The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir (15 page)

“Piss off,” she said for the millionth time.

Then this cute, lanky guy with a boyish grin walked over. “Can I get a jump?” His eyes locked onto Valerie. A lick of his strawberry blonde hair dropped over one eye. Charm on overdrive, he lit his cigarette off Valerie's and blatantly stared down the v-neck of her top.

Behind my right shoulder, “Filthy habit. Don't you think?” whispered into my ear.

I turned to find a Cheshire cat inhabiting the body of what had to be a musician. The ponytail was a dead giveaway and his leather trench sealed my first impression.

“Pretty impressive tag team action.” I smiled at the set-up.

“You like it?” He slouched against the patio railing.

I gave him an obvious sweeping glance, noting his lean body and the sun wrinkles around his eyes. “It's almost one o'clock, I guess you'll do,” I said.

A robust laugh burst from his lips. “And who says you're not my last choice?”

Touché. Quick and sarcastic. Not bad.

“So, Miss Congeniality, what's your name?”

“Annette. And the name on your mug shot?”

“I'm Tyler and that's my bass player, Shane.”

Ha! I knew it. A musician. God, I'm good.

“Let's go dance.” He motioned to his friend who was all over Valerie like a layer of moisturizer.

The song “Atomic Dog” bumped through the speakers while the band was on a break. Good DJ. Great flashback tune.

On the dance floor, the guys moved into the leg-hump position to freak with us. Timeless. Freaking was like a tribal mating dance from the dawn of man. You just knew that if a guy didn't have rhythm, he would suck in bed. Tyler had rhythm, and so did Shane. Valerie and I exchanged knowing smiles.

When the song ended, Tyler nodded in appreciation. “I like the way you move.”

“Thanks, you're not too bad yourself,” I said.

Tyler's eyes locked onto mine. “You're a stripper, aren't you?”

Shit.

“I'm a
writer
,” I said loudly over the DJ chatter.

“I was born at night, but not last night.” Tyler smiled. “I'm a track coach to pay the bills.” He leaned close to my ear. “Just admit it. It's no big deal.”

“Okay, so what if I am?” I said.

“Ha! I knew it. Only a stripper could move her ass the way you do.”

Well, that wasn't true in my case. I could dance before I started working at the club. How else was I supposed to get hired?

“So, you're a stripper, then why don't you have a boob job?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Because I don't need one. I have a six-foot personality in a five-foot-three frame. If I added boobs, it would just be overkill.” I smiled sweetly.

“So, what you're telling me is that you are a terrible stripper and you can't afford it?”

“There are two types of men,” I said sharply. “Butt men and boob men. I appeal to butt men and I'm perfectly okay with that.”

Before he could respond with another flip comment, I pinned him with a question. “Which one are you?”

“Definitely a butt man,” Tyler responded with a look that said he expected to find USDA Select tattooed on my ass.

“Good. Then shut up and dance.”

The DJ cued up another song and Tyler and I moved together to the beat of the music. Our dance was almost a challenge to see who had the best moves. I stole a glance at Shane and Valerie. They bumped against each other in a typical nightclub mating ritual.

When the song ended, the cruel closing lights glared through the nightclub. Barely sober guys steered their staggering drunk, late-night selections toward the parking lot.

It looked sad to me. I was three years stone sober and wondered if those girls would ever realize as I had—that waking up the next morning feeling poisoned just wasn't worth it.

Tyler and Shane stepped outside the exit and held a boys-only summit. Valerie and I walked through the parking lot toward her SUV.

“Hey!” Shane called out. “Do you girls want to go get some breakfast?”

Valerie looked at me and shrugged. “What do you think?”

“Sure. I'll go if you want to go,” I said. “Do you want to go? Because if you don't really want to go, that's okay, we don't have to go.”

“I'll go,” she said.

“Okay, we'll go,” I relayed to the guys.

“Let's hit Harbor House. I'm dying for a peanut butter shake and chili cheese fries,” Valerie cast her vote.

“It's too busy. Don't you remember the last time? By the time we got seated, we almost fell asleep at the table.”

Tyler waved his arm signaling for us to follow him. “We'll take you to a place up in Newport at the pier. They have great croissant sandwiches.”

We followed the guys from the Crazy Horse parking lot to Newport Pier. A line of post-nightclubers already formed a barricade in the doorway of the small bakery.

The Asian owner smiled broadly. “Come in, you eat.” He waved everyone inside and slid a rack of fresh croissants into the glass display case. It didn't take long before the tray was completely empty.

With our sandwiches in hand, we walked the length of the pier. At the end, I leaned over the railing and watched the wave swells ebb and flow over the barnacle-crusted posts. I always felt such a draw to the ocean. The rhythm and energy and depth filled me with a sense of peace. I closed my eyes and felt a mist of salt spray on my face. Slowly and deeply, I inhaled the tangy scent.

“Let's walk down the boardwalk.” Tyler took my hand, dusting the tiny croissant flakes from my fingertips.

Shane and Valerie walked ahead of us; we hung back and let the distance grow, then followed.

“So, tell me about yourself,” I said.

Tyler's passion was music; his face lit up as he spoke. The stories of his travels and the promotion of his band fascinated me. It seemed so glamorous. I wondered what it would be like to be the lead singer's girlfriend.

I could just see it: sitting beside the stage with Tyler singing a ballad to me—about me—while the audience looked on with endearing smiles. Then I watched in horror as a skanky groupie unzipped his tight leather pants and gave him a blowjob behind the backstage curtain. That would be my luck. I blinked away the images, and concentrated on his story.

Tyler talked and I listened. He was the most interesting guy I'd met in a while. I hoped I'd get the chance to know him better.

too good to be true?

Tuesday, April 23

Our date started at Johnny Rockets; we shared a chocolate shake in a sundae glass with two straws. It was so 1950s it made me wish I had a poodle skirt.

The warm sand of Laguna Main Beach beckoned, and our conversation flowed easily from one topic to another, as we walked along the water's edge.

Tyler spoke mostly about his family. They were deeply religious and didn't approve of his music, but he still hoped one day they'd become more supportive.

“I wonder if it's always like that for all creative people.” I shaded my eyes from the sun and looked out across the ocean. The white wash churned over our feet and splashed up the leg of my shorts.

When the water receded, Tyler bent to pick up a smooth stone and threw it in a high arc into a cresting wave. “I don't know, maybe,” he said.

It was something I'd thought about a lot since Kevin left. He seemed to be the only person I'd found who understood that I couldn't do anything else but write. He felt that way about golf. And Tyler felt the same way about his music.

We continued down the beach and I studied Tyler's profile as we walked. It was slightly rugged—a manly look, so different from my usual baby-faced preference. It reminded me that time was passing and unfulfilled dreams still remained. I knew I wanted to spend my life with someone who felt the same drive to create. It seemed the only logical choice.

In a relationship with another creative, I'd never have to explain why I didn't have a Plan B: some sort of back-up career if I never made it as a writer. Another creative would understand. There is no Plan B.

Both lost in our own thoughts, we walked the beach in silence. I wondered how Tyler would be with Josh. It was such an uneasy balance—trying to find someone who would be perfect for my future, but also work in my present. I wasn't quite sure Tyler could be both; only time would tell.

Tyler checked his watch. “I'm glad we could hang out for a couple hours, but I have to take off and meet up with the guys for practice.”

“I had a good time.” It was a comfortable, relaxing date and I wanted to make sure we would do it again. “Maybe sometime Valerie and I can watch you guys practice. She's supposed to go out with Shane this weekend.”

We walked to the corner and he pressed the crosswalk button.

“Yeah, maybe we'll meet you girls somewhere and all go out after practice sometime.”

Back in the parking lot, we stood between our cars and shared a brief kiss.

“I brought you something.” Tyler turned and reached through the open window of his Jeep. He lifted a CD jewel case from the glove box. “It's my demo CD.”

“Wow. Thanks. I can't wait to hear it,” I said, tucking it into my purse.

On the way home, I slid the CD into the deck. My car instantly filled with his sexy voice: a wannabe Jon Bon Jovi, circa 1986. Over the years, my musical taste had changed from rock to a more hip-hop flavor, but Tyler's music was nice. Being with him was nice. I wondered if it was all too good to be true.

he did what?

Thursday, April 25

Tyler invited me into his condo and offered to give me the grand tour. I pulled out my mental clipboard with the rating sheet for The List. We'd had plenty of conversations, but seeing how he lived would show me things about him that conversation wouldn't.

Dirty dishes piled in the sink, food crisping and congealing on the plates. Red flag: slob alert.

Pictures of family on the shelves of the entertainment center. A good sign, family oriented.

Extra pillows tossed artfully on the couch. Subtract Martha Stewart points for having both zebra and leopard prints.

He pointed down the hall. “Those two rooms are my roommates’, they're still at work.”

Bad sign: roommates. He might be a Peter Pan guy who hasn't outgrown his keg party days.

“My room is the loft upstairs.” He motioned for me to walk up ahead of him.

Ten…eleven…twelve steps to the top. I counted like Rainman, and was curious if Tyler chose to walk behind me so he could check out my butt.

I looked around his small room. Nautical decorations. Okay, not great, but not bad. Outdoorsy is good. Thankfully, there wasn't a trout mounted on the wall.

A shrine of technology stood in the corner and he waved his hand like a product model. “This is my keyboard and recording equipment.”

“It's nice,” I said. Lame response, but I couldn't think of anything else to say.

“Want to hear the new song I'm working on?” He sounded like a boy who was hiding a frog in his pocket.

“Sure,” I shrugged and looked around the tiny room.

While he fiddled with the buttons and levers, I scanned everything for signs of unobtrusive female markings.

No earrings left casually on the nightstand. No ponytail scrunchie on the floor, kicked slightly under the bed. Sssssnifff. No lingering perfume spritzed “accidentally” into the curtains.

It looked good so far. No sign of other women, but I wasn't quite ready to put a checkmark in the monogamous box.

He punched a few keys and music filled the room. In the recording, his gravelly voice sang a wrenching ballad of lost love; tormented emotion growled in the lyrics.

Nice try. Show me your soft side and I'll be sure to fall over on your bed with my legs open.

“Did you write that?” I asked when the song ended.

“Yeah, and I wrote all the music for it and I played the instruments too. After I recorded it all, I layered it together.” Tyler walked over and sat on the edge of his bed, patting the space beside him. “Come take a look at my book of songs.”

A modern variation on the '70s ploy to get a girl naked by offering to show her some etchings?

I sat on the bed next to Tyler. He handed me the notebook and I flipped through the pages.

“Relax a little.” Tyler pushed me backward onto the bed. My knees still curved around the edge of the mattress, my feet planted firmly on the floor. In one swift move, Tyler rolled on top of me. I was pinned beneath him with the songbook covering my chest like a shield.

Our noses almost touching, I looked directly into his eyes. “What are you doing?” I asked. Woodenly, my shell supported his body weight.

A few seconds passed. I wasn't sure if he intended to kiss me, but my stiffness certainly didn't invite any continued sexual advance.

Tyler rolled off of me and onto the bedcover. He propped himself up on an elbow. “So, what do you think of my songs? Did you listen to that CD I gave you?”

Yeah, good idea to pretend that didn't happen.

“I liked most of them,” I said, “but a couple have electric guitar rifts that seem to go on too long.”

So, now I'm a music critic, as if I know what I'm talking about.

I glanced at my watch. “I have to meet up with my girlfriends. I need to get going.”

Tyler walked me to my car. We stood awkwardly for a moment until he leaned down to kiss me. It seemed okay to kiss him standing up. The bedroom thing was just too weird.

“I'll call you later,” Tyler said. He loped across the parking lot and turned to wave.

After I drove away, I plucked my cell phone out of my purse and auto-dialed home. “Hey Wonderboy, I'm just checking in. What's up?”

“I was riding bikes with Adam, but he had to go in for dinner. So I had a salad, now I'm making some soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Are you on your way home?”

“No, I'm heading over to do crafts with the girls,” I said.

“How was your date?” I could hear the curiosity in his voice. “I listened to his CD. When can I meet him?”

After today's weird little episode, it would be a while. “I don't know. We'll see.”

“I have to make sure he's not a jerk.” Josh's teasing carried a twinge of seriousness.

At least we shared a common goal.

“Well, I'm here at the craft store now. I'll call you when I'm on my way home.”