The Breakup Club Part 20

"From what? Getting my heart broken? Getting fired? Getting evicted? Having my husband leave me with two kids? What?"

"All of that. With Robbie"

"Mom, who's to say what would happen ten, twenty years from now if I married Robbie? Who's to say he wouldn't cheat? Or that I wouldn't? Or whatever."

"But even if he did any of those things, you'd still have your marriage. The safety and security of your marriage."

Not this conversation again.

"Roxy, things happen," she continued. "People change. Times change. You have ups and downs in a marriage. And you go on."

Are you saying you know Dad cheated on you and you went on? Is this why there hasn't been a divorce in generations of Marones?

"Do you love Dad?" I asked.

Silence. Arms crossed over chest.

"Mom. Do you love him?"

"I want you to shut off that recorder," she said. "This isn't going in the book."

There might not be a book. Not if this was the Marone family secret. A pair of blinders? No expectations? No love? I let out a huffy breath and shut off the tape recorder.

"Roxy, I love your father more than anything else in the world, except for you. I love him with all my heart and always have. That's what sustains a marriage. All I'm saying is that if I had a nickel for every time I didn't like something he did, or every time our marriage went through a bad patch, I'd be a billionaire."

"I don't get this. Why do you love him? And please don't say, because he's my husband."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Because he's my husband."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we've been through twenty-six years together. Raised a child together. It means he's been by my side for everything I've gone through for twenty-six years. Think about what that's entailed. The hards.h.i.+ps, the ups and downs, the disappointments, the tears. And then all the wonderful stuff. Your father has been by my side for it all. When you called from Manhattan on your wedding day, what do you think I did when you hung up? I collapsed in your father's arms. That's what marriage is. It's being there."

I tried to imagine what the Breakup Club would say to all that.

Lucy: She has a point.

Miranda: Depressing!

Christopher: It's complicated.

Me: It is complicated. Because it makes sense. But there has to be something between the fairy talebetween Beau and Briand my parents. There has to be. And that's what I want.

My mother stood and began fluffing the throw pillows. "Go interview your father," she said. "I'm done for now. He's upstairs in his den."

Deep sigh. So much for these interviews bringing me back to my family, closer to my family. So far all I felt was farther and farther away. I had enough for the book proposalmy mother hadn't given me much, but I could add a lot of backstory and historyyet for the book, I'd have to interview my mother in stages, take baby steps to get her to open up. And my father? All I'd get out of him was, "Rox, your mother is a fine woman."

I trudged up the steps and tapped on the door of my dad's den. He was sitting in his easy chair recliner, his feet up, a remote control in one hand and the Daily News in the other.

"Dad? Is now a good time to interview you for my book proposal?"

His nose was in the paper. "What are you going to ask?"

I came in and sat down on the ottoman across from him. "Can you turn off the TV?"

"I'd rather leave it on," he said. "I'll lower it."

Gee, thanks. "Dad, how would you describe your marriage to Mom?"

"It's fine," he said, his gaze moving from the television to the Daily News.

I waited for him to continue. He didn't. "Can you expand on that, please?"

"What you want me to say?" he asked, glancing at me for exactly one second.

"I want to know why your marriage is fine."

He barely glanced up. "Why? Because it's not bad. That's why."

Okay, Dad. I'll quote you on that. I stood up.

"When I wake up in the morning and hear your mother puttering around downstairs," he said, his eyes on the television, "I feel good. I get up, I take a shower, I read the paper, I eat breakfast. I watch some TV. I go to work. I come home, knowing she'll be here. That makes me feel good."

I clicked off the recorder, smiled and knelt beside his chair and kissed his cheek. It was something, at least.

"The game's coming on," he said, nodding at the TV. "Ask you mother to bring me up a gla.s.s of orange juice, will you?"

"Sure, Dad. Thanks."

As I closed the door on my way out, I realized that he hadn't changed. This was who he'd always been. He was the man my mother married, the man my mother loved. And my mother, puttering around the kitchen, was the woman he loved. It worked. It might not work for me, but it worked for them. And that was all that mattered.

My cousin Daria canceled the interview. She and her husband had gotten into such a whopper of a fight that they weren't speaking at the moment.

"That stupid f.u.c.king a.s.shole!" she screamed into my cell phone. "If he thinks I'm going to change both twins' poo diapers, he has another think coming! Maybe I'll just empty the contents of the diapers onto his precious Barcalounger!"

I held the phone at a slight distance from my ear. "Daria, can I ask you a really personal question for the proposal?"

"I guess."

"Do you ever think about divorce? Or worry about divorce?"

"Of course not," she said. "I love the a.s.shole." I could hear a baby crying. Then another. "There they go. I'd better go see what's going on with the munchkins. Love ya! I'll reschedule, okay, hon?"

On my way back to the subway, I pa.s.sed by Robbie's office, and again I stared up at the windows. I tried to imagine him and Patty kissing. Him and Patty in bed.

But all I saw was Robbie and me kissing. Robbie and me in bed.

When I got home, I forced myself to check my voice mail for my personal ad. Proactive, I reminded myself.

I had four new messages. Three who sounded perfectly niceand one who sounded very, very familiar.

"Hi, Roxy. My name is Rob Roberts. I'm twenty-five and live in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, where I grew up. I'm crazy about Brooklyn, but I'm also crazy about my ex-girlfriend, this amazing, intelligent, questioning, beautiful woman named Roxy Marone. We were all set to get married, but she left me at the altar because she felt suffocated by our lifestyle. Well, two months have gone by, two Roxy-less months, and if she's willing, I'd like to take her on a date, in Manhattan, and introduce her to the new guy I'm willing to be. Trying to be. Can be. As you know, Roxy, I've always liked sophisticated writers. Clearly."

I clutched the receiver to my heart. And then I took a deep breath and called him back.

"Patty mentioned the ad?" I asked.

"Yup. She wasn't tattling on youshe was just trying to be a good friend and let me know gently that you're moving on. She's been really amazing these past two months. Take today. She came by the office at lunchtime with an entire home-cooked meal in a basket. The workssalad, baked ziti, bread, and an amazing cannoli."

Did you sleep with her?

"So, are you willing to go on a date with me?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I" Miss you. A little too much. And I don't want to come running back because I'm scared of what's out there. Because I've seen a bit of what's out there and it stinks.

Or because Patty is going after you full throttle.

This is Rob Roberts...

That made me smile. Maybe one date. One date in Manhattan, on my new turf.

"Okay, Rob Roberts. You sound like a nice guy. I'm looking forward to meeting you. How about next Friday night?" That would give me an entire week to mentally prepare.

"Perfect," he said. "I'm looking forward to meeting you, too."

Please, please, please don't be a jerk, I prayed to the Fates of the universe Sunday night before my date with Nathanial. We were meeting in a small supper-club-type restaurant on the Upper East Side. Live jazz and fondue and wine. I'd never listened to jazz before. I'd never had fondue before. And I knew nothing about wine, except that I'd had too much of the red variety at the holiday Christmas party last month.

Nathanial sounded just like the real opposite of Robbie. Which was exactly what I needed.

When I arrived at the restaurant, Nathanial was already there, waiting at the bar. Score one for you, Nathanial. An actual punctual guy! He was tall, dark haired and very cute, even cuter than Didier! He was also very built, I couldn't help but notice.

We smiled, shook hands, and were led to an intimate table by the window. We ordered a gla.s.s of wine each and the fondue, and we made small talk about everything from personal ads to midtown (where we were at the moment) to movies. We avoided the big no-nos: politics, mothers, s.e.x, exes. Granted, there were no excited "me too's!" But there was conversation. He said something, then I said something, on the same topic. And then one of us would change the subject to food or the last trip we took. (He told me all about scuba diving in the Bahamas, and I tried to tell him about the book I was writing, but the words family and marriage in the same sentence made his eyes glaze over and I changed the subject to Top Five Favorite Movies.) He leaned over. "I like you."

I leaned over. "I like you too."

And then he kissed me. A soft, sweet kiss that fell completely flat.

No. No, please. This guy is wonderful. He's from a farm in Pennsylvania! He's lives in Manhattan! He's smart, funny, nice, thoughtful, interesting. He mentioned that his sister recently got married, and when I asked if she kept her own name, he said, "Of course. Don't most women?"

And he's not Robbie. So, please, if you're listening. Let me feel something.

I leaned over and kissed him. He smelled delicious. Like Aramis, which Robbie had worn since he was fifteen and which I loved.

Stop thinking about Robbie! I ordered myself. Concentrate on Nathanial. Untraditional, Manhattany Nathanial.

"One more kiss," I whispered. He smiled and leaned toward me, his s.e.xy blue eyes twinkling, smoldering. The minute his lips touched mine, I wondered what kinds of cheeses went into the four-cheese fondue.

Grrr.

Two days later, upon hearing that Robbie and Patty were "spending an awful lot of time together" (my mother's information), I went out with Nathanial a second time because he asked so nicely and because he was so hot and because the last second date I had was in first grade, when Robbie patted the bench next to him in the cafeteria, opened his s...o...b.. Doo lunch box and gave me his entire snack pack of Oreos.

You are so good-looking, so smart, so nice to waiters and movie ticket takers! So why isn't the earth moving? Even just a little?

That night, as I lay in bed tossing and turning and trying to fantasize about Nathanial, Robbie called to confirm our date on Friday ("Hi, it's Rob") and mentioned that Patty had invited him to my cousin Jackie's wedding in a couple of weeks. According to Robbie, Patty had recently broken up with a guy she'd been dating and wanted a date to the wedding, someone she could feel very comfortable with. Someone who'd make sure her every dance was spoken for, especially because she'd already bought "a hot dress and killer heels."

Interesting, I thought, gritting my teeth. I would be at that wedding. Jackie was my cousin! "So where are we going for our date?" I asked Robbie, who I still couldn't think of as Rob, even if he finally was. Crazy.

"Have you been to Thai Alert? It's the hottest new restaurant in Soho. I thought we'd start there and then go see a new off-Broadway play that got rave reviews in the New Yorker. And afterward we can discuss the merits of the play at Xando."

Thai food? Soho? The New Yorker? Since when did Robbie "Baked Ziti and Poker" Roberts read the New Yorker? Or know from off-Broadway plays? Or Xando, a super-trendy bar downtown where celebrities were always spotted.

"Pick you up at six?" he said. "The curtain's at eight."

I was too surprisedby everything, including my jealousyto speak. I mumbled an okay and got off the phone fast.

Then I called Nathanial to thank him for a lovely evening. And said yes to a third date.

Chapter thirteen.

Lucy The one thing I couldn't get used to was that the entire king-size Sealy Posturpedic was mine. There was no more left side and right side. There was just the middle, which I tried to sleep on and couldn't. Every night I scooted back over to the right side of the bed. But at least I got rid of Larry's three pillows, too-firm squares that smelled like Head & Shoulders. I'd actually gotten rid of them one by one. That first night, New Year's Eve, I'd thrown them all across the room, then ran sobbing to pick them up and put them back, one perfectly on top of the other the way Larry liked them. The next night I did the same thing. The night after, when Larry bungled his talk with Amelia and left me to do his dirty work, I took one of the pillows, brought it out into the garbage chute in the hallway and dumped it on top of the collection of greasy pizza boxes and recycling. A week later, one pillow was left, its Head & Shoulders scent just as strong. When Amelia had returned from their first Sat.u.r.day visit and reported that her father changed the subject to her cla.s.ses every time she asked him a real question, like Are you ever coming home? I dumped the last pillow.

I was getting used to the little things. Setting two plates for dinner and Sunday breakfast instead of three. Making all the spicy enchiladas and burritos I wanted because Amelia and I loved Mexican and Larry didn't. Leaving my cosmetics spread out on the countertop in the bathroom. Not shaking my head at the contents of Larry's electric shaver, which he always dumped into the sink and never rinsednow the sink was always s.h.i.+ny and clean. Answering nosy neighbors' questions ("Lucy, I just realized I haven't seen Larry in ages. Is everything all right?"), with "Everything is just fine, thank you."

Living without Larry for the first time in twelve years.

"It's a phase," my aunt Dinah told me a few days ago. "Your uncle Saul left me a few times over the years. Packed his suitcase and went to a motel and he always came back. Trust me, Larry will be back."

What was this, a family thing? "He left and went to a motel? And that was fine with you?"

"He always came back," my aunt said. "That's what matters."

Did I even want Larry back? After what he did to me in Ellabet's? After what he said? How could I go from listening to I don't love you, Lucy to welcoming him back into my home, my life, my bed?

I didn't ask that out loud. My relatives and his were calling and stopping over every day to console me and Amelia. I had more Tupperware containers of ca.s.seroles and frozen chicken parts in my freezer than I could ever eat in a lifetime. With every goodbye and kiss on the cheek came the expression of the same sentiment: "He'll come to his senses, Lucy. It's only been a month. Don't you worry."

According to my mother-in-law, Larry was renting a studio apartment on the Upper West Side. "It's a box!" she told me on the phone last week. "He can't possibly be happy there. When he wasn't looking, I put a photo of you and Amelia on the kitchen window. You should see that kitchenyou can't even turn around in it!"

Amelia refused to go near his apartment. She wouldn't acknowledge that her father lived somewhere else. And so Larry met Amelia in the lobby of our building every Sat.u.r.day afternoon and they went to the movies, where they didn't talk for two hours.

"Is he having an affair?" all the relatives wanted to know. Larry wasn't talking. No one knew.

"Why else would he have left?" my father-in-law asked once. "Why else would a man leave a nice home? Of course he's having an affair!"