Misery Loves Cabernet (22 page)

Jordan leans in and kisses me. We begin to make out under the leafless trees, and I feel like a teenager necking with her boyfriend. The world is good.

After another minute or two of making out, we drink our champagne (which actually becomes very tasty with the chocolate) and make our way through the box. The box has combinations I’d never thought of: ginger with dark chocolate ganache, melon puree with port wine . . . one is even made with Chipotle chiles.

A little while later, we make our way back to York Street Station, onto the F train, and back to our hotel.

My fingers feel frostbitten by the time Jordan slips his key card in to let us into our room, but my heart is on fire.

And so is the rest of me.

Don’t discuss your love life in vivid detail. No one really needs the blow-by-blow account
.

Several delicious hours later, Jordan indulges me in a romantic, five-course meal at Le Cirque, followed by drinks at The Plaza. Yes, we decided to go a bit touristy. We even skated at Rockefeller Center.

And that night, after we made love for the third time, I felt like we were finally back on track.

Tempting though it always is, try never to rest on your laurels. The universe is not stagnant
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I woke up the next morning blissfully happy . . . wildly in love . . .

And alone in my bed.

Wait, no, I’m not. I can hear Jordan in the bathroom. Whew. Dodged a bullet there.

As I listen, I realize he’s talking to someone on the phone.

Being the idiot that I am, I don’t think anything of it as I take the top sheet, wrap it around my body, and get out of bed to tell him I’m awake, I’m naked, and I’m feeling amorous.

“No, I haven’t told her yet,” I hear Jordan whisper into the phone.

Oh. Shit. Why am I always the “her” in the “I haven’t told her yet”? Why do I never get to be the girl on the other end of the phone?

That’s right—because I have ethics. I actually believe the adage:

Work hard. Be nice. Hurt no one
.

Of course, that may be why I’m thirty, and still single.

I get as close to the slightly opened door as possible and listen in.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know where it’s going anymore. And she is going to freak when she finds out,” Jordan continues to his mystery woman (I’m assuming it’s a woman) on the other end of the phone. He listens to her for a moment, then answers, “No. The first day was a disaster . . . No, it’s not that easy. Yesterday was—”

But before Jordan can finish his sentence, he sees me at the doorway.

“Gotta go,” Jordan says abruptly into the phone. “I’ll see you tomorrow . . . . Yeah, me, too. Bye.”

And he clicks off the phone. “Good morning,” he tries to say brightly.

I don’t bother mincing words. “Yesterday was what?”

“Hm?” Jordan says, clearly stalling for time.

“You were telling the girl on the phone that yesterday was something. I’m wondering what yesterday was.”

There’s a half-second pause while Jordan debates what to do next. It’s that half second I never picked up on in college. (There are some advantages to battle scars.) Jordan looks at me seductively as he wraps his arms around my waist. “Yesterday was phenomenal,” he says, pulling me into a sexy kiss.

Or, what would have been a sexy kiss, if I hadn’t started talking through it. “Who was on the phone?” I ask, my voice a little muffled from his tongue in my mouth.

Jordan stops kissing me. “No one,” he says, then begins kissing my neck and making me crazy.

“Sure didn’t sound like no one,” I manage to eek out (although I must admit, he’s wearing me down with those kisses). “And what haven’t you told me yet?”

“Can we talk about it later?” Jordan moans. “I want to make love to you.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, pulling away from him, and putting my hands on my hips. “You think I’m so stupid, I don’t know men can fake moans, too?”

Jordan sighs. Rolls his eyes a bit. “Charlie, do you really want to ruin what little time we have left talking about something that will almost certainly make you angry?”

“No. I’d much prefer spending the day with someone wondering when the guillotine is going to hit my neck,” I answer sarcastically.

Jordan heavily sighs. “Okay, fine. Have a seat.”

For one brief moment, I debate waiting until the end of the day for that guillotine. But I force myself to sit down on the bed, and get whatever bad news he has over with.

Jordan takes a deep breath, clearly bracing for a blowup from me. “The girl who was on the phone was Stacey. The ex I told you about yesterday.”

Shit. “The actress?” I ask, already getting mad.

“Yeah. She’s one of the stars of the movie I’m working on right now. Which, before you freak out, she’s only, like, the sixth lead in the thing; I did not know she was going to be in it, and she’s happily married now. As a matter of fact, her husband is a producer on the movie. He’s the one who offered me the film in Germany in February.”

“Oh,” I say noncommittally, unsure of where this is going.

“I’m taking the job,” Jordan says.

“Oh,” I repeat.

“It’s a huge studio picture,” Jordan continues. “It shoots for five months. So, other than the weeks before and after Christmas, I’ll be gone until the end of June.”

I don’t say anything for a while. Finally, I have to ask, “So what does that mean? We do long-distance for another seven months? You’re breaking up with me? What?”

Jordan doesn’t answer me at first. He rubs his neck, and takes a deep, tired breath. “I don’t know. You haven’t exactly been very happy lately. I don’t really see what our future is if our conversations and e-mails continue the way they’ve been going.”

I don’t know what he means by that: Does he mean that we’re breaking up, or is he just issuing me an ultimatum—be nicer and more patient in this long-distance relationship, or I’m out of here.

Jordan sighs. He looks battle weary. “I need to ask you something, and I’d like the truth.”

“Okay,” I say nervously.

Jordan walks over to his suitcase, and pulls out a British tabloid, which he hands to me. “Check out page five.”

I open the tabloid to page five. Underneath the screaming headline, “Sexiest Man Alive Drew Stanton Afraid of Winding Up Alone” is a picture of Drew, Liam, and me coming home from our “run” earlier this week. The run where I tripped, and had to have Liam help me limp back to Drew’s house. Of course, you can’t tell I’m limping and hurt from the picture. No, no . . . the story is all about how Drew is still pining for his ex-wife, and how he’s afraid he may not find anyone. The picture makes it look like Liam and I are cooing little lovebirds, cuddling in each other’s arms as a frowning Drew runs ahead of us and looks pathetic.

“Who’s the guy?” Jordan asks me.

I decide to come clean. Sort of. “His name’s Liam,” I say in a tone of voice designed to assure Jordan that Liam is no big deal. “He’s a producer on Drew’s movie. He went running with us, I hurt my ankle, he helped me back to Drew’s house.”

Jordan eyes me suspiciously. “The guy I heard on the phone?”

Shit. I think I unconsciously wince. “Yeah.”

Jordan nods ever so slightly. “Okay.”

Then he turns to pack. He deliberately does not look at me as he says, “You were right in the first place. I think we should see other people.”

“Meaning what? Is that your toe-in-the-water way of breaking up with me?”

Jordan turns to me. He looks sad. “No. That is my way of saying I’m going to be working for the next seven months out of the country, and I think we should see other people. But if you think it’s a breakup, I guess it is.”

Oh, God. I think I’m going to throw up. I spend the next thirty seconds forcing myself to breathe, and watching him pack his black duffel bag.

Needless to say, I call the airline, and immediately change my flight to the next one out of town. Jordan goes with me to the airport, and we say good-bye as exes. For the few hours I was still with him I would tear up, then force myself not to cry. All that time Jordan looked pained. But he never suggested that he wanted to reconsider, so I never asked him to. Because in my heart of hearts I knew:

Never beg a man to take you back. The only thing worse than having a man leave you is having his last memory of you crying and begging
.

And when he kissed me good-bye at the security line at JFK, I knew it really was good-bye.

Sometimes you just need to cry it out. That’s okay
.

When I got to my gate at the airport, I locked myself in a stall in the ladies’ room, and cried for twenty minutes straight. I felt a little better when I was done. There is a certain sense of relief in knowing how the relationship turned out, in not being in limbo anymore.

My iPhone rang four times during that time, but none of the calls were from Jordan: instead my caller ID showed three were from Drew, and one was from Liam. I didn’t want either of them to hear me crying, so I didn’t pick up.

After my crying jag, I wipe away my tears, walk to a seat at my gate, and check my messages.

Message one: “We’re not going to Paris!” I hear Drew wailing into the phone. “Now my contract specifically states I get to go somewhere on per diem, so I think I can quit. But I don’t really want to, since I think I read somewhere that an Academy Award nomination can be worth an extra ten thousand dollars or so on a film, and I am trying to get to space. So I’m torn. How do you feel about Rancho Cucamonga? Call me back.” Beep.

Message two: “Me again. Listen, I just slept with Whitney. You know, that producer you hate. I’m pretty sure she just came over because I threatened to pull out of the film. She started out by saying wouldn’t it be more fun if I pulled out . . . actually, that’s not really the important part of the story. Question is, has she sexually harassed me here, or have I sexually harassed her? I told her I need to talk to you, and that I might not report for work tomorrow. You need to call me back ASAP. I’m having a moral breakdown.” Beep.

Message three: “Or is it a nervous breakdown? Because I’m thinking maybe I’m having one of those. In which case, do I qualify for any cool drugs? Anyway, call me back.” Beep.

Message four: “Charlie, it’s Liam. Listen, I am so sorry to disturb you during your romantic weekend, but I’m afraid we’ve got a problem. It would appear that we’re not going to be able to shoot in Paris. I’ll explain later. But Drew is absolutely apoplectic. He’s threatening to pull himself from the project, and nothing we’ve been able to do has reassured him that the film will be fine. If I could maybe get your help talking to him, that would be great. Call me back.” Beep.

I call Drew first. He answers on the first ring.

“We’re not going to Paris!” Drew says in a panic.

“Okay, calm down,” I say. “What happened?”

“Apparently the director was arrested last night for soliciting, and now we can’t shoot in Paris.”

Huh?

“Soliciting what?” I ask, confused. “Drugs?”

“No. Sex,” Drew says, like the idea of a director soliciting drugs was out of the question. “He was dressed up as a transvestite on Santa Monica Boulevard, and got pulled in. I mean, you expect this kind of thing from a Republican senator, but not from a respected artist in the community. Anyway, how was your weekend?”

“Um . . . fine,” I lie. “So, unfortunate as this is, why aren’t we shooting in Paris?”

Drew gives me his answer in an incessant monologue. “Apparently, because the director is applying for citizenship here, he’s not allowed to leave the state before the trial, much less the country. Which means the writer is doing a massive rewrite on the movie, and we’re shooting everything here in the States, and . . . hey, wait a minute. Are you crying?”

Shit. I guess I am. I pause to take a deep breath. “No.”

Drew stops talking. He knows I’m lying. When he does speak, his voice is soft and comforting, “Aw, sweetie. I’m sorry.”

That one response makes me water up again. “It’s okay,” I lie. “Things weren’t working out anyway. Better I know now.” I try to sound upbeat when I joke, “And, hey, now I won’t be trying to avoid anyone in Paris.”

Drew’s silent on the other end.

Which kills me. So I change the subject. “Liam called me. They want to know what it’s going to take to make you happy again.”

“What’s it going to take to make you happy again?” Drew asks me.

Having Jordan call me and beg forgiveness? Being able to go back in time, and at least not spend all morning with him trying to act like nothing’s wrong. Being able to go back in time and never meet him at all?

“I’m gonna be okay,” I say, literally swallowing some tears down the back of my throat. “But the flight is about to board, and I need to call Liam. What are your demands?”

Drew considers my question a moment before answering, “I want to be able to decorate my dressing room however it makes me feel the most inspired.”

“Okay.”

“Whitney told me last week that since I was assigned Liam’s bedroom, I couldn’t do anything with the décor. If I’m going to be there for several more weeks, I need to feel the room is my sanctuary.”

I grab a tissue from my purse, wipe my drippy nose, take another deep breath, then say, “I’m sure that won’t be a problem. I’ll call them now.”

“Do you need anything?” Drew asks. “Can I send you something?”

“I’d really like the rest of the day off,” I say, and Drew agrees not to call me again until tomorrow.

I finish up with Drew, then call Liam to let him know Drew has been calmed down, but wanted free rein to decorate his dressing room however he wished. Liam said that was no problem, and thanked me for my time.

He also asked how my weekend went. I lied and said it was good.

Never admit to a man that another man dumped you
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