Jack With a Twist

walk down the aisle, every inch and fiber of the man I’m going to marry. I thought I did. But, I just don’t anymore.

I look down at the table and grab at the paper napkin under my mug. I tear it into two, and then four.

“Why do you do that?” my mother asks, finally laying off my father for a moment and directing her energy at me.

I shrug in response since I have no idea what she’s talking about. I tear the paper napkin into eight.

“That thing with your hands,” she says. “Whenever you get nervous or upset, you grab at the closest paper product and just begin to tear it into pieces. Why do you do that?”

“It’s just a bad habit, I guess,” I say. “It’s just like when you start picking at your fingernails or when Dad’s face gets beet-red. Just something I do.”

“You do tend to do that when you get nervous, don’t you?” my mother says.

“Do what?” I ask.

“Tear things apart.”

24

“Usually when you break up with someone, you move in with me,” Vanessa says. We’re on the fifth floor of Saks, searching for suitable “date” clothing (read: slutty) for Vanessa. “Should I be offended?”

“I seem to recall that when I stay with you,” I say, picking up a Nanette Lepore camisole for Vanessa to try on, “I have to train for the New York City marathon with you, and I really think that at this point, I’ve been through enough torture.”

“It’s good for you,” Vanessa says, grabbing every Marc Jacobs camisole in her size, and piling it onto her arms, “running helps clear your head.”

A salesperson comes by and asks us if we want to start a dressing room. We pile the clothes into her arms, and then get started on the Cynthia Steffe collection.

“I broke my ankle last time I went running with you,” I remind Vanessa.

“It was just a sprain,” she says, barely looking up from the green sundress she’s checking the price on.

“I’m not running with you,” I say loudly over the racks to her, being sure to mouth the words clearly, so that there’s no confusion, even though she’s not even looking at me.

“Well, you have to get out of your parents’ house,” she says, turning back to face me. “If you want, you can move in with me and I won’t make you run.”

“I think I’ll just stay where I am,” I say, as we head back to the dressing rooms. “I’m kind of liking staying with my parents, actually.”

“Even with Mimi?” Vanessa says, turning to me and raising an eyebrow.

“Even with Mimi,” I say, surprising myself as I say it. Normally there’s a threshold on the amount of time I can actually spend with my mother, but this past week, she’s been uncharacteristically well-behaved.

“Suit yourself,” Vanessa says, walking into a fitting room. Then, as she shuts the door: “So, I’m dating this new man.”

“What?” I say, trying to open the dressing room door, but Vanessa’s got it locked already. So I say into the door: “Tell me all about him! Wait, this isn’t the guy who was so short that he only came up to your boobs?”

Vanessa opens the dressing room door and comes out in a Theory wrap dress that fits her slender figure perfectly. She does a quick spin in the three-way mirror and casually says: “No, it’s not boob-level guy. It’s another guy.”

“Not the one who told you that it was unconscionable to wear such expensive shoes when children are starving to death in Africa?”

“No, not him, either,” Vanessa says, looking down at her Chanel four-inch-heel spectator pumps without realizing it. “It’s another guy. But, I think that maybe this one I’ll keep to myself.”

I furrow my brow. “We don’t keep anything to ourselves,” I remind Vanessa.

“True,” she says, “but, just this once, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, trying to conceal the fact that she’s piqued my interest. I’ll have to take her for high tea at the Saks restaurant next. Their scones would make anyone spill their guts.

“Thanks for that,” she says, as she retreats to her fitting room. “I really appreciate it. So, have you spoken to Jack yet?”

“No,” I say, “Why would I talk to Jack? There’s really nothing to talk about.”

“Of course there is,” Vanessa says, walking out of the fitting room in a Nanette Lepore top that is so low-cut, her navel practically shows. “There’s tons to talk about.”

“Only buy that top if you are planning to give this new man of yours a coronary,” I say, as Vanessa turns from side to side to inspect the top.

“Really? I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Vanessa says, smiling, and turns around to go back to her fitting room. “When are you going to see him?”

“See who?” I ask.

“What do you mean, who?” she asks. “Jack.”

“I’m not going to see Jack,” I say.

“Well, don’t you have to at least see him to give back his grandmother’s engagement ring?” she asks, as she walks out in a Marc Jacobs dress that looks a bit too big on her.

I look back at her blankly.

“You can’t possibly keep it,” she says, turning around so that I can zip her up. “Are you thinking about keeping it?”

“Actually, according to the laws of the state of New York,” I say, sitting back down, “I don’t have to give back the ring. Since Jack gave it to me as a gift in contemplation of marriage, and then effectively broke off our engagement, I get to keep the ring.”

“It was his grandmother’s ring,” she says, spinning around to look at me. “The ring that the man’s grandfather came home from the Second World War with and then gave to the man’s grandmother. It is a family heirloom. You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I’m just saying that in the eyes of the law, I’m well within my rights to keep it. That ring was a gift with a promise attached to it. A promise that he in turn, couldn’t deliver on.”

“I don’t remember that from law school,” Vanessa says, “in fact, I recall just the opposite. I’m pretty sure that, legally, you have to give the ring back.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head, “I don’t think so.”

“What grade did you get in first-year Property?” she asks, as she walks back to her dressing room.

“An A-, thank you very much,” I call out to her.

“Well, I got an A,” she yells back at me, “so, I’m right.”

“Professor Silverman didn’t test the law of engagement rings on the final,” I say, “so that really doesn’t prove a thing.”

“Your argument’s got a big flaw, anyway, Brooke,” Vanessa says, walking out of the dressing room in her own clothing, holding a big pile of clothes. “You called off the engagement.”

“No,” I say, as Vanessa and I make our way to the cash register, “I maintain that he called it off by acting in such a way that I had no other option but to call off the engagement. But for his behavior, we would still be engaged. Thus, it stands to reason that he forced me to call it off. So, in the eyes of the law, it would totally be considered his fault.”

“If that’s the sort of logic you’re using in your Monique case,” she says, piling her clothes onto the counter so that we can check out, “you’re definitely going to lose.”

“The way he acted in Tiffany’s—” I begin, only to be cut off by Vanessa.

“You’re breaking off your engagement because you don’t like the way he used a zappy gun?”

“No,” I say, “you know that that’s not it at all. Registering at Tiffany’s was just the beginning of the end. It was the first time that I realized that I didn’t really know him at all.

It snowballed from there—next came the way he litigated against me—”