Your Big Break, Page 2

  Jason narrows his eyes. “You must get some sick pleasure out of dumping me. For her,” he clarifies.

  I’ve heard this one before. “Believe me, nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “That’s crap. Isn’t this what you do? Profit off of other people’s misery?”

  “I’m a communications specialist,” I say. “I help facilitate a smooth ending to a troubled relationship.”

  “And how many ‘smooth endings’ have you facilitated this month, Dani? Do tell.”

  If you include all the kiss-off phone calls, e-mails, and in-person meetings, I believe the total comes to thirty-three. But who’s counting? “Jason, my intentions are to help you. Lucy still cares about you, but she thinks you’re better off as friends.”

  “That’s pathetic. She’s pathetic for hiring someone to dump me.”

  “Believe me, there are worse ways to break up with people.”

  “Yeah, right.” He snorts. “What do you know?”

  “A lot, actually. This is my area of expertise,” I remind him. “I’ve seen people pull all kinds of breakup moves: leaving their lover on Valentine’s Day, a birthday, at Christmas.”

  There are dozens of crappy ways to dump someone: via e-mail, cell phone text message, AOL Instant Messenger, postcard, or Post-It; on an answering machine; through a friend; over dinner. But by far the most popular method seems to be the duck-and-run.

  “Most people pull the old ‘drop off the face of the earth’ routine,” I tell Jason. “They decide to dump someone, and, rather than tell the person, they just avoid them and hope they’ll take the hint. At least Lucy’s being straightforward.” I smile sympathetically. “I wish my last boyfriend had hired someone to break things off.”

  Jason looks skeptical.

  “The way he did it was publicly humiliating.”

  For the first time since we’ve met, Jason relaxes a bit. “Why, what’d he do? Take out a billboard?”

  “You’re not far off. He dumped me on the radio.”

  I’m leading into The Story—my own personal breakup horror tale that is sure to put Jason at ease. All of the employees of Your Big Break Inc. have one, and we pull them out when things get sticky. The only difference is mine’s one hundred percent true. My two coworkers embellished theirs.

  “Did your boyfriend call up and dedicate ’N Sync’s Bye Bye Bye to you? No, wait, let me guess! It was Fuck Off by Kid Rock.

  I give him a tight smile; that is kind of funny. “It was Ben Folds Five’s Song for the Dumped. My ex-boyfriend was a DJ at WBCN,” I say, citing Boston’s biggest rock station. “He broke up with me on-air during the drive-time show.”

  In the eleven months since it happened, I must have told The Story a hundred times. Now it almost seems as though it happened to someone else. “I hadn’t heard from Garrett for over two weeks.” I lean across the table and lower my voice conspiratorially. “I’d been leaving messages at his house, calling him at work, the whole nine yards. Then I turn on my radio one day after work and—boom! There he is, talking about how he’d gotten laid the night before by some Hooters waitress.”

  “He obviously wasn’t referring to you!”

  My hands instinctively fly up to cover my less-than-ample breasts, and Jason’s cheeks turn pink.

  “Oh, God, I didn’t mean it like that. Nothing I say ever comes out right.” He smashes his face against his hands. “It’s like my foot is surgically implanted in my mouth. That’s probably why I can’t keep a girlfriend.” He gets really quiet, and I’m afraid he might start crying.

  “Everybody has failed relationships,” I say. “Think of them as practice runs. They prepare you for the real deal. Not that your relationship with Lucy wasn’t genuine,” I throw in, before I get myself into trouble.

  Jason laughs. “That’d fix her, wouldn’t it? Lucy always likes to think of herself as a star player in everybody’s lives. She’s such a drama queen. She’d hate it if I considered her a ‘practice girlfriend. ’”

  I can see he’s starting to head off down the bitterness track, so I quickly shift the topic back to The Story. I find it calms people and distracts them. “So, anyway, about Garrett and the Hooters waitress . . .”

  “Ah, yes,” Jason says, brightening. “You were getting to the good part.”

  Why do we get so much comfort out of other people’s misfortunes? I push the thought aside and continue. “After he made the announcement about his Hooters hookup, one of the other DJs said, ‘Dude, I thought you had a serious girlfriend.’ Garrett laughed and replied, ‘Not anymore. I dumped her weeks ago.’ Which, of course, was news to me. Then he cued up the Ben Folds Five song.”

  “Ouch! What did you do?”

  I shrug. “What could I do? At first I thought it was a joke, but when I talked to him off the air, I learned he was serious. I cried and screamed and shredded pictures of him. I left rambling messages on his answering machine. I even threw a drink in his face when he came over to drop off my stuff. I was totally nuts for a little while.”

  “Sounds like a normal response to me.”

  I could tell him about the five stages of getting dumped, but I want to wrap up this job. “Getting back to the matter at hand, Lucy gave me a list of things she left at your place.” I pull it out of my purse and hand it to him. “I’ll need to arrange a time to pick these up.”

  His face falls. “She’s actually doing this, isn’t she?”

  “I’m so sorry, Jason. I really am.”

  “Please,” he begs. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “Lucy’s mind is made up—”

  “Talk to her for me!” he interrupts. “Tell her I’ll do anything! I’ll give up cigarettes. I’ll meditate! I’ll take up Tan Chi!”

  “Tai Chi,” I correct.

  “Whatever! I just want her back. I’ll completely overhaul my life if that’s what it takes!”

  “You shouldn’t change yourself for someone,” I caution. “It never works.”

  “Dani,” he says, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “You don’t understand how much I love this girl. All I want is a second chance to prove myself to her. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

  “I’m afraid Lucy’s mind is made up.”

  He places his hand gently on mine. “Then help her unmake it.”

  “I can’t.”

  Jason draws in a deep breath. “Will you at least do one favor for me then?”

  “That depends.”

  “My brother’s getting married in a few months down the Cape, and Lucy is supposed to be my date. If I show up alone, my parents will go ballistic. They’ll give me the third degree about why we broke up. I come from a large Catholic family—they’re already upset that I haven’t gotten married and given them grand-children yet.”

  For a brief moment, I’m worried he’s going to ask me to go with him. Not that he’s grossly unappealing, but that would be a serious violation of protocol.

  “Convince Lucy to come to the wedding and pretend we’re still together,” Jason says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “One last date to really say good-bye.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  Craig McAllister, my boss and the founder of Your Big Break Inc., is always citing one of our cardinal rules to me: Do not get personally involved with a client. I can hear his voice in my head now, warning me. But how do you break someone’s heart—even a stranger’s—without getting personally involved?

  I sigh. “Give me a couple of days. I’ll see what I can do.”

  People always talk about the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But what’s just as common are the Five Stages of Breakup Hell: nervous breakdown, sour grapes, rebounding, backsliding, and letting go.

  It’s not just a cliché: Breaking up is hard to do. And forget about the recovery rule—that the relationship mourning period lasts one month for every year you were together. That’s totally untrue. More often than not, peo
ple get it backward, taking one year to recover from a one-month fling. There’s no reliable way to measure when a broken heart will mend. Even at stage five, when the dumpee sadly accepts the inevitable, they never completely get over it. Some part of them will always be connected to the person who broke their heart.

  Since Garrett dumped me, I’ve become a real pro at ending love affairs.

  2

  We Need to Talk

  It’s eight o’clock Thursday, and I’m standing in my parents’ large, stucco kitchen, drinking red wine and watching Mom make Cajun food. My family doesn’t have a lot of traditions, but this is one of the few: We get together every other Thursday for a sit-down dinner of spicy food. My brother is usually missing in action until the very last second—he opts to hang out upstairs and watch TV instead of socializing. He rushes down just in time to eat, stuffs his face, and then bolts.

  “We need to talk,” Mom says.

  I cringe because, really, has anything good ever followed that statement?

  “Wait, let me guess. You burned the jambalaya, and we’re having pizza for dinner,” I joke.

  “I’m concerned about you, Dani.”

  “Concerned?” I repeat, running my fingers through my shoulder-length blond hair. I study her face as she stirs the rice. It amazes me sometimes how much my mother and I look alike. We’re both short and slim, with good skin, green eyes, and wheat-colored hair. If it’s true what they say—that your mother is a mirror image of what you’ll look like when you’re older—then I’m pretty lucky. My mom has held up very well over the years.

  She stops stirring the rice. “You’re twenty-eight years old, Dani. In two years, you’ll be thirty. Thirty!”

  “Gee, Mom, thanks for reminding me.”

  “When I was thirty, I was married with two children, a house, and a successful career. You’re still living in that tiny apartment in Cambridge, fumbling around, trying to get your life in order.”

  “My life’s in order,” I grumble, gulping down my glass of wine and pouring myself a fresh one. The truth is, in a lot of ways I’m lucky. Your Big Break Inc. may not be the most serene place to work, but the pay is really good. And I desperately need the salary—not only did Garrett leave me with a broken heart, he left me with a drained bank account as well. I’m still paying off the debt I incurred while mourning our breakup.

  “No, it isn’t. Dani, you try to pretend like you’re happy, but I can tell you’re not. These are the best years of your life. You’re in your prime!” Mom says. “You’re supposed to be out having a good time, meeting people, living it up. In a few years, you’ll be too old to have fun.”

  Too old to have fun? Where is this coming from?

  “You have the social life of a senior citizen,” Mom says, smiling wryly.

  I gasp. “Do you want me to be immature?”

  “I just want you to live it up a little.”

  “What about Sean?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “At least I have my own apartment; Sean’s twenty-five and he still lives at home. And he only works part-time at Blockbuster.”

  “Your brother is about to start medical school,” she counters. “He’s saving his money.”

  My brother has been “about to start medical school” ever since he graduated from Northeastern two years ago. As far as I can tell, all he does is loaf around the house, playing video games and watching TiVo.

  Fortunately, my dad wanders into the room before things get hairy. “Hey, hon,” he says, pecking me on the cheek. Seeing my pained expression, he adds, “You driving her nuts again, Beth?”

  “Just showing a little motherly concern.”

  “Yeah, I know how overbearing your ‘concern’ can be.”

  “Just doing my job,” Mom says, looking tense.

  “Mind if I borrow Dani for a minute?” Dad winks at me. “I’ve got a couple of boxes in the car. I could use some help bringing them in.”

  Mom waves us away. “Sure, Paul, that’s perfectly fine.” I can tell she’s irritated that Dad interrupted her rant, but I’m relieved to make it out of there alive.

  “You doing okay?” Dad asks as I follow him outside.

  “Yeah, I’m doing pretty well. Aside from the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “Oh, your mom?” He shrugs. “She’s been kind of stressed lately.”

  I nod. “I know. Plus, she’s turning fifty-five.”

  Dad opens the trunk of his Audi and begins pulling out large filing boxes.

  Six months ago, my mother retired from her position as a corporate trainer and strategic analyst. I say “retired” as though she had a choice in the matter. She didn’t. The board of directors wanted to bring in “new blood.” In the process, several people, my mom included, were let go via early retirement. Mom hasn’t quite been the same since it happened.

  Dad hands me a box. “Thanks for helping out.”

  “What is all this?” I ask, hoisting the box in my arms.

  “Clients’ files.” Dad grunts, slamming the car trunk shut. “I’ve really fallen behind—it’s going to take me all night to go through these.” Even before my family moved to Boston ten years ago, my dad was a total workaholic. He puts in long days as a financial analyst at Merriwether Payne Investments, and frequently stays at the office till all hours of the night.

  We trudge up the front steps and into the house, carrying the boxes to Dad’s small workspace off the living room.

  “I could help you sort through these if you’d like,” I offer.

  “Oh, no.” He shakes his head. “I’m not putting you to work.” He slings an arm across my shoulders and smiles. “What do you say you and I go catch a few minutes of the Bruins game before dinner?”

  It’s not often that Dad makes time for me. He’s usually too busy working to hang out. Lately, this seems to be changing. “Sounds like a plan.”

  We’re halfway to the den when Mom yells, “Paul! Get in here a sec. This jambalaya’s a little . . . crispy.”

  “Oh, brother. Duty calls,” Dad quips, jogging off into the kitchen.

  “Looks like we’ll be having pizza after all,” I quip.

  Fridays are generally slow at Your Big Break Inc. People like to get their relationship-ending done and over with early in the week, or else they go for one last weekend of sex before calling it quits.

  “Dani, are you familiar with the term ‘binding arbitration’?” my boss Craig asks, planting himself in front of my desk. “Did you guys have that down in Louisiana?”

  Craig thinks everything south of Washington, D.C., is made up of swamps, dude ranches, and farmland. Never mind the fact that I’ve been living in Boston for more than a decade, or that New Orleans—where I was born and bred—is a bustling metropolis. I toy with him. “Is that one of them fancy legal shindigs you have here in the big city?”

  “Dani!” He sounds ready to explode.

  I laugh and gesture to the chair opposite my desk. “Have a seat.” He thinks it over for a minute, his brow furrowing rapidly, then plops down. “All right, Craig, yes, I know what binding arbitration is. Why?”

  “You know Evan Hirschbaum?”

  It’s a rhetorical question, but I nod. Evan Hirschbaum is our biggest client. He practically single-handedly keeps us in business.

  “Well, Mr. Hirschbaum was in the middle of binding arbitration this morning when Sophie Kennison—the girl he hired you to dump last week—barged in and started screaming obscenities at him. It threw him off so badly, he nearly blew the case.” Craig smirks. “Though, of course, he didn’t.”

  “Of course.”

  Craig looks at me. “Be straight with me, Dani. Did you or did you not inform Sophie Kennison that Mr. Hirschbaum no longer wants to see her?”

  “Yes, I did the deed last Monday.” I sigh. “She was pretty devastated.”

  Devastated doesn’t even begin to describe it. Sophie didn’t stop crying for two hours. I wound up pigging out on Häagen-Dazs with her in an attempt to smooth things over. I d
on’t know how much more client heartache my waistline can handle.

  “Well, apparently, the breakup didn’t take.”

  “Apparently,” I agree.

  “At any rate, Evan’s deeply upset about what happened, Dani.”

  Oh, brother. I suppress a laugh. Try as I might, I can’t imagine Evan Hirschbaum shedding a tear over anything, much less one of his disposable girlfriends. The guy’s rock-solid, through and through. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Sometimes it seems like all I ever do is say I’m sorry. I say it to my boss, to our clients, and, especially, to the people I break up with. Maybe that’s what my business card should read: Danielle M., Professional Apologizer.

  “You’d better get down there,” Craig instructs.

  “Get down where?”

  “Sophie’s apartment. The address is in your file, right?”

  “You mean Sophie’s not still at the law offices?”

  “No, of course not.” Craig shakes his head. “Evan kicked her to da curb.”

  Craig has a habit of picking up slang that sounds ridiculous coming from a middle-aged Irish-American guy. At our office Christmas party, he kept slapping his hands together and exclaiming “True dat!” every time someone made a statement he agreed with. I often feel embarrassed for him. The poor guy means well. He founded Your Big Break Inc. four years ago after his wife left him for a fledgling musician. Craig used to be a traveling salesman, but he returned home one day to find a “Dear Craig” letter taped to the refrigerator. His ex-wife drained his bank account and broke his heart. Craig hasn’t been the same since.

  “Let me get this straight,” I say. “Sophie Kennison burst into a closed proceeding today and shouted out a string of cusswords. Yet the arbitrator let her go? She’s not in any legal trouble or anything?” I don’t know much about legal matters, but that doesn’t sound right.

  Craig throws up his hands. “Who knows? I’m not clued in to how the legal system works. Mr. Hirschbaum can explain it better. Speaking of which”—he rises from his chair and points to my phone—“you’d better square things away with him before you go see Sophie.”