The Breakup Doctor (12 page)

“Okay,” she said, unfazed. “Then your other choice is to call his best friend—who's that tall guy he's always golfing with? Richie? Randy?”

Sasha was being a little bit disingenuous. She'd met Ricky after work at a happy hour with us once. She found out he was single and Googled him that night to pull up his address, voter registration, and the satellite image of his house, until I headed that potential landslide off at the pass. Having her potentially go Glenn Close on Kendall's best buddy was just a little too close to home.

“Ricky,” was all I said.

“Right. Call Ricky and ask if he's heard from him. If anyone knows where he is, it'll be his closest friend.” She looked thoughtful. “On the other hand, you run the risk of looking like a psycho to the guy. And he'll tell Kendall you called, which, if everything is actually okay and this is just a misunderstanding, might make
Kendall
also think you're a psycho.”

I looked at her in amazement. I'd had no idea she was this self-aware.

I gave a sigh from the bottom of my soul. I was exhausted—adrenaline had left me feeling like a deflated balloon, and my defenses were down. I was pretty much out of other choices at this point anyway, so I found myself nodding and reaching for the cordless phone on Kendall's bedside table. Ricky was speed-dial number one.

I looked up at Sasha when I heard Ricky's recorded voice. “Voicemail.”

“Don't leave a message.” She plucked the phone out of my hand and disconnected, and then we sat there, both staring at the thing lying on the bed like a loaded weapon. I picked it up and dialed Kendall's cell one more time. I got his voicemail again and hung up.

“How many rings?” Sasha asked.

“What?”

She nodded toward the phone. “His voicemail. How many rings till it went into voicemail?”

“It didn't ring. Why?”

She frowned. “Huh. Well...that could go either way. Three or four would mean he just didn't answer. One or two means he looked, then declined—that would be bad.”

I thought about the calls I'd made to Kendall last night and this morning. About the ringing and ringing until it finally slid into voicemail.

“And none means it's off, right?” I asked slowly.

I saw understanding creep over her face, and Sasha's eyes held a sympathy I didn't want to acknowledge. “At least that tells you he's okay, honey,” she offered in a bright-side voice that made me feel pathetic.

I looked at her, a dark feeling growing in my chest. “It means he's turned it off.”

fourteen

  

Over the years the Breakup Doctor has devised an informal handbook of breakup etiquette, based on information culled from hundreds of stories.

If he “needs some space,” give it to him. It's usually code for “I want to see other people,” and trying to cling to the relationship is only going to make you seem even less appealing.

“I'm confused” means “I don't want to dump you and be the bad guy, so I am hoping you will give up and break up with me and save me from having to do the deed.”

If things are “moving too fast” for him and he wants to slow it down, bring them to a full stop yourself. A man who's crazy about you isn't going to risk letting you go, no matter how fast things are going.

“I lost your number” means “I lost interest.” Move on.

If he says, “You need someone who can give you everything you deserve,” he means he very much enjoys taking you out and having no-strings-attached sex, but he does not think of you as girlfriend material and never will. Get out quick.

“I just don't know if I still want to marry you” means...exactly that. That's one of the hardest ones, and there's nothing you can do but put it behind you and move past it.

  

“We're getting you out of this place,” Sasha said, springing back to her feet after the briefest of consoling moments. “Toss out your toothbrush and whatever else you keep here, so he can see all of it in the trash, and let's go. Do you want to put Visine in his Gatorade before we leave? It'll give him wicked shits.”

“What? No!” It was instantly clear to me that in her present state of mind, I should probably get Sasha out of Kendall's house as quickly as possible, before she could wreak any damage. Despite the suffocating feeling in my chest, I drew on every reserve of rationality I had, and invoked my Wise Therapist demeanor.

“Okay, hang on. We still don't know for a fact what's going on here.”

“Brook—”

I held up a hand to stop her. “We don't. Okay, he's not dead or in a coma. But any number of other things could have happened.”

“All of which involve him being a tool who hasn't bothered to call you and never showed up when he was expected.”

“True,” I conceded reluctantly. “But not necessarily a deal breaker yet, right? In a healthy relationship you talk about things, Sash, establish your rules and expectations.”

Sasha narrowed her eyes. “You're the one who taught me to get out fast, as soon as you see the signs things are falling apart. Hello? This one's in neon.”

She was right. I was the queen of cut-and-run as soon as I saw the writing on the wall. No sense dragging things out and humiliating yourself. But this time I couldn't, for some reason. Maybe the problem wasn't that I kept picking immature men who were afraid of commitment. Maybe the problem was me.

“Look, nothing's going to be accomplished by sitting here waiting to see what's going on,” I said decisively. “Clearly Kendall and I are going to have to have a talk. Why don't you and I go get some breakfast while the dust settles?”

The last thing I wanted was to go make chit-chat over eggs Benedict, or fend off Sasha's apocalypse predictions for my relationship. But I needed to get her out of Kendall's house. I needed to get out myself, or I was going to sit here tied up in knots until he walked in the door, and I'd be in no frame of mind to have a calm, mature discussion.

As I talked, I stood up, hoping that I could shepherd Sasha out the door if I moved in that direction myself.

“What happened to your foot?” Sasha said, noticing my bandage for the first time.

I was grateful for the chance to keep my mind occupied with embroidered stories about my injury and the hospital visit while I went into the bathroom and brushed my hair and swiped on some blush and lip gloss. Then I quickly threw on shorts and a T-shirt from the closet, slid into some sandals, grabbed my purse, and headed for the bedroom door.

Sasha wasn't following me, though. When I checked over my shoulder she was still sitting pensively on Kendall's bed.

“Brook, I don't think heading out for croissants like nothing's happened is healthy for you right now.”

“Come on—I'm starving. I'll follow you in my own car so you don't have to bring me all the way back.”

“Don't you think you should at least—”

“I'm fine.” My tone was thin and brittle.

“Brookie—”

“Sash...please.” My voice cracked a little, and that got Sasha moving.

I turned to pull the door shut behind me around as she headed down the curving sidewalk toward the parking lot. I took a long look back up the stairs, into Kendall's condo, not sure how soon I'd get back, or what would be waiting for me when I did.

  

Breakfast was an exhausting affair. Morning Glory was packed, reminding me why I hardly ever went out to brunch from Christmas through Memorial Day. We gave our names to the harried hostess and helped ourselves to coffee from the cart the owners wheeled outside to attempt to placate the hordes of tourists and snowbirds who spilled out onto the sidewalk.

Keeping Sasha off a topic she wanted to discuss was like juggling cats. Cats carrying chain saws. Which were on fire. I used the crush of people as an excuse to keep us away from any subjects but superficial ones for the nearly thirty minutes we waited.

Once we were seated, I asked her about her date Friday night.

A huge grin took over her face. “It was amazing.”

Weren't they all? At first.

I wished Sasha would slow her roll with men. I tried not to encourage her when she got so carried away too early in, so instead I told her about my new clients, asking her advice about starting a Web site, and running by her some ideas for future columns. All the while I tried to sneak surreptitious looks into my bag to see if I'd somehow missed my phone ringing. By the time the check came and we headed back out to our cars, I felt drained.

I mustered one last hearty smile. “Thanks, Sasha. I feel so much better. I'll call you later and let you know how our little talk goes,” I said, rolling my eyes with a shake of my head as though I were talking about Kendall leaving the toilet seat up.

She hesitated at the door of my Honda. “You sure? I can come back to your house with you if you—”

I waved her off. “Nah, I'll probably just lie down for a while. I'm feeling kind of tired.”

“Didn't sleep much last night, huh?” she said sympathetically.

Worn out from my day yesterday, secure in the childish belief that everything was basically okay and safe and good, I'd slept like the proverbial baby, actually. But I didn't correct her.

“It wouldn't be any fun to watch me nap. I'll call you later on,” I repeated. It was the only assurance that would get her to go.

She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “You'd better. And be tough, Brookie. ‘A man will treat you only as badly as you allow him to.' Another one I learned from you. See? I do listen.” She gave me a smile that made my heart ache with its pure kindness and love before leaving me at my car to go home, alone.

But I didn't go home. Kendall's condo pulled me back to it as unerringly as if it had attached prongs into me.

I pulled into the parking lot and circled to the residents' spots, praying his car would be there. Not sure what it meant if it was.

His assigned space was empty. My heart plunged. Instead of heading back around to the visitors' area, where I usually left my car—why hadn't Kendall ever gotten me a permit for the other assigned residents' spot his condo entitled him to?—I continued around the lot to where it curved toward another block of units. It was a numbered spot—reserved for a resident—but no one was in it, and I didn't care anyway. It offered a direct line of sight across the little retention pond right outside Kendall's front door. I turned off the engine and sat for a moment, not sure what to do next.

I retrieved my phone from its side pocket in my purse to check it yet again for Kendall's missed call or a text message. Nothing.

What was I supposed to do now? Go inside and wait, drilling my fingers on the table like a wronged housewife? Start calling police stations, morgues, hospitals within LifeFlight distance of Fort Myers? Sit by the phone and wait for a ransom call to come in? Should I be panicking, or enraged? In the complete absence of any information, I didn't even know how I was supposed to react.

I called his cell phone again—desperately, hopelessly—and adrenaline jolted through me when it rang. After one ring I heard Kendall's voice, and I wanted to cry ridiculous tears of relief.

“This is Kendall Pulver. Your call is important to me. Please leave a message—”

I jammed my finger down on the end button. Sasha's voice replayed in my head:
One or two means he looked, then declined—that would be bad.
My chest tightened and my eyes grew hot and prickly.

Then my heart started to pound like an oil rig when I suddenly saw Kendall's black Mercedes nose around the corner from the back entrance to the complex and snuggle into its usual spot. Just as if it were any other day.

I ducked my head, praying Kendall wouldn't look in this direction.

His car had a dent in the side I had never noticed. I wondered if he knew it was there. Probably. He noticed everything about the car. I was surprised he hadn't had it fixed already.

Some part of me acknowledged that my mind was occupying itself with inanities. I told myself I was simply being very calm and very rational, and ignored Wise Therapist's voice that suggested my mind had chosen to cope by removing itself to a safe distance and observing what was going on in my life as though it were happening on a movie screen.

Kendall got out of his car and sauntered toward his building as though he'd been out for a morning constitutional. He had on shorts and a T-shirt—his usual workout wear—and a duffel bag over his shoulder. I watched him scan the visitors' parking area. For a second my heart plummeted as his eyes panned over to where my car sat on watchdog duty directly across from his condo, but his gaze didn't even falter, just swept smoothly right on past. Context was everything—he wouldn't have been expecting to see my car in a different area.

I watched him draw his cell phone from the side pocket of the bag—the cell phone that no doubt read 736 MISSED CALLS—and punch in a number.

Not mine, I was forced to assume when he started talking. He was too far away for me to hear anything. Or else the weird roaring sound in my ears was drowning out everything else. My heart was pounding and I felt sick to my stomach.

Kendall opened his front door still talking. I registered that I ought to pull out, or at least slouch down in the seat so I didn't look like I was doing exactly what I was doing—sitting in the parking lot stalking my...my...stalking Kendall. But I didn't do either of those things. My body felt heavy and hot and icy cold all at once, and I couldn't really move anything.

His eyes trolled the parking lot again, and this time I swore he saw me frozen in the driver's seat of my little blue Honda. He looked back down at his phone, and I watched him punch the keys. A few moments later, as if hearing it from underwater, I distantly registered the chiming tone on my cell phone that told me I had a text message.

Numbly I looked at the caller ID window and saw that it was from Kendall. As if in slow motion I pressed the button.

I'm sorry, Brook. I can't do it.

When I looked up Kendall was walking inside his condo, the door swinging shut behind him.