you can recognize your mistake after overreacting. But maybe if you’d take the time to think things over first, you wouldn’t be in the position of having to write in to someone on the radio.”

Duh
.

“But yeah, if you’re asking me? Of course I’d give you a second chance. Because I’m only human, and so are you. People make mistakes.… And what separates us from monkeys is our ability to give second chances.”

“Is that what separates us from monkeys?” someone from the studio peanut gallery chimes in.

“That and not flinging poop,” Ryan says.

Enough with the jokes, Ryan. Back to the good stuff
.

He refocuses. “As for how you can get him to take you back, that’s a good question. We’re not exactly used to women admitting they made a mistake, so part of me thinks I’ve stumbled upon a letter
from a mythical being. But, hey, that makes it all the more special when you do. Just talk to the guy. Do you have an inside joke or some kind of white flag you can wave? Try that. If it works, great. If he doesn’t take you back, hell, pop on over to the studio. We love women who can admit they were wrong. It keeps us from having to do it. Anyway, good luck. I hope it works out.”

The morning I’m set to do a walk-through at Indie 108, the station where I’m about to start my new gig, does not kick off the way you’d hope at a new job. Granted, today is just a “get acquainted” day, but I still want to put my best foot forward.

And as Murphy’s Law would have it, my alarm clock doesn’t go off when it’s supposed to and I cut myself shaving in the shower. My ankle, right on the bone. It’s the same place I always cut myself, so you’d think I’d be careful, but I’m bleeding like the shower scene from
Psycho
even though it’s just a tiny cut, but it’s a full-color cut, damn it, and when I step out of the shower and reach for my towel, I remember I didn’t take my laundry out of the washing machine
last night.
Awesome
. So I will not only have to rewash everything in order to de-mildew it, I won’t have time to do it right now because I’m running late, thanks to my alarm-clock fail.

I tiptoe into my kitchen—why I’m tiptoeing, I have no idea—and commence towel drying from head to toe via … Brawny. Half a roll of paper towels later, I get dressed and go downstairs into my laundry room to find that not only did I not move my clothes from the washer to the dryer … every towel, sock, and white shirt I own is now a lovely shade of pink—my least favorite color.

I let out a guttural roar and fling garments out of the washer one by one, trying to find the asshole red piece of clothing that somehow got mixed in with my whites. Lo and behold, I find it.

Underwear.

Red underwear.

Red men’s underwear.

Red men’s underwear that do not even belong to me.

My blood is boiling, racing through my veins. I feel it throbbing in my head, and I half expect it to come spraying out of my poor wounded ankle like a fucking fire hydrant.
Whose red underwear are these?
sounds in my head like “No wire hangers!” as I stomp back up the stairs with my wet pink towels. I make a mental note to myself that I’ll need to go to Bed Bath & Beyond—or as I call it, due to the state of my wallet every time I leave the store, Bloodbath and Beyond.

Oh, and by the way, Bed Bath & Beyond: Beyond? Really? Beyond? There is no Beyond! There’s Kitchen! Beyond is Kitchen! You’re Bed Bath & Kitchen! That’s what you are! I don’t give a crap if it’s not alliterative!

Back upstairs, I get dressed and go to the beyond—ahem, the kitchen—to pour my cup of coffee. (Thank God for coffeemakers with timers.) Now, though, I’ll have to take it in my travel mug due
to time constraints. But when I move my favorite ceramic mug with the frog face and buggy eyes aside, I push a little too forcefully, and the next thing you know there are green shards of frog scattered all over my kitchen. It looks like Leatherface just wiped out Kermit’s entire family in here.

However, I take one good thing away from this: that that was Bad Thing Number Three. I cut my leg, my laundry was ruined, and I broke my mug. Now my day can turn around. (What? Old habits die hard. Like heroin. Okay, so I have been watching a little more
Celebrity Rehab.
)

I get in my car and make a conscious decision not to listen to Ryan on my way to work. Turning our old morning show on will only depress me, and this day is turning around. But of course, running late, I end up stopped at a very long red at the very first traffic light.

Which is exactly when the universe declares:

Not so fast, Berry
.

Wham!
I feel a car slam into my rear bumper, rocketing me forward into my steering wheel.

Okay, “rocketing” is a bit much. But I feel it. I step out to discover some girl in a BMW who just nailed me from behind. Which is not how I’m going to describe this to Natalie, because I’ll never hear the end of it.

“I’m so sorry,” the bleached blonde says as we both inspect our cars for damage. My car has a minor scratch, not enough to freak out over. Her outfit, however, is. She’s wearing a half-shirt, jean shorts, and what I’d guess to be six-inch heels. How does she drive with those? No wonder she hit me. She’s one of those skinny-skinny girls with a comparatively oversized head. She looks like a lollipop.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Accidents happen.”

“Ugh,” she says. “I was texting. My boyfriend always tells me not
to text when I’m driving, and I did and stupid me … Are you okay? Is your car okay?”

Bad enough that she rear-ends me because she’s texting while driving—and she’s dumb enough to admit it—but she gets to have a boyfriend, while I’m single and miserable?

“My car’s fine,” I say. “But your boyfriend’s right. You shouldn’t text and drive.”

“I know,” she says. “Bad habit.”

“Dangerous one,” I say. “Anyway, no point in us both getting our insurance rates raised over a scratch.”

“Really?” she squeals. “You’re so cool; thanks so much. I’m really sorry!”

She clops back to her car in those heels, and as I get to my car door, oddly enough, I find the door is locked. I reach for my keys, but … That’s weird. Where did they go? They’re not in my hand, and holy shit, no! I’ve locked my keys in my car.

“Are you kidding me?” I shout at no one in particular. I reach for my phone, and you guessed it, that’s in the car, too. This is so uncool. I spin around to catch Bleach Blonde, but she’s already starting to drive away. I catch her eye and wave to her, but she just idiotically waves back like we’re old buddies.
Bye-bye, very nice lady who’s about to get fired on her first day
.

I scream her name—okay, I don’t actually know her name, so I alternately scream
Blonde Girl, Hey, Blondie
, and
Get Back Here, You Stupid Blond Lollipop
, but she’s cranking techno at a volume of approximately “this one goes to eleven” and she can’t hear me and she’s gone.

Fuck
.

If I just curl into a fetal position now, will some kind soul take pity on me, take me home, and feed me warm broth and a balanced
meal, then … um … throw me into a pit and tell me to put the lotion in the basket?