And the breakup. He let me handle that on my own, too.
No theatrical chase after me, no public declaration of his enduring love and devotion, no drama was played out in front of our co-workers. It wouldn’t have been very Devin-like to ever cause a scene, but it was a slight blow to my pride that he hadn’t put up more of a fight.
Instead, he just let me go.
I sidled up to the bar at Roebling, the closest watering hole near Howell, plunking my box of failure on the neighboring seat. The place was practically empty, save for the few suits at a nearby table indulging in a liquid lunch. I took my dead plant out of the box and set it on the bar next to me.
When the bartender came to take my order, I said, “I’ll have a Yuengling, please. And a shot of Absolut for my friend, here.”
Just one short hour before, I was a woman on the brink of literary success, engaged to a real up-and-comer in the media world, looking toward a fresh new chapter in my life.
A few minutes later, and I was unemployed, single, and sitting in a bar in the middle of the afternoon.
What a difference a day makes.
When I was a kid, I looked so forward to being a "grown-up"- which, in my mind, was defined as anyone older than me, whether by two years or by fifty. I idolized them and thought that being grown-up meant doing whatever I wanted; staying up a half hour past bedtime or stealing kisses in my room with the cutest guy in school. Driving a car. Getting a job. Everything these “grown-ups” did seemed steeped in a maturity and rationality that my childlike brain couldn't fathom. Oh, to be so cool....
What no one ever tells you is how misleading it all is. Being a grown-up is really about making choices that rarely have a clear winner, then hoping upon all hopes that some of those choices will even remotely pan out.
A lot of them don’t.
Staying up late and getting up early only leads to exhaustion. Agreeing to marry a man simply because he asked is a recipe for disaster. Working at a job you loathe eventually turns to resentment.
The thing of it is, being a grown-up is downright petrifying.
And when your plans don’t work out, when your choices turn out to be all wrong… You find yourself alone and defeated, not knowing where to turn.
I probably should have called Lisa. I knew I could have talked to my dad.
But the only voice I really wanted to hear at that moment was Trip’s.
Jeez, I probably needed a team of therapists to straighten out my brain. How is it that I’d just broken it off with my fiancé, yet the relationship I was more devastated over was the one I didn’t even know how to classify?
It wasn’t too late. I knew he’d probably be angry that I kept him waiting the night before, but I also knew that he’d forgive me. I was only hesitant because I didn’t know quite what I’d be signing up for, but the truth was, I didn’t even care. However he wanted me, it would be enough.
Who cared if it would just be a fling? This is what Trip and I do. We finally pull our shit together and have sex in our final hours before one of us takes off forever. I could do this. Even if one afternoon was all it turned out to be.
I knew just seeing his face would be the best way to cure my blues anyhow. I could forget about my pathetic circumstances and just get lost in Trip for a while. I could worry about the rest of my life tomorrow.
The desire was so strong, the feeling so powerful. The mere thought of being in his bed excited me and lifted my spirits. Amazing the effect that man has always had on me.
I made myself finish my beer, then downed the shot for courage, paid my tab, and grabbed my box of crap.
And then I headed over to the TRU.
*
Concierge Cat was on duty, and I readied myself for her smarmy attitude. But as I approached the desk, her eyes lit up in recognition and she actually gave me a smile.
I put my stuff on one of the white sofas and asked quietly, “Did Trip Wiley check out yet?”
She still kept the smile trained upon her lips as she responded, “We don’t have anyone here by that name, ma’am.”
Okay, sister. I’ll play the game. “Fine. Mr. Kelly, then. Johnny Kelly.”
She looked rather smug as she said, “Mr. Kelly checked out weeks ago.”
I gave her a long, hard look, trying to be patient, knowing that this woman was Trip’s gatekeeper and that I’d catch more flies with honey.
And bullshit. I could catch more flies with bullshit, too.
The name Johnny Kelly was from The Sting. Knowing Trip, and knowing that, I figured I could simply guess the correct pseudonym.
“How about Johnny Hooker. Or Henry… Gondorff, I think? Or Doyle Lonnegan?”
“Nope, nope, and nope.”
Not The Sting. Time to switch gears.
“Okay… Jay Gatsby?”
“Mr. Gatsby checked out last week.”
Paydirt. Robert Redford it is, then.
“Okay. Bob Woodward. Do you have a Bob Woodward staying here?”
“Not until the televised election coverage.”
I gave an exasperated sigh.
“How ‘bout Waldo Pepper.”
“Nope.”