Your Big Break

  Plus, Erin’s thirty-five dollars won’t allow me to put together a stellar Breakup Recovery Kit. In fact, for thirty-five dollars I could barely put together a lame Breakup Recovery Kit. I could spend a little of my own money, maybe throw in a mix CD, some humorous magazine clippings. I brainstorm for a few minutes and come up with a few other cheap options: a journal for his poetry, a handmade sympathy card, some Blockbuster gift certificates that Sean can get me at a discount, a giant-sized bottle of hand sanitizer to “wash away the germs of your old relationship.” I laugh at that last one. Is it too tacky? Nah, I decide to go for it. I’ll pick up the items for Brady’s Breakup Recovery Kit this weekend. I want to make it extra special. Brady’s been through a lot lately. I want to do whatever I can to help him heal.

  By far, the hardest thing to accomplish will be finding Brady a rebound girl.

  I’ll have to give it some serious thought. He needs someone sensitive, someone understanding, someone who’s been through a terrible breakup herself, like my breakup with Garrett. For a brief moment, I debate taking him out myself, but I quickly push the thought out of my head. It’s not like I could go do it. That’s totally against company policy.

  In the meantime, I might as well work on my other project: reuniting Jason Dutwiler with his ex-girlfriend, Lucy Dooley. Talk about a pair of bad last names. I scrawl Lucy Dooley-Dutwiler on a piece of scrap paper. Yikes. No wonder she wants out.

  I’ve been putting this off long enough. I look up Lucy’s phone number on my computer and then pick up the phone and give her a call.

  “Dooley residence,” a voice says.

  “Hi, is Lucy available?”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “This is Danielle from Your Big Break.”

  “Oh. My. God! Hold please.” I hear the phone drop, followed by shouts of, “A lady wants to give you your big break!”

  “Hello?” Lucy answers, breathless. “Who is this?”

  “Danielle from Your Big Break,” I say, wishing whoever answered the phone would have just given her a straight message.

  “Oh. I thought you were a talent scout,” she explains. “I sent out a batch of headshots yesterday. Mom thinks the offers are going to start pouring in.”

  “That was your mom who answered?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You live with your parents?”

  “I do.”

  I glance down at Lucy’s file, which says she’s thirty-one. Thirty-one years old and she still lives at home? Maybe I ought to fix her up with Sean? No, she’s probably still seeing the acupuncturist, Nate.

  “Are you calling about the stuff?” Lucy asks.

  “What stuff?”

  “The DVDs and clothes I left at Jason’s place. You said you could pick them up for me.”

  “Oh, that stuff.” Crap, crap, crap! I’m really slipping! I should have gotten Lucy’s things back a week ago. I’ve been so preoccupied that I completely forgot. “Jason’s still getting them together. I’ll have them in another day or two,” I lie. “I’m actually calling about a wedding.”

  “Who’s getting married?”

  “Jason’s brother—”

  “Forget it.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”

  “Let me guess.” She sighs. “Jason wants me to go to his brother’s wedding with him, right?”

  How did she know that? “How did you know that?”

  “Because Jason is obsessed with that damn wedding. He’s been talking about it for the past year. He and his brother have this horrible sibling-rivalry thing going.”

  “It would really mean a lot to him if you were there,” I hint.

  “Not a chance.”

  “Not even a tiny chance?”

  “Danielle, I wasn’t even planning to attend that wedding when we were dating. I hate weddings. Jason knows that. Weddings are oppressive and fake.”

  I always figured the only people who disliked weddings were those of us with a genuine fear of growing old alone. Lucy strikes me as one of those girls who’s never been sans boyfriend for more than five minutes. “There’s nothing I can say to convince you to go?”

  “Nothing. Nate wouldn’t be too happy if I went.”

  “Jason could really use another time seeing you to get over the relationship,” I say, giving it one last-ditch effort. “He’s taking this breakup pretty hard.”

  “All the more reason to say no. If I go, I’ll be giving him false hope.”

  I see her point. I can also see she’s not going to budge. “I understand.”

  “Give me a call when you get the stuff,” Lucy says.

  “I will,” I promise. “Take care.”

  I hang up the phone. Looks like I’m going to have to do the job I was hired to do in the first place. I pick up the receiver to call Jason Dutwiler.

  I’ll arrange a time to get Lucy’s things.

  And I’ll let him know that things are definitely, one hundred percent over.

  12

  You Weren’t This Fat When We Started Dating

  I haven’t seen or talked to my father since I met Gretchen four days ago.

  Tonight’s my mother’s fifty-fifth birthday. We’re celebrating by having dinner at my parents’ house. This has been planned for a long time. I don’t know how I’ll face him, how I’ll hug him hello, sit beside him and eat pasta. Can I talk to him without screaming or hitting him? Can I look at my mother without bursting into tears?

  I arrive at five o’clock to find Father seated in the den, wrapping the Anne Klein shirt I helped him pick out during our shopping trip. It’s telling that he waited so long to wrap it. It’s obvious Mom isn’t a priority in his life.

  “Hey, honey!” he mumbles, struggling to get the paper even.

  Honey. Is that his pet name for Gretchen, too? That would be really sickening.

  Father tapes the paper and then shifts the box from his lap to the coffee table. “I hope you’ve come ready to eat, because we’ve got enough food to feed an army! I don’t know how the four of us are going to manage.”

  We could invite your mistress. That’d give us one more mouth to feed.

  “My appetite’s fine,” I say crisply, sailing past him into the kitchen. I set my gift bag for Mom down on the counter and reach into the refrigerator for a drink. I fix myself a Coke with ice and sit down on one of the stools. I take a few deep breaths and try to steady my nerves. My heart’s racing and I feel shaky. Seeing my father was worse than I’d anticipated. I take a few sips of Coke and try to relax.

  “Boo!” Sean says, sneaking up behind me.

  I jump a mile, spilling half of my drink onto the countertop. I quickly grab the gift bag before the dark, fizzy liquid reaches it. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” I whisper hoarsely, grabbing a few paper towels and wiping up the mess.

  “Well, excuse me,” Sean says, picking up the soiled paper towels and depositing them in the trash. “How was I supposed to know you’d be so jumpy?”

  “Of course I’m jumpy! Aren’t you?”

  “No, why would I be?”

  I grab Sean’s arm and pull him closer. “How can you look at that jerk without feeling sick to your stomach?”

  “I’ve been looking at Dad for several days now, keeping an eye out for weird behavior.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing.” Sean sits down on a stool next to me. “Everything’s copacetic.”

  “You’re sure? I’ve been so worried I’d slip up in front of Mom tonight,” I admit.

  “There’s nothing to slip up about. Everything’s fine.”

  “Slip up about what in front of Mom?” my mother asks, strolling into the room.

  I freeze. How much did she hear? What does she know?

  “Your birthday present,” Sean covers. “We got you something really special this year.”

  We did? I got Mom a pair of earrings. They’re nice, but nothing that would require advance plotting and planning. I hope Sea
n’s got a killer present I can go in on.

  Mom grins. “I’ll look forward to opening it after dinner.”

  “Oh, you can’t open it tonight,” Sean says, frantically looking at me for help.

  “We ordered it from a specialty shop online. But it’s on back order,” I manage. My job has made me a pro in tight spots.

  “Oh, I see.” Mom seems nonplussed.

  Why didn’t we think to order Mom some terrific gift? I could kick myself. It might have helped ease the pain of Evil Cheating Bastard Father’s affair. If he’s having one . . .

  Half an hour later, we sit down to eat.

  The meal’s good: rigatoni pasta with meat sauce; garlic bread; tomato and buffalo mozzarella with olive oil. We wash it down with merlot. The conversation is shockingly normal. My parents banter back and forth. Father tells funny stories about the Bruins game last night. Sean recounts the latest episode of CSI. Mom says after tonight, she’ll be cutting desserts from her diet.

  I freeze. “Since when are you concerned about your weight?” I ask, helping myself to a bite of tiramisu.

  “I’m getting older, Dani,” Mom says, picking at her dessert. “My metabolism’s not what it used to be.”

  Father nods in agreement. I want to slug him. Where does he get off insulting Mom’s weight?

  “Yeah, but your body is perfect,” I say. “What are you, a size two?”

  “I just want to look the best I can,” Mom says. “And let’s leave it at that.”

  Let’s leave it at that? My God, she knows! Maybe not about Gretchen, but she senses something’s wrong. She knows Father’s unhappy and she’s desperate to win him back. I shoot Sean a pointed glance. “See?” I mouth. “She’s doing this for Dad!”

  Sean rolls his eyes. “So what?” he mouths back.

  “They’re falling apart!” I hiss under my breath.

  Father leans forward. “Is something wrong, Dani?”

  I shake my head.

  “Beth and I were thinking,” Father begins, “that maybe it’s time to retire the old Thursday dinners.”

  I gasp. “We can’t!”

  “Sounds good to me,” Sean says. “I hate missing Survivor and CSI.”

  “Who cares about stupid TV shows,” I gripe. “Family should come first. Right, Mom?”

  I’m expecting her to back me up. After all, just the other day, she was talking about how we never spend any time together. But Mom surprises me.

  “We can still be together as a family,” she says. “Even if we don’t have dinner every other Thursday night. You and I are going to have a girls’ night soon, remember?”

  I nod solemnly, and Sean leans over and pats me on the arm. He smiles confidently as if everything is perfectly fine.

  13

  STAGE TWO OF BREAKUP HELL: Sour Grapes

  During this stage, many cracks are made about the former partner’s appearance, sexual prowess (or lack thereof), and endless array of personality flaws. The dumpee cuts up photos of the not-so-dearly departed, burns relationship mementos, and trashes their ex-lover’s reputation to anyone who’ll listen.

  “Asshole!”

  I have just been awoken from a sound sleep by my ringing phone. It is 2:13 a.m., and I’m staring at the receiver—someone has just called me an asshole. A prank call at 2:13 in the morning? I’m about to hang up when I hear, “Dani, are you there?”

  Dani. Okay, it’s probably a disgruntled client who has somehow found out my home phone number. Which is kind of scary, considering I always follow rule #2 and never give out my last name. Oh, God, I’ve got a nut on my hands.

  “Who the hell is this?” I demand, trying to sound forceful, menacing. If they think they’re going to intimidate me, they’ve got another thing coming.

  “It’s me!”

  That doesn’t narrow it down much. “Excuse me?” I struggle to locate the lamp switch so I can flip it on and read the caller ID display. “Who is this?”

  “Your brother! Dani, what’s wrong with you?”

  I rub the sleep out of my eyes. “Sean?”

  “Yes, it’s Sean! What other brother would it be?” He lets out a low whistle. “Wait, don’t answer that. If Dad’s illegitimate son came in to work today, I don’t wanna know.”

  I’m wide awake. “What’s up, Sean?”

  “He’s an asshole!”

  “Who’s an asshole?”

  “Dad!”

  I sit straight up in bed. “Did you find out Father is . . .” I can’t quite bring myself to say the words having an affair.

  There’s a long silence on the other end of the line, and for a moment, I think Sean’s hung up. “Yes. It’s exactly what you thought. He’s with her. Gretchen.”

  This isn’t the response I wanted. “Are you sure?” I choke out.

  “Dad has a girlfriend. Worse than that, he may have more than one. I found Match.com log-in info and a bunch of e-mails on his computer. I’ve been going through them for the last two hours. The e-mails date back almost six months.”

  This is the part of the conversation when I’m supposed to say, “I told you so.” But I don’t feel like gloating. I’m too stunned to even breathe. “How bad is it?” I finally ask in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “Pretty bad. If this were CSI, we’d have enough evidence to convict.”

  My brother can act so over the top sometimes. “Convict him of what?”

  “Adultery! There were tons of saved e-mails from Gretchen. Romantic and sexual in nature.”

  My father is a cybersex-obsessed pervert. “Son of a bitch!”

  “I prefer asshole. Has more sting.”

  My heart’s racing, my palms are sweating, and I’m dangerously close to passing out. “He just left them in a folder on the desktop? Right where Mom could easily find them?” I shout. I imagine poor Mom hopping online to look up a recipe and stumbling upon Dad’s torrid love letters to another woman.

  “Relax! The folder was password protected. I had to hack in.”

  “You know how to hack in to computers?” I ask, astonished. I knew my brother was a video-game aficionado. I didn’t realize he was a hacker, too.

  “I do now. I found a hacking guide online and I taught myself. Gotta love the Internet. You’d be amazed how easy it is. Once I got in, I found a virtual treasure trove, an orgy of evidence against Dad.”

  “Please don’t use the word orgy in this context.” I massage my temples, trying to make the image disappear.

  “Sorry, I heard it on TV the other night. Anyway, Dad’s folder was full of responses from personal ads. He’s been placing them on websites for months now. He even frequents one chat room called Married, But Looking.”

  “Married, But Looking?” I say indignantly. “There’s actually a chat room called Married, But Looking?”

  “Yep. And worse,” Sean says wryly. “Old Stallions for Young Fillies was another popular chat room.”

  “I think I’m gonna puke.”

  “It’s pretty sick, isn’t it?” Sean says. He lets out a harsh laugh. “I bet Gretchen isn’t the first. I bet it’s been going on for a long time.”

  “Ever since we moved to Massachusetts?” I swallow hard, trying to squelch the sour taste rising up my throat.

  “Screw that! I bet this stretches back to New Orleans. Remember how Dad was always claiming to work late? I bet he was hitting up all those nudie bars on Bourbon Street.”

  A disturbing image pops into my mind: I see my father, cruising down Bourbon Street with a beer in one hand, Mardi Gras beads in the other. Every time a pert young girl passes by, he tosses them out in exchange for a little T&A action. It’s like he’s smack-dab in the middle of a Girls Gone Wild video. I sink back against my pillow, feeling the horror of it wash over me.

  “Dani? Dani?”

  I get the feeling Sean’s been calling my name for a while. “Yeah?”

  “You haven’t even heard the worst part!”

  I snuggle down against the mattress, praying
it will swallow me whole. “It gets worse?”

  “Much.”

  I don’t know how much more I can handle. “I’d better go, Sean. I’ve got an early day tomorrow—”

  “But I haven’t even told you about the pictures!”

  “Pictures?”

  “I’m e-mailing them to you as we speak.”

  “What?” I shriek. “No! I don’t want to see any pictures.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes! I’m absolutely positive. I have no interest in looking at photos of nude girls, thank you very much,” I say indignantly. What’s wrong with Sean? Why the hell would he think I’d want to look at porn?

  “There’s no nudes. Don’t you want to see what Gretchen looks like?” Sean prods.

  “I’ve already seen her, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. What am I thinking? Okay, I won’t send you any photos. But I was pretty surprised when I saw her. Gretchen’s an okay-looking woman.”

  “She has a big butt,” I snap.

  “Some men are into big butts.” He launches into a quick verse of the Sir Mix-a-Lot song, “Baby Got Back.” When I don’t laugh, he adds, “I’m sorry, Dani. I’m trying to lighten the mood. This is all really depressing. I feel sick to my stomach right now. Imagine how Mom will feel when she finds out.”

  “Have you told her anything?” I ask.

  “No. I’m going to dig through the rest of Dad’s files, see what else I can find out. Once we’ve got all the available evidence, then we’ll go to Mom.”

  “If you say so.” I’m shaking. Part of me wants to stop right here, forget about what I already know.

  “You have work tomorrow,” Sean says. “I’ll let you go to bed.”

  There’s no way in hell I’ll fall back asleep. But I’m grateful to get off the phone nonetheless. I’m too numb to listen to him anymore. As soon as we hang up, I feel desperately alone. I take a few deep breaths and, with shaking legs, climb out of bed.

  I stare around my bedroom, trying to figure out what to do. My head is spinning; my heart is beating rapidly in my chest. So many things in my room remind me of my parents: the desk they bought me as high-school graduation present; the afghan throw my mother made me; the pair of amethyst earrings my parents gave me last Christmas.