The morning of breakfast, Materfamilias’s driver picked us up in her long black Mercedes. Her fur coat was so thick that it was hard to see her head underneath all the mink. She shook my hand and offered a slight smile. After we ordered, we talked about Barbara Kingsolver novels and ordered the same entrée: egg-white frittata with farm vegetables and goat cheese. She kept the mink draped on her shoulders, but her smile widened, and she laughed at my jokes.
Later, Brandon reported that his mother enjoyed my “lively company.” I assumed that the next step would be meeting his younger brother, who lived in London full-time, and then he could meet my parents when they visited in the spring. In every vision of my future, I Photoshopped Brandon into the frame. Just out of the frame, I could feel my group members and Dr. Rosen cheering me on, even though no one could see them but me.
36
Brandon stopped kissing me on the lips. When I asked him about it, he said that my breath turned him off, even after I brushed, flossed, and rinsed with mouthwash. Hurt, I brushed harder, swilled more mouthwash. Still no kisses.
Then he started working longer hours. He booked meetings out of town and declined my offer to drive him to O’Hare. We still had sex about once a week, and my face always met the pillow. One hundred percent flipping. And every single time, my voice failed—it sat quivering and useless on the pillow next to my head. At work, I’d imagine rearing up and saying something—anything—the next time he flipped me. Or bringing it up in the car, over dinner, in a text. I’d promise myself I wouldn’t sleep with him if I couldn’t discuss how we were having sex. But in his bedroom, on his fancy white sheets, I couldn’t utter a single syllable.
In group, I stayed silent too. I wanted so badly to spill my guts and ask for feedback. It had been so long since I’d filled them in that I could no longer imagine what advice they’d give me. Would they tell me to ask for kisses on the mouth? To discuss how the flipping made me feel? To accept him exactly as he was? To let go altogether? It terrified me that my connection to my group members and their voices was dissolving into memory.
Sunday mornings with Brandon still felt normal. We still slept in, read the New York Times, and went to the gym. For those few hours, passing the paper or high-fiving after a run on the track, I trusted that the relationship was stronger than whatever was going on with Brandon’s work. Real relationships had ups and downs. I’d heard that from everyone. Our hearts might not perfectly match, but surely there were enough grooves to attach.
On a Sunday in early February, we ran into Brandon’s college friend Bill in front of the gym. The three of us stood in the parking lot, bouncing to keep warm as fat chunks of snow fell from a cashmere-gray sky. I listened as Brandon and Bill talked about mutual friends, orthopedics, and the Dow Jones.
“How’s Marcie doing?” Bill asked Brandon. I’d met Marcie—one of their mutual college friends—in the fall when she was in Chicago to meet buyers of her exclusive line of high-end eyeglass frames. I’d been envious of her long curly hair, her killer leather jacket, and her funky-framed glasses. Next to her New York chic, I felt like a midwestern lump of dough.
“I’ll see her in two weeks,” Brandon said. News to me.
“In New York?” Bill asked.
“Actually, Cancún.”
If my life was a movie, I would have spit out my food or spewed a mouthful of soda all over someone’s face. My boyfriend of ten months had just casually announced his upcoming vacation with another woman in another country. I must have misheard. Brandon didn’t notice my shock. A few minutes later, Bill touched my shoulder, said good-bye, and walked away. Brandon walked toward the gym. I didn’t move. After a few steps, he turned to ask me what was wrong.
“Are you serious?” My voice sounded low and powerful. I spoke from my deepest place.
“About what?”
“You’re joking, right?” I turned and walked toward my car. I was done.
By the time I opened the driver’s-side door, he’d caught up to me. In the car, I looked straight ahead as I put the key in the ignition and turned on the heat full blast. I cupped my hands over my mouth and breathed warm air into them. A random CD was in the player, and I cranked the volume all the way up. He slid into the passenger’s seat and turned down the volume.
“Christie.”
I turned the volume back up. He punched the power off and held my hand away.
“Why are you so upset?”
“Please get out.” He didn’t move. For once I wasn’t hysterical, even though I knew by sundown I would be single. “Don’t play dumb. It’s a bad look. Also, Cancún is where Texas high schoolers go to puke for spring break—”
“She has a meeting and asked me to come—”
“Tell me what’s going on or get out of my car.” He sighed heavily, which made me want to punch his face. It was all such a burden for poor Brandon.
Then he said things like “You should be with someone who wants to be with you,” and “You deserve better.”
“If you want to break up, do it like an adult.”
“I’m telling you that you deserve someone who wants to
