Your Big Break

  “Obviously,” Amanda agrees. “But can you be really vicious? Can you tell a guy his girlfriend left because his dick’s too small?”

  Technically, yes, but I don’t tell Amanda this. “I always try to let them down easy.”

  “But what if the client asks you to be rude? Like with Jamie?”

  “Then I’ll be a teeny bit rude. But never outright hurtful. Any other questions?”

  “Yeah, what are some good, standard lines you use to dump people?”

  “We try to avoid using run-of-the-mill excuses,” I say.

  It’s true. If people want clichés, they could come with them on their own. There’s a whole secret language to dumping somebody. I’ve cracked the code. I flip to the back page of my legal pad, where I’ve scrawled out:

  The Ten Biggest Breakup Excuses, Redefined

  Excuse: It’s not you, it’s me.

  Translation: It is definitely, without a doubt, one hundred percent you.

  Excuse: We’re better off as friends.

  Translation: The thought of having sex with you turns my stomach.

  Excuse: I think we should date other people.

  Translation: I’m already dating other people.

  Excuse: I don’t deserve you.

  Translation: I actually deserve someone much better than you.

  Excuse: In another time or place, this could’ve worked out. Translation: If you were hotter/richer/less boring, this could’ve worked out.

  Excuse: I’m still getting to know myself, finding out who I am as a person.

  Translation: I’m gay.

  Excuse: I used to you think you were The One; now I’m not so sure.

  Translation: You weren’t this fat when we started dating.

  Excuse: I want my space.

  Translation: I want to sleep around.

  Excuse: This hurts me as much as it hurts you.

  Translation: My pain ends after this conversation; your pain lives on forever.

  Excuse: I’m getting back together with my ex.

  Translation: I no longer even speak to my ex, but I’d rather die alone than spend another second with you.

  “That takes all of the fun out of it,” Amanda says, interrupting my thoughts.

  “What does?” I ask, startled. I quickly flip my legal pad shut before she can read it. The last thing I want to do is give Amanda any clichés she can use.

  “Being nice. It’s so easy and dull.”

  Easy? Dull? Is she clueless? “I hate to tell you, but dumping people isn’t exactly a walk in the park.”

  “But breaking up in parks is good, huh?”

  By the way she says it, I can tell she’s embarrassed about being caught out on rule #2. “That’s right—rule number one, any public place will do.” I quickly outline Your Big Break Inc.’s five basic rules.

  Rule #1: Always meet in a public place. Coffee shops are ideal. Never go anywhere that serves alcohol.

  Rule #2: Never reveal your last name.

  Rule #3: Avoid cheesy euphemisms.

  Rule #4: You are an impartial observer.

  Rule #5: Do not get personally involved. This is the cardinal rule and must be followed above all others!

  Then I get back to the friendship-ending letter.

  According to Newton’s Laws, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Your action was to have sex with my fiancé. My reaction was to bed down your boyfriend. Turnabout is fair play, my dear Lyndsey. I hope you’re up for the game of a lifetime.

  “Too dramatic?” I wonder. I don’t know why I’m asking Amanda. She hasn’t even worked here a full week.

  “Nope, not too dramatic, not too plain,” she says, grinning. And in a voice that reminds me of Goldilocks, she adds, “That sounds juuuust right!”

  I have this ritual when I get home from work. It starts with a piping hot bath (bubble, if I’m so inclined), followed by some of my favorite music (U2, No Doubt, and Tori Amos—all the must-haves), topped off with a scrumptious meal from whatever takeout place comes next in the rotation, which goes: Chinese, pizza, deli sandwiches, Indian.

  Then I plop down on the couch to write breakup letters, pick out “guilt” gifts for the dearly deserted, and match-make. Okay, so maybe that last one doesn’t have much to do with Your Big Break Inc. In fact, it’s in direct conflict with the business. But I really enjoy fixing people up and, like an addict, I can’t seem to stop myself.

  Can you blame me? I have an endless pool to choose from.

  Every day I meet newly single people, all of them ready to jump back into the dating world. It’s fun to try to pair them up. Evan Hirschbaum’s ex-girlfriends are always good. Over the last year, I’ve found dates for five—count em, five!—of Evan’s former flames. Granted, only one of these fix-ups actually turned into something lasting, but it was fun nonetheless.

  Tonight, I’m planning to tackle the Jason/Lucy fiasco. Maybe Jason was onto something when he suggested taking Tai Chi to impress Lucy. I’m going to recommend that he try a few introductory classes.

  It certainly couldn’t hurt.

  Even if he doesn’t win Lucy back.

  5

  YBB INC. EMPLOYEE RULE #3

  Avoid cheesy euphemisms.

  A full-figured, voluptuous red-haired woman is standing in my doorway. It’s early Tuesday afternoon and I’m chewing on a pencil, reading a case file. “Can I help you?” I ask.

  “A man named Craig sent me back here for a free consultation,” she begins. “He said you could help me. I’m having a problem with my”—she pauses—“insignificant other.”

  “You want to tell me about it?” I ask, inviting her to sit down.

  “I don’t even know where to begin!” she cries, flopping on the chair opposite my desk. She brushes back a lock of her curly, red hair. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to fall apart. I’m usually much more composed than this. I’m just so upset over what’s happened!”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I offer, smiling encouragingly. “Coffee? Water?”

  She shakes her head. “No thanks, I just want to get this over with.”

  I study her face. She seems embarrassed, nervous. “Get what over with?”

  She squeezes her eyes shut and blurts, “Dumping the bastard! That’s what you do, right?”

  That’s one way of putting it. “I help people sort out messy relationships,” I clarify, putting down my file and devoting my full attention to her.

  “Then you’re exactly the person I need to see.” She snorts. “Because if things don’t change soon, I’m going to throw myself off a bridge!”

  “Ah, come on. It can’t be that bad.”

  “Worse.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Well, then, we’d better get started right away. I’m Dani, by the way.” I lean across the desk and pass her one of my business cards.

  “I’m Gretchen Monaghan.” She pauses, then stuffs the card into her Kate Spade tote.

  I smile reassuringly and pull out a legal pad and flip to a clean sheet. “I’m going to take a few notes as we go along,” I explain, to prepare her. Sometimes it makes people nervous when I start writing down their responses. I think they feel as though they’re lying back on a couch, confessing all to a shrink. I can understand the feeling. There are definitely some similarities.

  Gretchen settles back in her chair. “Where to begin,” she says. “I know, I’ll tell you about Lester. Stockbroker bastard.”

  I lean forward and write Lester on my legal pad. Underneath it, I jot down stockbroker. “How long have you two been involved?” I ask.

  “We got engaged last Christmas,” she says, and I quickly hold up a hand to stop her.

  “We actually don’t handle marriages or engagements,” I explain.

  Gretchen laughs. “Oh, Lester and I aren’t engaged anymore. We broke up when he checked himself into McLean.”

  I gulp. “McLean—as in the mental institution?” McLean Hospital is legendary in Massachusetts. I
t’s known for having once housed Sylvia Plath and Ray Charles, among others.

  “Mmm-hmm. Don’t worry, he’s not dangerous or anything. In fact,” she bemoans sadly, “Lester was perfect in every way—until he turned out to have borderline personality disorder.”

  I let out a low whistle. “Borderline what?”

  “Take your pick. Borderline jerk. Borderline asshole.” She sighs. “It’s a bunch of psychobabble. What it basically means is that he’s incapable of having a meaningful personal relationship, that he’s chronically unsatisfied. Once he gets something, he no longer wants it. No woman will ever be good enough for him . . . blah, blah, blah.”

  “That sounds like pretty much every guy I’ve ever dated,” I joke.

  For the first time since I met her, Gretchen smiles. “You, too? And I thought I was the only one with a penchant for jerks.”

  I laugh. “Nope, it’s a common problem. Many women today suffer from it.”

  “Well, anyway, after the whole Lester debacle, I’d sworn off men forever. That is, until I met The Big Jackass six months ago. He drew me in right away; I couldn’t resist him.”

  “The Big Jackass?” I repeat.

  She groans. “At first he was a dream come true. Totally devoted, handsome, great personality, great in bed. The total package. Of course, his ‘package’ wasn’t fully operational without Viagra,” she recalls, flexing her fingers. “But considering he’s in his late fifties, I’d say it’s par for the course.”

  “Late fifties!” I exclaim. I don’t know how old Gretchen is, but I’m guessing early thirties.

  As if reading my thoughts, she says, “I’m thirty-five; it didn’t seem like that big a stretch. Besides, I’ve had such bad luck with men my age.”

  “But now I take it things with this older guy aren’t working out too well?”

  “That’s the understatement of the year.”

  “How did you two meet?” I ask.

  “I answered his online personal ad.”

  I nod and jot that down.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” she continues. “I’m a fiery Leo and he’s a hardheaded Capricorn, so we were doomed from the start. But he seemed so sweet, and I really do like older men. . . .”

  We’re getting off track, so I change the subject. “Before we go any further, I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “All right, fire away.”

  I have to make sure that Gretchen understands how Your Big Break Inc. does business, and that she’s willing to abide by our rules. Likewise, I have to find out if I’ll even be able to take on her case. Certain things we just don’t do: marriages, engagements, or anything that feels “unsafe.” A lot of it is guesswork. I have to watch out for volatile personalities, potentially violent situations, and anything that generally seems too risky.

  “Does this guy—”

  “The Big Jackass,” she supplies.

  “Right. Does he have a history of violent behavior?”

  “No.”

  “What about mental instability?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Does he abuse drugs or alcohol?”

  “No.”

  I write down her answers. “Any obsessive tendencies?”

  Gretchen gives me a pointed look. “Are you asking me if he’s a stalker?”

  “I have to be on the lookout for potentially dangerous situations,” I explain.

  “Believe me, The Big Jackass isn’t dangerous. He’s a moron, but he’s harmless.”

  “So you’ve never felt threatened by him in any way?” I prod.

  “Oh, God, no! He’s one of the sweetest, most lovable people I’ve ever known. He was so considerate of my needs; he treated me so well.” Her lower lip trembles. “He always bought me thoughtful presents, took me to romantic movies.”

  I drop my pen and lean forward. “Gretchen, can I be frank?”

  “Please.”

  “Are you certain you want to break up with this guy?”

  She nods vigorously. “One hundred percent.”

  “Because, from the looks of it, you’re still in love with him.”

  “Oh, I love him all right. But I’m done with him.”

  I lean back, setting down my legal pad. “What did he do?”

  “He deceived me.”

  “Deceived you?”

  “He’s a liar,” she says. “All this time I thought he loved me, and he was full of shit.”

  “And you came to this conclusion when?” I ask.

  “When I found out that the jerk has a wife.”

  “So he’s a two-timer.” Now we’re getting somewhere.

  She swallows hard. “I can’t believe I ever trusted him. I mean, I found out he had a wife a few months ago. But he said they were separated; he said he was in the process of divorcing her so he could be with me. And now I find out that they’re still living together as man and wife!”

  “Married men always say they’ll leave their wife. Most never do.”

  “I know, Dani, I know,” Gretchen says, dissolving into tears. “This just feels so . . . it just hurts so much!” she sobs.

  I open my desk drawer and retrieve a small box of Kleenex. “It’s going hurt for a while.” I get up from behind my desk and walk over to her. “But you’ll get over this; you’ll get over him.”

  “I want him out of my life, but I don’t know if I can handle being alone.”

  I place a reassuring hand on her back. “You’ll be fine. You’re a strong, independent woman.”

  “You barely know me!”

  I offer her a tissue. “Hey, you got over that borderline personality creep—that’s no small feat.”

  She smiles and blows her nose in a Kleenex. “Thanks, Dani.”

  “Anytime,” I tell her.

  “So, how will you do it?” Gretchen asks. “How will you dump him?”

  “I’ll call him, preferably at work,” I explain. “Set up a meeting on neutral ground. Break the news to him over coffee.”

  She nods, reaching into her purse for a pack of gum. “How soon?”

  “With any luck, by the end of this week. We try to do things as quickly as possible. Like pulling off a Band-Aid.” I pick up my pad and prepare to write. “Where does he work? Oh, and what’s his name, by the way? I can’t just call and ask for The Big Jackass.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Gretchen laughs. “Though it would serve him right, the asshole.” She pops a piece of gum into her mouth and starts chewing. “His name’s Paul Myers.”

  I sit there for a second, staring at her dumbly.

  “Paul Myers?” I repeat, struggling to keep my voice steady. Maybe I didn’t hear her right. Maybe the gum distorted it.

  “Yes, he works in the financial district. He’s an analyst at Merriwether Payne Investments,” Gretchen says, but I barely hear her because suddenly, my ears, my eyes—my whole body, really—seem to have stopped working properly. I’m slipping, fading fast.

  Paul Myers? Her boyfriend’s name is Paul Myers? And he’s an analyst at Merriwether Payne Investments? She’s got to be kidding. It’s got to be a coincidence. Paul Myers is a fairly common name. There must be forty—fifty?—of them in Boston alone. Right?

  “I’ll give you Paul’s direct line,” she says, reciting the digits, and I don’t write them down, partly because I’m in shock and partly because I don’t have to.

  I already know the number by heart.

  6

  STAGE ONE OF BREAKUP HELL: The Nervous Breakdown

  The jilted man/woman stumbles around blindly, desperately trying to figure out how his or her picture-perfect love affair suddenly turned into a nightmare. Tears are shed. Work is missed. Numerous vices are indulged, including (but not limited to) alcohol, drugs, shopping, and food binges.

  My father is having an affair.

  This is the man who taught me to ride a bicycle, who took me trick-or-treating, who held my head when I was sick. And now he’s diddling a thirty-five-year-old.

>   My life has officially become a cliché.

  I just don’t get it. My dad is not the kind of man who runs around on his wife. That category is reserved for cads like Evan Hirschbaum: players, adulterers, cheaters. The kind of guys who make women collectively roll their eyes and declare, “Men are scum.” My dad isn’t slick or conniving. He has bifocals, a thinning hairline, and a quiet disposition. He likes playing solitaire, cheering on the Bruins, and reading all the latest sports news online.

  Or does he?

  The more I look back, the more I review, the stranger it seems. There were signs. Dad spends an awful lot of time on the computer—he always claims to be on ESPN.com, but God knows what he’s really up to. After all, he met Gretchen through an Internet personal ad. What if there were others before her? What if he has a whole secret online life, where he visits lurid chat rooms, answers Match.com personal ads, and . . .

  Oh, God.

  I’m queasy. I wonder what his ad said? Middle-Aged Man in Search of Redhead. Or Married Bastard Looking to Cheat on Wife. Yeah, that was probably it. Gretchen’s right. He is a big jackass!

  Poor Mom. She hits her mid-fifties, and her husband, being The Big Jackass that he is, trades her in for a younger model. No wonder she’s been acting so stressed-out lately. Deep down, she must realize something’s not right in her marriage.

  I can’t believe I ever loved my father, can’t believe I ever trusted him, thought he was someone good and pure and true when he so obviously was not.

  And now his mistress has hired me to dump him.

  I told her I couldn’t do it, of course. I said I had too many cases, that it sounded complicated, muddled. Not the sort of thing Your Big Break Inc. could get mixed up in. I don’t know if she believed my story or not—she looked completely baffled by my sudden shift in personality. I didn’t stick around to find out her full reaction. I got the hell out of there, told Craig I had a “family emergency” (it was the truth), and took off running down the street. Trouble is, I didn’t have anywhere to run.