It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (35 page)

I have no idea what time he came home that night—or should I say morning?—but it couldn’t have been before three. I was awakened at nine by a text from a girlfriend alerting me to the fact that my fiancé had not only been out with the guys last night, he’d also been with a bevy of single chicks from the current season. Ironic, considering the text he sent me at dinner. While part of me didn’t care and part of me felt disrespected, I desperately wanted to avoid another fight, so I said nothing. Well, almost nothing. I was starving so I asked if he wanted to go to breakfast. When he agreed, I was shocked considering he’d probably barely slept and was obviously hungover. I wondered if it was the guilt from the night before or if he was offering an olive branch—or maybe he was just hungry. We left the I-stayed-out-all-night-partying-with-single-girls elephant in the hotel room and strolled to a nearby café.

Over eggs Benedict and coffee, the two of us spoke of only one thing: how to get through the day’s big red-carpet event, namely the ungodly number of questions pertaining to our happiness and the status of our upcoming wedding (which wasn’t planned whatsoever), which were sure to be asked. We had to figure out an appropriate answer, and sadly it couldn’t be a truthful one. I mean, what could I say? “Oh, well, our relationship blows, my fiancé came home at three in the morning after partying all night with a bunch of single hussies, we are not planning the wedding, we barely made it to this premiere without breaking up yet again, but other than that, yeah, everything is absolutely amazing”?

It’s not exactly the easiest thing to tell people your relationship is shitty when you’re wearing a giant diamond ring, cameras are capturing your every move, and you’re surrounded by a bevy of supporters who truly want to believe in your “love.” Though I wanted to keep it real and admit the struggles in our relationship, I think part of me wasn’t willing to admit it to myself. I had fallen in love with this man, professed it to the world and even used the words “soul mate,” and now I was eating those words faster than I was eating my eggs. We agreed that we’d attempt to dodge the questions like the plague, and if need be, simply say, “We are happy and ready to figure things out now that the show is all over.” Not complete bullshit, but it sure smelled like it.

The awkward breakfast ended, thank goodness, and we walked back to our hotel so I could begin the arduous task of getting red-carpet ready and he could sleep off his hangover. As we exited the elevator, before entering our room, I thanked him for breakfast.

“It’s about time you thanked me. I’ve been waiting for that the entire walk back.”

Here we go again. I knew he was big on thank-yous and never missed an opportunity to lay into me if God forbid I forgot to say it, but this seemed a little extreme. See, this is exactly why there are knockouts in boxing. Instead of having to watch twelve agonizing rounds of little jabs here and there, one guy just cold-cocks the other and gets the shit over and done with. We, on the other hand, had moved on to what felt like round four with little jabs still coming and no sign of anyone hitting the mat soon.

“Ummm . . . okay.” I scowled.

“You are seriously the most unappreciative person I have ever met in my life.”

I paused as I silently thought in my mind how fucking ridiculous it was that my own fiancé was bitching about me not saying thank you for buying me a $12 plate of eggs and a coffee using the per diem we were given. I thought about staying silent and avoiding yet another fight. I tried to, but I just couldn’t. He’d already gotten a pass on returning home in the wee hours of the morning stinking of cheap booze and even cheaper skanks. These personal attacks weren’t going to fly. He was never short on dramatics and always big on extremes, so I shouldn’t have been surprised or even bothered by this statement, but given all the tension of the trip and the day, I was. And as a result I completely lost it. In what could only be described as an out-of-body experience, I began sobbing hysterically and screaming at him that I couldn’t handle this anymore; I couldn’t handle the ridicule, the pressure, or the constant criticism, not from the world and especially not from my fiancé. He was supposed to be the one supporting me and protecting me, like he had promised, and instead he was the one hurting me the most. It wasn’t just the words he used; it was a culmination of everything. From bringing up his ex-hookup in the car, to accusing me of being at dinner with guys only to come home at three in the morning, to now scolding me over something as stupid as thanking him for breakfast. Everything that had been happening between us for months boiled over inside of me in that moment, and I exploded. This, at last, was the knockout punch.

With tears streaming down my face and my heart pulsing through my chest, I did the only thing I could think of: I picked up the phone and called the airline. I was done. This was how it was ending, with me skipping out on the live premiere and instead bolting to the airport before hopping on the next flight back to Atlanta.

As the airline operator checked for available seats, Twenty-Six pleaded with me to hang up the phone and stay. I don’t know why he even wanted me to, considering he had made his disdain for me pretty damn clear. I assume it was to avoid the humiliation that would undoubtedly result from my disappearance. He continued to plead as I continued to check for available seats. One final frantic plea and I did what I absolutely should not have done: I hung up the phone.

To this day, I’m disgusted at myself for staying. I’m not sure I’ll ever know why I did. In hindsight, I think part of me knew the embarrassment that would prevail if I were a no-show, while part of me was still clinging to the hope that if we were around the people who had brought us together in the first place, somehow we could get back on track. It was the same excuse I had used for months, and yet no matter what he did, no matter how hurt I felt, no matter how bad things got, I continued chasing after this unrealistic dream. I continued craving the high I once had from the love we once shared. And I think most of me probably just wasn’t ready to admit to myself that I was an addict staying in an unhealthy relationship that had become irreparable. Whatever it was, I stayed, and I regret it to this day.

The premiere, as it turned out, was fine—not great, but not the disaster it could have been. The people who knew us best could sense that something was off as we walked on the red carpet and posed for pictures together. I felt like a fraud for acting happy when inside I was filled with anger. At an event surrounded by adoring fans and people who were a part of our love story, I should have felt the happiness and love I once had for him, but I didn’t. No event, no person, no reminders could bring us back to that blissful time. It was gone. I wasn’t ready to admit to millions of viewers, or to myself, that beneath the cherry lip-gloss and contour makeup, I was in excruciating emotional pain. I wasn’t ready to face the fact that we had failed everyone who believed in us and, worst of all, we had failed each other.

After the premiere, he went off with his guy friends and once again came back to the hotel in the wee hours of the morning. And once again I didn’t care. All I cared about was getting out of Los Angeles, and this relationship. Before our flight departed, I went to Nikki’s room to say goodbye. I crawled into her bed and immediately began to cry. I didn’t have to say what was wrong. She knew; she had known for a while. “This is supposed to be me, ya know, the one crying and you comforting me,” she joked. She was right. It wasn’t long ago that I was the one listening to the drama about her failed relationship, and now the tables had turned. Before I left, she told me what I already knew: that I was miserable, that I was trapped, and that I needed to break free . . . immediately.

The flight back to Atlanta from the premiere in L.A. was spent in deafening silence. The car ride back to our apartment from the airport was equally noiseless, and we both knew something very bad was about to happen. In the back of my mind I knew that in all likelihood, this was the last flight we would ever take together, but still I didn’t know if it was the last night we’d have together.

When we arrived home, I beelined it up the stairs as I lugged my suitcase behind me. When I got to the top, I walked straight into the closet where I laid my bag on the floor. I closed the door behind me and sat on the carpeted floor with my back resting on my still-zipped suitcase. And there, alone in a closet, I cradled my head in my hands and unleashed the tears that had built up inside of me for three thousand miles. As I sobbed like a grieving child, I buried my face between my legs in an attempt to muffle the sound of my weeping. Moments went by until I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. The door to the closet creaked open and Number Twenty-Six asked me if I was okay. I didn’t respond, I didn’t so much as turn to look at him. I just buried my head deeper. Without saying another word, he moved the suitcase over and sat on the floor behind me and wrapped his arms around my trembling body. We sat in silence for what felt like eternity until I finally was able to speak. I didn’t raise my head, I didn’t move my hands, I didn’t even think about what I was going to say. Instead, five life-changing words uncontrollably left my mouth, “This is over, isn’t it?”

I could feel him inhale deeply as he grasped me tighter. His voice cracked. “Yes, I think so.”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. In a relationship that had been filled with so many insulting words, so many painful arguments, nine words had finally shut both of us up for good. There we were, a couple once so madly in love, now sitting on the floor of a closet, both weeping. There would be no going to sleep that night in the same bed. There would be no waking up the next morning beside each other saying our typical “I’m sorry”s and “I love you”s. Not this time. Of all the conversations and fights, those nine words were the most brutal things we had ever said to each other. But they were also the most honest, mature, and impactful words as well. It was the calmest conversation we’d ever had. The tranquil vibe of the conversation was eerily different from the anger and animosity that had built over the past few months. The peaceful tone made me realize this was it. This was the end. What had begun as a burning love affair that blossomed thousands of miles on trips to France, Italy, and Belgium, followed by a romantic proposal in the Dominican Republic and my own happily ever after was over. All that was left was the non-returnable gift of a broken heart.

And though I didn’t know it then, that peaceful conversation wouldn’t set the tone for the aftermath. I guess just like our relationship, the recovery phase wasn’t going to be easy. The highs weren’t going to come without the lows, and the pain wasn’t going to subside quickly.

But eventually, I would come out of it alive and would kick the habit, emerging stronger, happier, and free. I would see that this ending was really just the beginning for me.

That’s the thing with a breakup, it is the end of something. But life is filled with endings. The good ones like a thrilling movie, a vacation, the glory days of college or an epic party, are all hard to say goodbye to. But all good things must come to an end. And all bad things must too. That’s not to say that you should look at your relationship in its entirety as bad. In fact, I hope you can look at it and see both the good and the bad. The good parts are what made you fall in love and live in your own fairytale while the bad parts broke you down and made you feel like you were living a nightmare. But it’s all over now. That chapter is done, but the story is just starting again.

Lesson learned?
Your
story is far from over. Enjoy writing it.

T
he day has finally arrived. The start to my new beginning is here! I woke up this morning with the surreal realization that within a few short hours, I’d be on a plane bound for my new home in New York City. I’d successfully gotten all my belongings into my suitcases and am attempting to zip them when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Kelly. She’s coming to say goodbye. Through tearful eyes, she watches for a moment as I struggle to get the zipper around my overflowing suitcase, before deciding to sit on top of it in an effort to smush the already crammed clothes even more. After we finally get it zipped, she moves from on top of my suitcase to on top of my bed where we both lie back and try to hold it together. Within seconds, it becomes clear neither of us stands a chance, and we begin weeping. I grab her hand and interlock it into mine as I tell her how grateful I am for her. Not just for the generosity of opening her home to me but also—actually, more so—for her undying love and support. I mean here is a friend who without hesitation put me up in her home, cooked for me, drank wine for me, talked me off many ledges, and did it all, not for anything in return, but out of pure kindness. I tell her that I’ll never be able to repay her.

“You can thank me by going out there and killing it in New York City,” she responds.

“Deal.”

We both begin to laugh. We joke about how pathetic I once was in this very room along with some of the hilarious moments we’ve shared in this house over the course of the past two months. And then, in true Kelly fashion, she goes to the kitchen and returns with a bottle of champagne and two flutes. She pops the cork and pours the bubbles into the glasses.