Just Jilted Read online

  “How are you?” she asked.

  I burst into tears.

  *

  Thirty minutes later I was in a cab on the way back to my apartment. Our apartment. I was only partially composed after my morning breakdown, but I was determined to get the next grueling step of my breakup over with, which was to remove myself from Relationship Headquarters—Relationship Headquarters being the apartment Marcus and I had shared prior to the breakup.

  I knew that removing myself from Relationship Headquarters was an absolutely essential step to take in order to move on. All of our major relationship moments had taken place there. Fights, make-out sessions, passionate sex, movie nights, romantic dinner nights. It was just a physical reminder of our dead relationship.

  Marcus and I lived in an old railroad building on the edge of Chelsea. I entered the familiar building and trudged up the stairs. As I got closer to the apartment, I had the overwhelming urge to turn and flee. What if Marcus was inside? I certainly wasn’t ready to face him yet.

  When I reached our apartment, I hesitated outside the door. I pressed my ear against the door, listening for any sounds within. The apartment was silent. Taking a breath, I unlocked the door and entered Relationship Headquarters.

  As I entered, I looked around our small one-bedroom apartment. It looked exactly the way it did before everything had fallen apart. There were the funky sculptures we had purchased at a flea market in Chinatown. The African paintings we’d picked up in SoHo. The collection of photographs I had taken of us on various vacations, tacked haphazardly to a bulletin board. I had the strongest urge for everything else to be just the way it was before the “wedding” and the ultimately purposeless engagement.

  I couldn’t help but look at the photographs, all of which reflected snapshots of our happiness: Marcus and me at our favorite bar. Marcus and me in the back of a taxi, engaged in a passionate lip-lock. Marcus and me listening to an orchestra play classical music in Central Park. I carefully studied our faces in each photo. We looked so happy. Back before the engagement made things so complicated. When Marcus and I were just two people in love, not two people with titles. Fiancé and fiancée. Husband and wife. Mr. and Mrs. Whatever. Just Marcus and Adrian.

  Marcus emerged from the bedroom, clutching two suitcases, bringing my reverie to a screeching halt. He froze when he saw me standing in the doorway. I looked back at him, just as frozen. He was of course the same Marcus I knew and loved. Tall and awkwardly lanky, with dark curly hair and hazel eyes. But at that moment, he might as well have been a stranger. For nearly a full minute we stood there, staring at each other in shell-shocked silence, as if we were two strangers as opposed to two lovers who had spent years together. The almost-married couple.

  After another uncomfortable thirty seconds, Marcus spoke.

  “I was just leaving. I put in my thirty-day notice already. I’ll be clearing out most of my things during the week.”

  At his words, I managed to emerge from my mild shock and proceeded to give him a piece of my mind. I curtly told Marcus that he could do whatever he wanted, as long as I didn’t have to be in his presence. Marcus had the gall to look hurt—after what he’d pulled!—and insisted that what he’d done was best for the both of us in the long run.

  That really set me off. He was trying to justify jilting me at the altar, and I was not going to let him assuage his guilty conscience.

  “That’s crap, Marcus! If you had any doubts, you could have just talked to me. Not wait an hour—no, fifteen minutes—before we’re supposed to get married to casually say, ‘Hey, woman who I proposed to, who I’m supposedly in love with, guess what? I don’t want to marry you anymore. Guess I just changed my mind all of a sudden. Nice wedding dress, by the way. Nice three-thousand-dollar wedding dress!’”

  “You’re leaving out an important part, Adrian. No, you’re leaving out two very important parts to all this!”

  “Really? What? What am I leaving out?”

  “First of all, I do love you. You know I always will. I never said that was the reason I couldn’t marry you.”

  “Oh, please!”

  “Secondly, you didn’t want to marry me! Remember what I asked you? And you couldn’t answer my question.”

  “I couldn’t answer a question. That makes sense. It’s my fault because of an unanswered question. Don’t try to turn this around on me just to make yourself feel better for what you did to me!”

  “What I did to you? Listen to yourself. You can never take responsibility for what you—” Marcus snapped, stopping himself in midsentence as he turned away from me in frustration.

  “I can’t take responsibility? I made a promise, and I was going to keep it! Unlike you!” I shouted.

  “You’re not listening! You know what? I’m not going to do this. We’re just repeating ourselves. I keep trying to explain, but you don’t want to listen. Not here, or back at the church the other day. You don’t want to listen to me or to yourself!” Marcus barked.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  But Marcus moved past me, yanking open the door and heading down the landing. I followed him, blinded by fury.

  “Don’t want to listen to myself? That doesn’t even make any sense!”

  “I’m done, Adrian,” Marcus said with resignation, struggling down the stairs with his suitcases.

  “I know you’re done! You made that clear yesterday. And I don’t want this anymore!” I shouted, yanking off my engagement ring and dashing toward Marcus, aiming for his neck as he clamored down the stairs.

  I knew the act of throwing the ring at the man was a huge cliché, but I was furious. My aim was usually terrible, but anger must have been a great motivator, because the ring hit Marcus squarely in the neck.

  “Ow!” Marcus shouted just as he reached the bottom of the landing. He managed to catch the ring as it bounced off his neck, stuffing it into his pocket.

  “And I don’t want the stupid apartment!”

  “Do whatever you want, Adrian,” Marcus growled, heading out of the building.

  “I will!” I screamed, but Marcus was already out the door.

  I headed back to our apartment, slamming the door behind me. I slumped against the door, fighting back angry tears. Post-breakup fights were pointless, I noted grimly. As if we didn’t succeed in hurting each other enough the first time around. It was like ripping a Band-Aid off a healing wound and picking at it with a razor blade.

  After I calmed down a bit, I tried to pack with as clear a head as possible, even though Marcus’s words rang in my ears. Didn’t want to get married? Would I have been in that wedding dress if I hadn’t wanted to get married? He must have really wanted to clear his conscience by trying to convince himself of that. What a jerk.

  I took a break a half hour later, flopping down onto our couch. I stared at another picture of Marcus and me on the side table in which our arms were wrapped around each other as we gazed deeply into each other’s eyes. Gag me.

  I grabbed the photo and threw it across the room, watching it shatter against the far wall with morbid satisfaction. I looked around the room, eager to find more photos to destroy. The gentle trilling of my cell phone interrupted me. I answered, only to be greeted by my mother’s screeching voice.

  “Do you know what people are asking me?” my mother demanded without even bothering to say hello.

  “Mom, can you please lower your voice?” I asked, rubbing my ear.

  “‘What type of meds is she on?’ Meds, Adrian! People think you are insane!” Mom shouted.

  “Mom, come on.”

  “My phone has been ringing off the hook for the past forty-eight hours! Did you know that your aunt Francine hasn’t been on a plane since 1975? She flew all the way from Wisconsin to see her favorite niece.”

  “I’m her only niece.”

  “I cannot believe you ran from the church like a crazy person.”

  “Marcus broke it off, Mom.”

  There was a stunned
silence on the other end of the line.

  “Oh, sweetheart. What did you do?”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Yes, you did. Hanging up.”

  “Will you at least meet me for dinner? I’m not in the city that often. And there are some wedding details we need to go over.”

  “Fine, fine. Can I invite Dad?”

  “I don’t keep your father’s schedule. He may have something planned with that new chippy of his.”

  “Chippy? That’s not even a word. And I’ve met her. She’s nice.”

  “Oh, really? And how often have you seen her?”

  “Mom, I don’t have time for this. Jilted at the altar, remember?”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. If I see Marcus, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. Let’s do dinner tonight. How about that Thai restaurant on University? See you soon.”

  “Mom—” I began, but she had already hung up.

  I glared at my cell phone. Mom had tricked me into going to dinner with her to discuss a wedding that I was trying not to think about. I sighed, grabbing some more of my clothes from the closet, and I got the hell out of Relationship Headquarters.

  *

  “Luckily we were able to get a refund from the caterers. The florists were surprisingly stingy. They only gave us back half of the deposit. I asked them what they needed so much money for,” Mom chirped, digging into her salad.

  It was later that day, and I was seated at a table in Thai Village Restaurant with my (thankfully) divorced parents and my father’s new girlfriend, Janet. Mom had managed to dominate the conversation with painful, excruciating details of my “wedding,” all the while ignoring Dad and Janet, both of whom seemed to feel my pain. My parents had been divorced for five years and they were hardly friendly exes, but neither parent lived in the city (Dad in New Jersey, Mom in Westchester just north of the city), and everyone had such a discordant schedule that this was the only time slot open for everyone. And so here we were.

  “Did you contact the hotel in Greece? And what about your plane tickets?” Mom continued.

  “The airline’s given me a free round-trip ticket for any domestic or international flight in exchange for the canceled tickets,” I muttered, pretending to enjoy my lemongrass chicken. “And the hotel didn’t charge us—I already canceled the reservation. But I really want to thank you for reminding me that I’m supposed to be in Greece on my honeymoon right now. I appreciate it. Gosh, this chicken is great.”

  I hoped my biting sarcasm would be sufficient enough to bring Mom’s painful dredging up of all things wedding related to a halt. She had always hated my sarcasm, calling it “mean-spirited,” but it was something that had worked since my teen years in getting her to stop lecturing me about certain topics (i.e., premarital sex, my first boyfriend’s nickname of Bruiser, what I should do with my life, the length of my skirts, number of credit cards I acquired, et cetera).

  “I’m sorry,” Mom replied, not sounding apologetic at all. “But as painful as all this is, we need to make sure that all the details are ironed out. I mean, there was no ceremony. So most of the reception costs can be refunded.”

  “There was no ceremony? Really? Oh, right. I was hiding out in a Macy’s bathroom trying not to cry my eyes out.”

  “Adrian, sweetheart. The sooner we get everything cleared up, the sooner we never have to talk about any of this again. Now, do you know what you’re going to with your dress?”

  “Enough, Marilyn,” Dad said, noticing my miserable expression. “I’m sure Adrian has enough to deal with as it is.”

  I gave Dad a grateful look. But Mom tensed as she noticed our silent exchange, pursing her lips.

  “I repeat: sooner or later someone has to make sure that everything is taken care of,” she said.

  “I already talked to Marcus about most of the wedding details that were still up in the air,” Dad said, waving the waiter over.

  “You what? You talked—I can’t—what—you only—” I sputtered, glaring at my previously sainted father in horror. Janet, clearly uncomfortable and stuck in the middle, gave me a sympathetic look.

  Dad was infuriatingly calm as he asked the waiter for the check. Mom, I noticed, looked pleased. This was her checkmate in the subtle lifelong battle of which parent the child favors more.

  “He called me after you left the church yesterday. He explained that what happened was his fault. He’ll reimburse us whatever is necessary. That was that.”

  “Did he go into detail?” I asked, my shock turning into mortification. Dad and Marcus had always been close, and the thought of them having a heart-to-heart …

  “No. And I wouldn’t let him if he tried. Whatever happened between you two is just that: between you two.”

  “Oh. Whew,” I said, feeling a small sense of relief.

  “I hope you at least gave him a piece of your mind,” Mom sniffed. “What Marcus did to Adrian was awful.”

  “Again,” Dad rejoined, and I recognized his tone. A tone I heard repeatedly growing up, a tone that always preceded one of my parents’ landmark fights. “What happened between Marcus and Adrian is between them. It’s not my place, or yours, to intervene.”

  “You’re her father, Robert. The least you could have done is call him out for what he did to her.”

  “The least I could have done? At least I’m not torturing my daughter over minute details of a wedding that never happened.”

  “Dad, it’s all right.”

  “I wasn’t trying to torture her. I just wanted to clear up all the details. I was being practical. You’re just trying to make me look like the bad guy.”

  “Again, you’re making this all about you.”

  “Mom. Dad. Will you please stop?” I tried to interject, shooting Janet an apologetic look. I could see that she was getting a taste of how I felt growing up with these two constantly at each other’s throats.

  “I just wanted to have a nice dinner with my daughter, whom I haven’t seen in ages—not to see you with your little girlfriend.”

  “Mom, please.”

  “Don’t you talk about Janet that way.”

  “Robert. It’s fine. It’s OK,” Janet whispered, looking just as mortified as I felt.

  “No, it’s not. I’ve been able to move on with my life, Marilyn, but you clearly cannot,” Dad shouted.

  “Blawarcapadac!” I bellowed.

  Mom and Dad turned to look at me with concern.

  “Adrian, are you all right?” Mom asked.

  “No, I’m not. I wanted to see both of you, but obviously you can’t be in the same vicinity without screaming at each other. I’ve had a really rough couple of days, and you two are hardly making it any easier.”

  They both had the decency to look shamefaced. But I was fed up. I threw my napkin down, getting to my feet.

  “Adrian,” Mom began, sounding genuinely apologetic this time, but I shook my head.

  “I just need some peace. And I’m obviously not going to get that by being around you two,” I said, grabbing my jacket and turning to head out of the restaurant.

  I concluded that having dinner with my bitterly divorced parents and my father’s new girlfriend hadn’t been a good idea. But I knew this situation was minor compared to what I would have to face next: putting on a brave face for the rest of the world after being jilted at the altar.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Putting On a Brave Face

  I knew that putting on a brave face was definitely one of the most important things I needed to do post jilting. It was giving myself a kick in the shins (physically difficult but speaking metaphorically, here) and forcing myself to face everyone who knew any details of my relationship or jilting. It was being prepared to airily discuss what happened with a casual wave of my hand while moving on to much more interesting topics, like the weather or how adorable my new shoes were. It was putting on a cheerful smile and laughing away my heartbreak—my
bleeding knife wound—as if it were merely a scratch. It was essentially lying.

  Because even after my mourning period, the gaping wound from the breakup was still bleeding. And by putting on a brave face and acting as if the pain was of little significance? It was the equivalent of putting a Band-Aid on a wound that needed a tourniquet. But I knew it would be worth it in the end. The sooner I put on a brave face and acted like everything was hunky-dory, the sooner it would be true. The phrase “fake it till you make it” applied in this situation.

  This is what I told myself as I prepared for work early Monday morning. I was a journalist who worked as a features writer for a magazine called New York Woman. Several of my coworkers had been in attendance at my “wedding,” so they were all aware of what happened. I was certain that the whole office knew by now. And I was going to be prepared, damn it.

  I got a little more dressed up than usual that morning. I was going to look extra, extra, extra fabulous. My outfit, hair, and makeup would say, “I’m fine. Marcus who? Don’t you love my new handbag?”

  I stepped back from the mirror. I was wearing a dark-gray dress suit and brand-new black pumps with heels high enough to be considered borderline stilettos. I had carefully straightened my long black hair and wore a matte dark-rouge eye shadow that brought out my brown eyes. I had even worn a bright-red shade of lipstick that enhanced my mouth. Pleased, I stepped out of the bathroom and headed to work. Determined to put on a brave face.

  *

  “Adrian. If you need time … any time at all, I’ll understand. In fact, maybe you should take some time off. You never use any of your vacation days,” Jean, my editor and my boss, murmured as he sat across from me, his hands clasping mine.

  I had come in to work a little early, my “I’m fine” smile plastered on my face. No sooner had I settled in at my desk than I looked up to find Jean’s worried face. Jean had hired me, and we got along pretty well, even venturing out for the occasional drink or four outside of the office. Other than Liz, he’d been an important consult of mine for my wedding dress and the color scheme of the wedding. So of course he had been at the “wedding.” But I was prepared for him. Or so I thought.