Part 1 (2/2)

Once we settled into our life together I started preparing for my next role: MILF. I wasn't pregnant yet, but I was planning. I had a list of baby names. I had a board on Pinterest filled with ideas for the nursery decor. I had an unpublished baby registry at Pottery Barn Kids just waiting to go live. I'd even gone as far as making a big-to-us-but-small-to-them donation to a prestigious preschool. From what I heard, Manhattan preschools were a real b.i.t.c.h to get into, and I was hoping to get a leg up by making donations every year. Right now we were still considered middle-cla.s.s compared to the crust of the Upper-East Side, but I figured by the time our baby was ready for preschool we'd certainly be sending the kid off to school in pinstripes.

A baby. That was supposed to be the next step. Not a divorce! Even during our nastiest arguments or the longest stretches of dullness, divorce was never an option. Not because we're the happiest couple on Earth, or because I'm super religious or anything, but simply because I don't like to admit when I've made a mistake. Especially when that mistake was made in front of two-hundred people, several of whom told me to slow things down and not get married so young. I figured if I had chosen to go against the advice of my family and friends, it was my own fault, and I deserved nothing less than to suffer in this gorgeous loft with breath-taking views!

So no, I hadn't taken the time to plan an ideal divorce, and now I was caught with my pants down literally! As dumbfounded as I was by the morning's topic of conversation, all I could think about as I stared at the tile on the bathroom floor was Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt.

They were America's sweethearts. I was disappointed and crushed when they announced they were divorcing. Okay, maybe ”crushed” is a bit dramatic, even for me, but there was a moment when I doubted if happily-ever-after existed outside of fairy tales. Then I saw a photo of them looking sweet and romantic on a Caribbean beach that was taken just one day before they announced their separation. Those pictures seemed to soften the blow a little. There was no better way to say goodbye to each other than by walking hand-in-hand on a warm sandy beach. At that time I told myself if ever I was to divorce, I was doing it up as cla.s.sy as they did.

Is it too late to book a vacation? I wondered, as I looked at the grey sweatpants and old cotton panties that were pooled around my ankles. This is definitely not Anguilla.

CHAPTER TWO.

I felt humiliated, unwanted and ugly, and I just wanted him out of the bathroom so I could wipe in privacy. As if reading my mind, he turned the faucet off (leaving little chin hairs all over the sink that I would have to clean up later) and said he was going to start breakfast, and I should join him on the terrace when I was finished.

Once he was gone, I stood up and looked in the mirror. I felt like someone slapped me across the face, and I kind of looked like it, too. My face was blood red with a mixture of embarra.s.sment and anger. I could honestly say I had never felt more betrayed in all of my life and that was saying a lot.

The first thing I needed to do was make myself look better. Maybe if I looked better I would feel better. They say that looking good is a girl's best defense, right? I didn't know if that was true, but I knew I could not go out there and face the man who didn't want me anymore while I was sporting bed-head, circles under my eyes and sagging b.o.o.bs under my sleep cami. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't ridiculous enough to think that brus.h.i.+ng my hair could save my marriage; but some time during the last ten minutes he had gone from being my occasionally loving husband to a total b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and I couldn't let a b.a.s.t.a.r.d see me in such disarray. Even if he did just watch me pee.

Working quickly, I sprayed some sea salt texturizing spray into my hair to create waves and applied mascara and lip-gloss. I put on s.e.xy panties and a push-up bra under my pajamas and followed the scent of bacon out to the kitchen.

We have breakfast on the terrace nearly every morning as long as the weather allows. Usually something simple like bagels and lox because Caleb has to get to work. On Sundays, though, we go all out. I make the eggs. I can make eggs about three dozen different ways thanks to the Food Network. Caleb is always in charge of the bacon. I don't know what he does to make it taste so good, but his bacon is so tasty I can devour a whole plate even while watching Charlotte's Web (sorry Wilbur).

Mornings on the terrace were always my favorite part of the day. We'd drink our coffee and read the papers. We were the rare couple who still read real papers you know, the kind that gets ink on your fingers instead of those on electronic gadgets. Caleb would sit with the Wall Street Journal and me with the New York Times crossword puzzle I struggled with every morning (I even finished it a few times!). We'd sit together in a comfortable and amiable silence before he'd kiss me goodbye and head off to work. I always thought couples who could sit quietly together were the good ones. Apparently I'd been mistaken.

It was a Thursday, but Caleb was making bacon anyway, which made the whole morning even more unsettling. Despite feeling sick to my stomach, I reached for a frying pan to start my eggs. He gently swatted my arm away.

”I'll take care of breakfast. You sit down,” he said. ”Your coffee is already outside.”

I stepped out onto the terrace where my coffee sat on the bistro table. We bought the loft about four years ago and the view from the terrace still took my breath away on a daily basis. It was a beautiful morning in the beginning of June and the sun was s.h.i.+ning, making the surface of the East River look like a bed of Swarovski crystals. I could hear the traffic on the street below. One thing I'd always loved about Manhattan was that I was never alone. The ambient sound of the city always surrounded me taxi cabs honking their horns, police sirens wailing, car alarms blaring all a 24-hour reminder that I was not alone.

I sat down at the bistro and took a sip of my coffee. Yum creme brulee creamer. There are few things in life better than coffee with a great view. Coffee with a great view and a cigarette was one of those things. I quit smoking last year to get my body healthy for a baby. In typical Roxie fas.h.i.+on, I made a huge deal of it by throwing a Quitters Party. I hung up posters of Richard Nixon, loaded up the CD player with Paula Abdul and Jay-Z, and had my guests beat the c.r.a.p out of a pinata that looked like Sarah Palin. The bigger the spectacle, the more likely I was to stick with it because you can't have a Quitters Party and not quit, right? But I could really have used a cigarette then. I was thinking about calling the concierge desk to see if they could send one up when Caleb walked out with a tray of bacon, eggs and toast. He set a plate in front of me but I didn't make any rush to touch it. Am I really supposed to eat right now?

Caleb sat down across from me and cleared his throat. ”I know this must come as a surprise to you,” he said gingerly.

I realized then that I hadn't spoken yet since I'd woken up. It was probably better if I remained silent. That was probably true in most situations. Less words = less to use against me later. But there was one thing I had to know.

”How long have you been wanting this?” I asked in my sweetest, softest voice, hoping it would make him feel guilty. You know, the whole kill-him-with-kindness trick.

”That's something I hope you can understand,” he said. ”I don't want this at all. What I want is for you to love me and for me to love you and for us to have a family and live happily ever after. That's all I've ever wanted.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He sounded like a prince from a Disney cartoon. FYI-Disney movies weren't the kind I liked to emulate; too many damsels in distress and dying parents.

”I know you must love me on some level,” he continued. ”And I have love for you, too. I'm just not in love with you. There's no magic here. We're more like roommates than husband and wife.”

I was confused by this statement for two reasons. First of all, what's wrong with roommates? Roommates are fine, especially when you can have s.e.x with them and they make good bacon. Second of all, who is to say that roommates and a husband and wife of seven years aren't one and the same? Did he actually go around asking married couples if there was still ”magic” in their relations.h.i.+ps? And which married couples would he ask? Surely not his coworkers and their a.s.shole wives!

”If you want magic we can go see The Quantum Eye,” I said, about the off-Broadway show. I was only joking to lighten up the mood a little. Divorce was way too serious of a topic for me.

He stood up, dusted toast crumbs from his s.h.i.+rt and set his napkin on the table. I knew he was angry even though he seemed calm and cool as ever. Caleb owned the ability to change his personality and demeanor according to his environment, like a chameleon of sorts. He was always very mild-mannered and polite when he was around me. But I'd seen him at work a few times, and he was completely different there. He was loud, fast and hungry. He treated his work like it was the last drumstick on the last turkey in the world and he was determined to sink his teeth into the meat before anyone else got to it no matter how much juice was left dripping down his chin. The transformation was quite scary, to be honest. If I was the overly paranoid type, I might wonder if the guy was a total sociopath and moonlighted as a serial killer. But I'm just an average paranoid type, and I knew his hunger for success was the reason I lived such a charmed life, so I didn't question it.

”I guess you're going to make a joke of this like you do everything else,” he said, as he tightened his tie.

I silently hoped he would strangle himself with it.

”I've got to head to the office,” he said. ”We'll finish this conversation via email.”

And with that he walked back into the condo. A few seconds later I heard the door close.

I sighed and took another sip of my coffee. This. Changes. Everything.

I have always been p.r.o.ne to anxiety, but once I heard Caleb leave I was pretty sure I experienced a real panic attack. At first, I stayed on the terrace and waited for the punch line. Because this had to be a joke, right? Maybe someone at the firm dared him to play a trick on me. Maybe they were holding a Punk'd contest for a bonus check. Or maybe Caleb woke up today and felt like mixing things up a bit for a laugh. I tried to think of any possibility other than the truth. But deep down I knew it was real. Because, let's face it, Caleb doesn't joke around.

I slowly walked back into the condo and hoped he would pop out from behind a door and say, ”Ha ha, got ya!” But it was quiet, super quiet. He really was gone. He really was ending this, us.

I stared at the door he had just closed, knowing that with it, he had closed the door on the last eight years of my life. He didn't even give me a say in it. My perfect little world was broken without my permission. The future I had been planning was never going to happen. All of that time, all of the planning, wasted! Decisions had been made outside of my control-freak hands, and I couldn't handle it!

I couldn't breathe. I felt dizzy. I felt sick. I dropped to my knees in front of the door, covered my head with my arms, tornado-style, and tried to talk my heart into beating a little slower. I squeezed my eyes shut, took slow, deep breaths and waited for it to be over.

When I finally got myself under control I didn't know what I should do next. Should I call the concierge for a cigarette and a Xanax and keep refres.h.i.+ng my email until I received further instructions? I decided to call for reinforcement before turning myself into a stereotype.

”What the eff?” That was Allison, my best friend since second grade, talking. She cut out swearing after she had her first kid in high school. She never cut out unprotected s.e.x, though, and that's how she ended up with two more before we could legally buy beer. Her kids were now practically old enough to babysit the kids that I would probably never have.

She probably wasn't the best person to call. She married her high-school sweetheart, had three well-behaved kids that preferred to eat yogurt and apples instead of chips and cookies, and actually had a picket fence separating her yard from her neighbor's. They started young, but they turned themselves into a near perfect little family and I doubted she could sympathize with me now.

”So he's seeing someone else,” she said.

”He said he's just not in love with me,” I said, defensively.

She snorted. ”Of course he's not going to admit it. You probably get more in the divorce if he's cheating.”

”I think New York is a no-fault state.”

”You can't just think these things. You need to know them.” She started giving me a list of tasks as matter-of-factly as if she were a divorce attorney herself. ”You need a lawyer. ASAP. You need to know the laws and your rights. You might even think about getting a judge to freeze your a.s.sets before he starts hiding money, if he hasn't done so already. You need to make a list of all property acquired during your marriage, not just your condo but also things like jewelry, artwork, timeshares, 401ks, stocks and bonds -”

”You know we don't have a timeshare,” I interrupted. ”Where are you getting this from?”

”The internet!” she said. ”The same place you can get it from. You need to be proactive about this. You need to act like your old self again. You can't just sit there and let it happen to you. It's time for you step up and take charge, or his lawyer will eat you up and spit you out!”

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