Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend (28 page)

I smiled at that, supremely glad to learn that Max Van Gelder wasn't some Upper East Side stud.

He kissed my lips, then touched the back of his hand to my face, his eyes glancing down at our bodies still entwined as he said, “Don't worry. It will get better. Once I get to know your body, I mean.” That hand moved from my cheek and slid down my breast,
coming to rest at my waist. “Every woman is different. And I don't know where you're…uh, sensitive.”

By the time his gaze came back to mine, I realized he had already found my most sensitive spot—my heart. He was making me promises. Promises of next time that I suddenly wanted desperately to believe in. I looked up at his face, the face that had lured me here, and I tried hard to imagine it as part of my life. Images of us flashed through my mind, walking hand in hand through Central Park, sharing coffee and intimate conversation at the Peacock, dancing at my mother's wedding while Grandma Zizi looked on with pride and joy. Suddenly it all seemed possible. That Max could be The One. That I could fall in love again.

Still, I decided not to spend the night. It didn't feel like the right thing to do. Besides, I hoped, by making an early escape and leaving him longing for more, to preserve some of the magic that might have been dispelled by my having given it up on date two.

When I announced my plans to leave a short while later, Max didn't make any argument, and something pinged ominously inside me. I tried to disregard the feeling as I crawled out of his bed and began gathering the clothes strewn around his apartment, all the while gazing at his cozy kitchen, the charming fireplace and other accoutrements as I passed them, as if committing it all to memory.
Stop that!
my mind screamed.
You'll be back.
Though I grew more and more uncertain of this as I slid into my clothes and reentered the bedroom, where Max was already engrossed in a book that I had seen lying on his bedstand earlier.

Because he seemed bent on doing the right thing, he threw on his clothes and walked me downstairs, stood with me in the chill of the early-morning hour and hailed me a cab. We didn't say much, and I assumed it was because neither of us wanted to spoil the sudden intimacy that had sprung up between us. I tried not to think that it might be because we had already said everything we needed to say to each other for tonight. Or any other night, for that matter.

“I'll call you,” he said as a cab pulled up, and the words chilled me for some reason. Maybe because I had thought it was under
stood and thus unnecessary to say. And maybe because I realized I was wrong.

After a quick, hard kiss that seemed more like an awkward bumping of noses, I slid into the cab and headed home, feeling more alone. I was feeling more alone than ever.

 

Confession: Things could definitely get worse.

 

“You
slept
with him?” Jade said with disbelief as we sat across from one another at breakfast. Since the weather was beautiful, we went to French Roast and took a table outside. I had made my confession mere moments after we had placed our order with the waitress, hoping Jade might find some positive angle to this whole thing. But I realized my mistake once I saw her reaction. And now, with the bright morning sunlight flooding our table, there was nowhere to hide my dismay.

“What? As if
you've
never slept with a guy on the second date….”

“Not if I was really interested in the guy,” Jade said, putting down her coffee cup and sliding a cigarette out of the pack on the table.

“Who says I'm interested in Max?” I replied defensively.

She paused in the middle of lighting her cigarette, eyebrows raised.

“All right, so I fucked up. Okay?” Suddenly I felt ill. “He's not going to call again, is he?”

“I don't know, Emma. He might. But it probably won't be because of your sparkling conversation. It's really hard to go back and do the whole getting-to-know-you thing once you sleep with a guy.”

“I don't think Max is like that. Besides, he did say something about how great the sex would be when he got to know my body better. Which implies at least a few more dates. Or sexual encounters. Whatever you want to call them.”

Jade puffed on her cigarette. “Did he say this before his orgasm or after?”

“After,” I said smugly.

“Well, then, maybe he was being honest. Or feeling like he had to make some sort of promise. Did you come?”

“Uh…no.”

“Oh.” Jade glanced away, as if suddenly interested in the people passing by on the sidewalk.

“What?” I asked, desperate for some sort of reassurance that I was not about to be blown off by Max Van Gelder. But Jade wasn't about to give me any false hopes.

“Well, he might have said that as a…consolation.”

“Oh, please, Jade. He didn't know I didn't come. I…I told him I did.”

Her eyes bulged, then she rolled them. “You've got a lot to learn, Emma.”

Our food arrived then, and while I watched Jade stub out her cigarette and dig into her French toast, I suddenly felt no appetite at all for the pretty little plate of eggs Benedict before me. Max wasn't going to call. I felt it in my bones. But I had felt that once before and he
had
called, I reminded myself. Maybe if I believed he wouldn't, then Murphy's Law would take effect and he would.

Then another thought struck me: Did I
want
him to call?

I immediately dismissed this one, as well as any other disparaging thought I might have had about Max Van Gelder during the course of our very brief relationship. After all, whether or not he was a great guy was almost beside the point. I needed him to call, even if I decided I never wanted to see him again. My ego demanded it.

So when I came home from breakfast and discovered a big fat “O” on the message light of my machine, I felt the walls of my apartment closing in on me. Shouldn't I have at least gotten a courtesy call after the milestone of last night? A “had-a-great-time-can't-wait-to-see-you-again” acknowledgment? We'd had sex for crissakes. And I didn't even attain orgasm. Hell, I deserved a dozen roses!

I thought about calling Alyssa, then realized she was probably still busy falling in love with Richard all over again. Not that I wasn't thrilled for her—I just couldn't deal with someone else's happiness at the moment.

I decided to call my father instead. After all, I had to face the music some time, and it
had
been three days since Deirdre's voice mail informing me that my father had fallen off the wagon once again.

She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Dee, it's Emma.”

“Hello,” she replied. I couldn't detect any emotion in her voice: no anger, no disappointment. I was on safe ground so far.

“How's everything going?”

“Fine. Your father's in a rehab.”

I sighed, then swallowed whatever bubble of feeling threatened. I had learned long ago that it was a waste of emotion to feel anything in the face of my father's transgressions.

“Drove him over to Rolling Pines this morning to start the detox program,” she continued, her voice stoical. “Thank God they had a bed for him.”

My heart sank. This wasn't the first time my father had willingly entered a rehabilitation center. In fact, his visits there had become yearly events, and I realized with dismay that this was actually his fourth stay at the Rolling Pines Recovery Center. I sighed. Since a midweek visit was not an option, I asked, “What time are visiting hours on Saturday?”

“Ten to four. Though today is out because they don't allow visitors the first couple of days—”

“I know, I know,” I replied. I was way too familiar with the detox program at Rolling Pines. Three days of detox before they even allowed friends or family to visit.

“Should I pick you up at the station next Saturday, then? Around noon?” she asked.

After we had settled on a time, I listened while she let loose on my father, how she couldn't keep the alcohol away from him, no matter how she tried. How their lives had fallen into some awful pattern not worth continuing. I couldn't blame her for being angry. I wouldn't even have blamed her if she told me she was leaving him. I hadn't blamed my mother, either. Who could live with a man who cared so little for himself?

With a promise to check in during the week and confirm train
arrival times, I hung up with that same hollow feeling I always felt after one of my father's episodes. Then I did what I always did in this situation: sealed it up inside until I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Moments later, the phone rang again. “I heard about your father,” my mother stated sadly on the other end. “Shaun called me.”

I sighed, not wanting to get into things but knowing it was inevitable.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” she said.

“I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be? It's not as if I'm
surprised.
”

My mother was quiet after that remark, and I could tell she was tabulating the amount of psychological damage my father's most recent episode had caused. “Well, maybe he'll get some help this time.”

“Oh, he's already checked into rehab. Deirdre drove him over this morning.” Not that it mattered, I thought to myself.

“That poor woman,” my mother said, “I don't know how she takes it.” Then: “So are you coming in next Saturday to see him?” She knew the drill, too, after all.

“Yeah,” I admitted, knowing that a visit with my mother would be unavoidable if I set foot on Long Island this weekend. “Deirdre's picking me up at noon. I'll have her drop me off at your house afterward.”

“Good, sweetie. I'll make us a nice dinner and we can take some time to talk. You really shouldn't keep your emotions so bottled up.”

“Don't worry, Mom. I was planning on having a few stiff drinks and a good cry later.”

“Emma!”

“Just kidding. Look, I have to go. See you Saturday afternoon, around four?”

“We'll talk about this then,” she warned, and I knew I wouldn't be able to sneak back to the city that night without having my emotions picked apart by my mother.

If, between Max and my father—not to mention residual Derrick Damage—there was anything left for the picking.

 

Confession: It seems that I am destined to spend Saturday night alone. Probably until the end of time.

 

Once I had finalized my depressing plans for next Saturday, this Saturday night loomed before me, cold and empty. Since Alyssa was spending a romantic evening at home with Richard and I knew Jade had plans to go out with Enrico, I knew I was fated to spend it alone. No longer did I wait for a call from Max. I didn't even torment myself with thoughts of Derrick. Instead thoughts of my father's illness infested my mind, making me question every hope I'd ever had for my own future. Every dream I'd been unable to achieve.

I shuddered, forcing back tears. Then I did the only thing I could to keep myself sane. I cleaned.

I started with the living area, pulling all the books off the shelves and dusting each one individually. Then I moved on to the desk, filing papers, polishing the surface. Next the floor was mopped, then the kitchen scrubbed. The bathroom was sprayed down and wiped until it sparkled.

I showered, then fell onto the bed exhausted. My gaze fell on the clock—4:00 p.m. Too early for bed. I did another stare down with the phone, which remained silent and menacing. I imagined Max Van Gelder walking up the stairs to his apartment, just about to insert the key in the door when he is attacked by a band of thieves who beat him and leave him battered and bruised in the hallway, before they proceed to ransack his entire apartment, stealing everything except the Billie Holiday CD. When he comes to consciousness again, the only thing he hears is the soulful sound of “What a Little Moonlight Can Do,” and the only person he thinks of is me.

I sighed and glanced at the phone once more. It remained silent.

I could go to the gym. But that would mean rounding up Alyssa before she settled in with Richard for the night, as I could gain access to the gym only by the grace of her seemingly unlimited supply of guest passes. And since I couldn't deal with her helpful words of wisdom right now, I could just forget about going to the gym. What I really needed was to get a membership of my own….

As I lay there contemplating my nonoptions, a quietness finally fell over me, and I drifted off into a brief and somewhat blissful sleep, during which I dreamed I was in Max's bed. Except when I rolled over to wake him, I discovered Derrick instead. “Hey,” he said, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “I hoped you would drop by.” And then he pulled me into his arms and made love to me, really made love to me, simultaneous orgasm and all.

I woke up to darkness, achingly aware that I was completely alone.

I slid out of bed, then went to the bathroom to splash water on my face and run a brush through my rumpled hair, which had kinked and curled from falling asleep on it while wet. After slipping on my slides and, as an afterthought, dabbing on lipstick, I headed down the stairs in search of dinner fare.

Once I hit the cool night air, I knew what I had to do. I headed for the bodega on the corner. And Smiling Man. To hell with good eating habits.

But by the time I got there and responded to his cheerful, “Hello!” my resolve broke. I couldn't bring myself to destroy everything I had worked for up until now, no matter how bad I felt. I slinked past the Hostess snack cakes, past the freezer full of Ben & Jerry's and grabbed a container of skim milk, a can of tuna and a granola bar, just to save face.

“Is that it?” he taunted as I placed the items reluctantly on the counter.

“Yes,”
I replied, practically hissing the word at him. He didn't seem to notice my ire as he perkily poked at his register, then held out his hand to receive my money.