Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story (16 page)

The sun had begun its rise with glowing embers on a still
gray sky.
We emerged from our final destination of the night with drowsy
footsteps and empty wallets. A quiet fog blanketed the morning and Jonah held the
door for me. As we exited with the bridal party and thousands of other strangers
into the brisk air, I shivered. My friends were congregated off to one side of the
street and I moved forward with feet that hardly touched the ground.

“I say we go to a strip club,” Vera suggested when we were all together.
“Who’s in?”

We all looked around expectantly at one another, faces plagued by
sleep and intoxication that remained expressionless in the gray light.

“I’m in,” our buddy Samuel finally answered. “I got a bit of cash
leftover and I’m ready to blow it in the name of working mothers,” he grinned and
pulled out a few crumpled bills from his pockets.

“Good. Anyone else?” Vera asked, but no one bothered to pay attention.
“Come on, guys. Don’t be pussies.”

Most of the group ignored her and began to disperse, making their
way to the hotel for breakfast and sleep.

“We’ll go,” Jonah piped up and winked at me. “The night doesn’t have
to be over yet.”

“That’s the spirit, little buddy,” Vera said enthusiastically. “What’s
your name again?” I watched my friend stumble toward him and extend a hand. Jonah
shook it and then introduced himself to Samuel.

We’d spent the night dancing and club hopping since I’d met him at
the lobby only hours before, leaving little room for formal introductions or real
conversations of any sort. Five minutes later we were stuffed in the back of a yellow
cab and headed to some place the driver called Sapphire. Upon arriving, the guys
chatted with the bouncer and we were immediately escorted to a table near the center
of the huge space. A waitress wearing an ensemble full of rhinestones took our drink
order, returning shortly with whiskey and champagne. Jonah moved his seat closer
to mine and raised his glass in a toast.

“To old friends,” he offered and looked into my eyes, then raised
it even higher and turned to my buddies, “and new ones as well. Cheers.”

While my friends took to tipping girls who climbed on poles and twisted
themselves into pretzel-like positions, Jonah and I remained seated with our heads
huddled together. The room seemed to spin us to other orbits as we talked of everything
under the sun at warp speed. Somehow, it felt like I was spying on myself in a drug-induced
dream as I talked about my new life to the man my heart belonged to. Our surreal
state of discovery was magnified by the dozens of naked bodies dancing around us,
sometimes interrupting and offering lap dances. Jonah would politely decline without
ever taking his eyes off me, his smile more intoxicating than any alcoholic concoction
I’d consumed.

“You guys should make out,” Vera barged into our reverie and Sam laughed
good-naturedly.

“Annah’s getting married, you twat,” he nudged her on the ribs. “Quit
instigating.”

My friend rolled her eyes and took a swig of his whiskey, “What happens
in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Kiss him now,” she snapped like the most popular girl
in high school would snap a dare to a geek, folding her arms across her chest and
waiting impatiently for me to make my move.

Jonah looked at me and slightly cocked his head to the right. “What
do you say?”

I took a deep breath and cursed the day life positioned him in my
sights, his face slowly inching toward my own. Vera and Sam demanded a kiss as they
chanted in unison. I sat still on the other end, summoning the universe for the
necessary will and exhaling. “I say it’s time to go,” I mustered, ignoring the momentary
disappointment that flashed across Jonah’s features. “This night has reached its
boiling point and we’ve got ourselves a wedding to prepare for.”

“You suck,” Vera groaned and got up, summoning Sam to follow.

Back in the cab, an awkward silence sliced the air on the way to the
hotel. Vera and Sam sucked face rather loudly next to us, obviously too drunk to
recall they’d broken up years ago. I closed my eyes and reached for Jonah’s hand,
resting my head on his shoulder and making a home there until the ride finished.
From the way things were looking, the lovebirds to our right were headed straight
to bed for an activity that required little sleeping. I snuck the driver $20 and
we all got out of the taxi as Vera nabbed the room key from my purse and yanked
Sam by the shirt.

“What are you going to do now?” Jonah asked softly when they were
gone, the lobby completely deserted minus housekeeping and a few gambling stragglers.

“I was thinking of getting breakfast and giving those two the time
to finish.”

“You could always just leave them and stay with me,” he gave me a
half grin, “there’s a thing called room service in this lovely hotel.”

“Jonah,” I stammered nervously and shifted my weight, “you know I
can’t do that.”

“Why not? It’s just sleeping,” he grabbed my hands and playfully started
tugging. “You and I have slept together before and nothing inappropriate took place,
did it?”

I considered his statement for a moment before replying. “That was
very different. For one, I wasn’t engaged. And two, there was someone else in the
room by the name of Olivia,” I teased. “Do you remember her?”

“I do remember,” he nodded slowly and took a step forward, placing
a hand behind my neck, “but right now is the perfect time to forget.”

It was hard to recall a moment when I wanted to obliterate everything
that marked the past more than I did then. I was overtaken by a feeling in my bones,
the radioactive energy that pulls you to the greatest source of all your desires.
As he looked down patiently waiting for me to speak up, I knew there was nothing
in the world I wanted more. It was as if somehow I’d jumped into an ocean without
knowing how to swim and he’d thrown me both ends of the rope, giving me no choice
but to drown in his essence. I was dangling my feet over the edge and ready to go
under when I remembered Vincent, who trustingly waited for me at home without a
shred of doubt in my loyalty. It felt like someone splashed me with a bucket filled
of iced water.

“Let’s go to breakfast and stop talking about nonsense,” I clasped
both his hands and turned toward the restaurant, my insides turning with regret.
We ate our meals in silence that morning, digesting the cold fact that everything
had changed in a year, present company included. After we finished, he walked me
to my room and descended to his own a few floors below. I opened the door and was
glad to find Vera and Sam sleeping blissfully on her bed. I tiptoed to mine and
pulled the covers over me, wondering how one could be so physically full, yet feel
so incredibly empty.

The next 24 hours flashed by at a frenetic pace of highs and
lows as we partook in all the pre-wedding festivities on the schedule. I was still
trying to process Jonah’s proximity the afternoon of the ceremony as we arrived
together. Taking our seats on a cold bench next to each other, we watched the radiant
bride walk down the aisle. It was the perfect day for an outdoor wedding, all sunshine
and cotton clouds on the skies above. Miranda and Ethan released two white doves
after saying their “I do’s” and we followed their ascent. I always found it odd,
releasing two beings to their freedom as a means of celebrating the eternal incarceration
of two others. I was still marveling at the irony of it when Jonah intertwined his
fingers with mine and began twisting my engagement ring.

“Are you ready?” he asked without the need to further elaborate.

I winced at the pain the question caused and sighed, “I do not know.”
Every fiber of my being sensed I wasn’t, yet I still intended to come through on
my promise of walking down the aisle just like my friend Miranda had done minutes
before. As we held hands in silence, I hated to entertain the notion of doing anything
other than what I should. I tried to recall a time when I knew nothing of Jonah,
or Vincent, or intricate love triangles that inevitably end in heartache.

“Do you know . . .” he began, interrupting my thoughts.

“Yeah?” I said softly and turned to him.

He continued to fidget with the ring. People around us started to
approach the newlyweds and a heavy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach in fear
of what he was about to say. Jonah never looked up. I rubbed his hand with my thumb
reassuringly and he cleared his throat. “Do you know that I often think of what
it would’ve been like if things had turned out differently? If you hadn’t met Gabriel
that night and left with me instead. If Olivia and I,” he paused, clenching his
fists, “never mind. Why are you marrying him, Annah?”

I had an inkling that question would peak its head over water at some
point, yet I couldn’t form the thoughts to defend my actions had my life depended
on it.

“You know what? I don’t even want to know. We’ll never get the chance
to figure out the answers now,” he breathed, “but can I just say that you’re the
one thing I’ve wanted that I’ll never have. I’m not used to that
. . . It just doesn’t seem right.”

I let go of his hand and rubbed my temples. I wanted to tell him that
I wasn’t for anyone to possess, but the sight of him – so emotionally exposed –
broke down the rage brewing inside me. I observed him quietly as he ran a hand through
his dirty blond hair and turned to me with expecting eyes. I had loved him since
the moment I saw him standing on that sidewalk in Madrid, yet I had no intentions
of telling him or anyone else that. It was clear that sometimes, the universe was
stronger than our will to grasp the things we wanted, and so I surrendered to it
and let go without telling him anything. At that moment, someone tapped me on the
shoulder and I turned to see the photographer holding his massive Nikon.

“Would you like a picture with your husband, ma’am?”

I opened my mouth to correct him, but Jonah embraced me and said we’d
very much like a photograph. The flash shone its spotlight on us and, in an instant,
it was all over. He boarded a plane back home a few hours after the reception, and
I continued my vacation for another day. On the curbside, he held me awkwardly for
a long time as unspoken emotions pierced the air. Our conversation from the ceremony
was never approached again, and I could only assume he took my silence as a sign
that I didn’t feel the same about him. He promised he’d call me when he landed but
as I suspected, he never did. The years of silence that followed were ridden with
a darkness so shattering, I succumbed to a life without light. Eventually, faint
traces of it began to filter through after a long time, each month gifting me a
piece of the puzzle that was my broken heart.

One night, I was at Miranda’s house babysitting and stumbled upon
her wedding album. In it, I found the picture the photographer took of Jonah and
I by the bench. He is proudly standing behind me in a black suit, arms casually
around my waist. My beige dress is cascading in layers to the floor and there are
stray rose petals by our feet. As I looked deeper, I noticed only he is smiling.
Yet in my eyes you can see it lurking so brightly it’s almost blinding, a fleeting
happiness called love that would haunt me until the day constellations no longer
spelled out his name.

So this one time at band
camp,*
I decided that being celibate
for six months would be a good way to detoxify my life of unwanted energy, also
known as, toxic men. My self-imposed dry spell was going seven months strong right
around the time my friend Cassie was turning 30. Her birthday landed two days before
Halloween, so it was only right to throw a costume party to kick off her foray into
real adulthood.

*This is a reference to
American
Pie
, the movie. If you’re reading this in 2069 and don’t know what I’m talking
about then you should probably rent it (the original, not the sequels) and note
that I did not actually decide to be celibate while I attended band camp. Partly
because I have never been to band camp. Mostly because the only instrument I know
how to play is a burrito supreme.

I’d expressed my interest in
being a killer for the bash to anyone who would listen but sadly, no one took me
seriously. The week before the soiree, I posted the following on Facebook:

Two minutes later my friend Cassie was like, “I have a nurse
costume you can borrow since I know you’re on a budget.”

Me: Didn’t you just see what I wrote? I want to be a killer.
A KILLER.

Cassie: Well the nurse costume is really hookerish, so you
can be a hooker.

Me: Hooker does not equate killer. Hookers get killed, not
the other way around.

Cassie: . . . . . .

Me: Unless they kill you with an STD or something, then I
guess hypothetically they “could” be considered killers.

Cassie: What is wrong with you?

Me: Nothing’s wrong with me. What is wrong with you?

Cassie turned 30 the following Saturday, just two days after
my parents left on an anniversary trip to the Dominican Republic, leaving me in
care of their home, seven dogs, and 12 cats (I assure you this is not an exaggeration).
I guess I was a bit overwhelmed with exhaustion and kitty litter because when the
birthday girl called to ask what I was going to be for her party, I had no idea
what she was talking about.

“Be?” I yawned. “What do mean, be?”

I heard her sigh with irritation on the other end. “It’s a costume
party, remember?”

It quickly set in that I’d completely forgotten about that minor fact
and had nothing planned, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “Something
scary.”

“Oh, brother,” she sighed. “Not this serial killer shit again, I hope.”

“Not at all,” I fibbed with confidence. “It’ll be a surprise.”

After hanging up, I mentally calculated how much time I had between
volunteer work with the elderly and feeding time at the zoo, in order to go buy
something that made me look terrifying. Then I got home and my friend Leo came over
to help as I whined on about how I didn’t have a minute for anything and almost
started crying because, honestly, I’m Cuban and we’re quite the melodramatic bunch.

“Stop being a baby,” he said as soothingly as possible. “Just wear
a straitjacket and go as yourself.”

I suppressed the desire to stab him with a kitchen knife when I was
hit with a genius idea. “Let’s just grab blankets and be ghosts!”

“Huh?” he looked at me as he fed my mom’s terrier a donut.

“Yeah!” I gleefully exclaimed, beginning to get excited. “We get some
blankets and punch two holes and we can be ghosts.”

His face seemed to reflect the joy I was feeling because he suddenly
blurted out, “Where would we punch the holes?”

“In your face, asshole. One hole for each eye so you can see, like
this”:

“I find that rather boring and so second grade, Annie,” he rolled
his eyes. “What if the holes were somewhere else like say, three holes in your blanket
and one in mine? We’d be the most creative people there.”

I threw a doggy treat at him and flipped him the finger, realizing
all men are animals and Leo should go to the party as himself in a costume of a
dog in heat.

I presume this to be the part where I end this senseless chapter
with a picture of me in my stupid ghost costume but as it turns out, I changed my
mind two hours before the party. It eventually dawned on me I’d be the only jerk
there in white sheets, bumping into everything and spilling my drink in the dark
while my friends wondered where the hell I was. Naturally, I purchased a slutty
sailor costume and was pretty satisfied, until I got to the party and there were
three girls that looked exactly the same.

Then, suddenly, some dude who was slightly intoxicated came
up to me and jokingly said, “Hey, what are
you
supposed to be?” and I was
all, “What does it look like? A serial killer.” Then he did this squinty-eye thing
down at me trying to decipher whether I was serious or joking and I stared back
into his dilated pupils with a scowl as he laughed.

“You’re funny,” he smiled and readjusted the flower in my hair.

But instead of smiling back, I sort of hissed and asked him to fetch
me a drink while I stood there failing to look dignified in my hooker attire. Little
did I know, three hours later he would perform an exorcism on me and violently murder
a seven-month streak we like to call celibacy with nothing but his bare hands and
human sword.

I would’ve never guessed that, in a way, we are all serial killers
of some sort.