"It's not you. Honestly, Harper. It's completely me."
Our waitress awkwardly hovered over us, balancing our dinners. The poor girl looked extremely uncomfortable.
I wondered if Glenn thought the cliche sounded better if he slipped in "honestly" and my name. Like I wouldn't care he was dumping me on New Year's Eve. That I would have to ring in the new year utterly alone. That I wouldn't be heartbroken I would have to spend another Valentine's Day alone.
"What does that even mean? If you're breaking up with me, it has to be me."
The restaurant was supremely busy, and though the waitress--Christie, I think she said--didn't want to step on the minefield that was our dinner table, she had no choice. She plopped down our plates with a half-hearted "enjoy" and scurried off.
Glenn sighed and pressed back against his chair, flicking his napkin across his lap. He ordered chicken parm ALL THE TIME. He calmly cut a piece of chicken which I hoped he fucking choked on.
"Please. Let's not make this harder than it already is. I'm just not ready to be in a relationship right now. You have your priorities, and right now so do I."
I watched him eat his chicken, closing his eyes sometimes at the taste, and realized what a total dickhead he was.
"You're fucking someone else, aren't you?"
Guess what? He did choke on his chicken.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO
"No- you're kidding!" My best friend Anna was frozen with a piece of salad halfway up to her mouth.
"Unfortunately, I'm not. He broke up with me New Year's Eve at dinner."
"Why the hell didn't you call me?" Finally she moved again which made me feel better; Anna at rest is an alarming thing to behold. "You could have come to my place. Andy and I watched Ryan Seacrest and Fergie be freakish robots all night."
My soup burned my tongue and I cursed, asking the universe why everything bad happened to me.
"I didn't want to intrude. It was your first New Year's as a married couple!"
She rolled her eyes. "It was totally boring. Andrew drank beer all night and passed out twenty minutes before the ball dropped. He's lucky I love him."
I smiled and gently spooned some more soup into my mouth. "Well, all I know is I have the shittiest luck with men."
Five seconds later something ice cold slammed into my back, running down to the crease of my ass. I shrieked. Slowly I turned and spotted the clumsy busboy who dropped an entire tray of drinks all over me. He apologized profusely; I just nodded. He threw some napkins at me and I tried to dry off, while simultaneously blushing under the penetrating gaze of everyone at the cafe.
Anna snorted into her iced tea. "Sorry. It's just that... Sweetheart. You have the shittiest luck, period."
"I'm going to the bathroom," I said, shuddering at the ice that was still swimming down my spine.
I didn't always have the worst luck. I used to have amazing luck. I graduated college early and became an assistant to one of the top publishing agents in the industry. He was handsome and successful; of course we began dating right away. A year later he asked me to marry him. Everything was picturesque and lovely until the day I came home and caught him fucking Phyllis, one of his authors, who was a mega-bitch and old enough to be his mother.
Naturally my self esteem took a whopping hit. I quit, letting the fucker affect not only my personal life, but my professional life as well.
Two years later I was beyond damaged, working in a tiny bookshop that no one ever went into and only stayed open because Mabel, the crazy lady who owned it, was rich and refused to close the family business.
Obviously, things weren't going well for me. And it was going to be Valentine's Day in a flash and I had a particular sensitivity about that date. It wasn't that I bought into the sappy consumerism or the societal pressure to "have someone"; it was my parents' wedding anniversary. They had such a perfect marriage and I wanted that, too. Every Valentine's Day I spent alone reinforced my belief that maybe I wouldn't have the chance to be happy, after all.
Even when I was with George, the fabulous literary agent, he had to fly to California to work with an author on our Valentine's Day.
Typical. It was probably to see Phyllis.
So here I was, a few days after a traumatically unhappy New Year's, wiping ice off my back and wishing away the next few months. Stores and restaurants glued faded red and pink hearts on their walls. Valentine's Day had already soaked the city with forced romance and sad desperation.
Something needed to change. I couldn't go on like this, one door after another slamming in my face. It was time to change things up.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO
Two weeks later I was working, mindlessly shelving books people would probably never read. Per usual, I was feeling sorry for myself.
"You should go see my therapist."
I paused with my restocking of Pablo Neruda, the poet who always sold out this time of year. Even Mabel's shop was frequented by lovestruck hipsters who quoted Neruda incorrectly as they sipped on their nonfat caramel lattes.
"Excuse me?"
Mabel applied another ring of blue eyeliner. It caught unflatteringly in all of her wrinkles, and it really wasn't the right color for her, but I didn't dare say anything. The last time I tried to suggest Mabel change her appearance--she dyed her hair purple--she screamed at me and threatened to make me do the Sunday kiddie readings with Frank. Frank was Mabel's only other employee. He wore the same shirt every shift and perpetually had a booger hanging from his right nostril.
"Well, you're always complaining about being a single mess. You should go see a shrink and talk about it to her."
"Thanks, Mabel, but I don't think I've reached the level that I need professional help yet."
She gave me one of her long-suffering looks. It would have been scary (considering her threats to make me work in close quarters with Frank) but her heavily made up face and the feather she wore in her hair made it too ridiculous.
"Not everyone who goes to see a psychologist is a lunatic, Harper, and I would have thought you were above that stigma."
Sighing, I put another collection of Pablo's work on the shelf. "Sorry, it's not that. I just don't think I want anyone in my head."
"And that's why you're single."
"Mabel!"
She shrugged and stood, closing her makeup case. "Honey, I've been around almost 76 years and let me tell you- I've never spent one Valentine's Day alone. You know why? No, it's not my looks, though they've always been impressive. It's my attitude. I think I can do and be anything." She packed up her purse and came over to squeeze my cheek. "You need a little of that sparkle." She pressed a business card in my hand.
She clicked out in her impressively high heels and I peeked at the card.
"Dr. Penelope Lange, Psy. D"
I put the card in my pocket, sure I wouldn't be giving her a call.
Yeah, I was having problems but a therapist? No.
Two giggling girls stumbled in, holding Starbucks. "Um, like, where's your Neruda? Barnes & Noble is sold out."
Instead of throwing myself off the nearest tall building, I heaved in a breath and pasted on a smile.
