Love Connection (A Feel Good Romantic Comedy) Page 6

  “Like what?”

  “Like Edward’s going to my house to get all my things before Sharon burns everything.”

  I bring my hand to my mouth. “Jake, I’m so sorry. I’ve ruined her life, haven’t I?”

  From across the table, Jake takes my hand away from my mouth and into his hands. He brushes his thumbs on my palm in soothing circles. “You didn’t ruin her life. I did. I did it when I proposed to her knowing that deep in my heart she wasn’t the woman I wanted. I did this, not you. In the end, it will be better for Sharon this way. Trust me.”

  “I feel horrible to be this happy at someone else’s expense.”

  “This one’s on me.”

  A server arrives with the check, and I’m grateful for the interruption.

  “Where are you staying tonight?” Jake asks.

  “No idea. I didn’t book a hotel, I don’t have any money, and the only clean clothes I have left are the ones Edward was able to salvage from the moat.” Jake’s brother was the one who organized our escape from the castle. He retrieved my bag, procured a car, and made sure we made our way out unseen.

  Jake chuckles again.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “I was supposed to be on my way to Aruba right now and my house is definitely off limits.” I tense again. “But, unlike you, I have a working credit card.” Jake smiles, vanishing my anxiety. “We can check into a hotel.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me jokingly and I blush despite myself.

  “I’m not sure I should go to a hotel with you. You look like someone with bad intentions,” I say, standing up.

  His eyes darken as he stands next to me. “Do I?” he says innocently.

  I melt under his stare. “Let’s go,” I whisper.

  Eight

  Ashes

  ♦♦♦

  Sunday, June 11—Cabo San Lucas, Mexico

  “Make it stop,” I moan, as an annoying sound makes my head pound.

  “It’s your phone. You make it stop,” a female someone complains next to me.

  I’m on the edge of a double bed with expensive, pristine white sheets, which attack my sore eyes with their brightness as I pull one eyelid open to have a look around to figure out what the hell is going on. I spy a semi-naked woman sleeping next to me. It’s Amelia.

  I roll over the bed, whining. Last night, drowning our pain in alcohol seemed like the best of ideas. This morning, not so much. I tumble off the bed and crawl on the floor on my hands and knees, looking for my phone while trying to keep my eyes almost completely shut, relying on my hearing instead.

  I locate the phone somewhere at the foot of the bed and answer without looking at the caller ID.

  “What?”

  “And good morning to you too,” says a voice that sounds disturbingly like my mother’s, but not quite the same.

  “Who’s this?”

  “I should be offended you don’t recognize me, but by the slur in your words, I’m assuming you’re drunk—or, more likely, hungover, given the time, so I forgive you. It’s your dear younger sister.”

  “Kassandra,” I whisper.

  “Yep, the one and only.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Where are you?”

  “In Mexico.”

  “Mexico, where?”

  “In a honeymoon suite somewhere.”

  “So it’s true, you crashed Amelia’s wedding?”

  “Mmm-mmm.”

  “You two are the gossip of Chicago. How is she?”

  “Blissfully sleeping and not talking to an annoying sister.”

  “She doesn’t have a sister. Why do you sound so grumpy, anyway?”

  “I’m suffering.”

  “More like you’re wasted. Did you get drunk out of solidarity?”

  “No, I have my own problems.”

  “What problems?”

  I’m still too drunk to have brain-to-mouth filters, so I just say it.

  “Jake got married yesterday.”

  Silence on the line. I relish the pause. By the time Kassie speaks, I’m almost asleep again.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  I half mumble half yawn something unintelligible.

  “So you’re in Mexico. You went with Amelia on her honeymoon. You’re both sad, heartbroken, and drunk. I’m coming over before you two commit suicide. Give me the name of your hotel.”

  “I’m not giving you anything.”

  “Gemma Cecelia Dawson.” This sounds even more like our mom.

  “You’re the younger sister; you don’t get to Gemma-Cecelia-Dawson me.”

  “Yes, I do. Because the older sister’s acting worse than a pubescent teen. Out with the hotel name.”

  “I don’t remember it.”

  “What did we send you to Law School for? Use your brains, Gemma. Search for a towel, a pad, or something with the name of the hotel on it.”

  “You didn’t send me to Law School. Hold on…”

  I crawl back to the side of the bed, grope the nightstand for a notepad, and read the engraved name aloud,

  “Las Ventanas al Paraiso, Cabo San Lucas…”

  “Cabo, uh? Cool. How do you spell bentanas?”

  “What did we send you to UCSD for if you can’t even spell windows in Spanish?”

  “You didn’t send me anywhere. Okay, I’ve taken the name down. How long are you staying?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Perfect. I’ll be there in two days, and I’ll bring a friend.”

  “Wait, are you seriously coming over here? Don’t you have to study or something? Isn’t it too expensive?”

  “I can take a break from studying. And it’s not Spring Break; flights from San Diego to Cabo are pretty cheap.”

  “Is your friend a she?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “We don’t want any testosterone around. This honeymoon is a testosterone-free zone.”

  “See yah in two days, Gem.”

  “Whatever.” I hang up, climb back into bed and pass out.

  ***

  Kassandra and her friend, Lucy, fly here two days later and they really are a breath of fresh air in our funeral party. They force us to get out of the room—they call it sun therapy, they make us eat our vegetables, they take us to visit the towns nearby, and they give us pot to smoke—they call it laughing therapy. Normally, I would censure this behavior, but if the only thing that can get me in “high spirits” is getting high, I’ll cut a break on disapproval.

  Kassandra’s a free spirit, much more than I was in my wildest days. And I need her vitality, her energy, to pull through these first days of my new Jake-free life.

  Two weeks later, on our last night at the resort, I’m having a cocktail with my sister on the patio. We’re cozily settled in plush chaise lounges, gazing at the ocean.

  “Thank you for coming here.” I look at Kassandra. “I know I don’t say it enough, but I love you.”

  “Aw, puh-leeease. I can take a five star vacation anytime you need me to.”

  “I know, but I also know you have your life in San Diego. And you can say what you like about this not being Spring Break, but if Mom and Dad give you the same allowance they gave me in college, this must’ve been a stretch on your finances.”

  She mumbles something and hides her face in her cocktail glass.

  “What’s with the guilty face?” I ask her.

  “Mom and Dad helped fund this trip,” she confesses.

  “How come?”

  “I told them why you were here and they were worried.”

  “You told them about Amelia’s wedding?”

  “No.” Pause. “The other wedding.”

  I laugh despite myself. “Gosh, you sound like Harry Potter.”

  “Why? They had weddings in Harry Potter?”

  “Just one, but you said the ‘other wedding’, like the ‘other ministry.’”

  “Gemma…”


  “Uh?”

  “You’re such a nerd.”

  “So I get heartbroken and you get a free vacation?”

  “Come on, Mom and Dad were just worried. They didn’t want you to be alone.”

  “I wasn’t alone.”

  “Ames was hardly going to play cheerleader. We’re family, and I was a two-hour flight away from you, which doesn’t happen that often lately. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too. You should take up my offer and come to visit me in London. It’s a fun city, I promise.”

  “And I promise I’ll come, someday. How are you, really? Can I send you back alone?”

  “I’m not going to kill myself, I swear. You’ve done a great job; we would’ve been a sad party without you. I’m going to be all right.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “I’m not going to like this ‘something’, uh?”

  “If you loved him so much, why did you break up with him?”

  “I was proud and stupid and didn’t realize how much I needed him. Somehow I always thought I could get him back if I really wanted to.”

  “And in all this time you never realized how much he meant to you?”

  “Not until I found out he was getting married. What can I say? Hindsight’s a bitch!”

  “A real bitch. I’m going to miss you tomorrow.”

  I hug her from across our chaise lounge.

  “Now get up, old you,” Kassandra says, hopping out of the chair. “I have wild plans for our last night in paradise.” She pulls me up and turns the dock station volume to only-college-kids-wouldn’t-think-this-is-too-loud. We get ready inside our room, dancing, singing, drinking, and laughing.

  ***

  I arrive in London in the early evening the next day.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” I ask Amelia as the chill—compared to Mexico—air outside London City Airport hits us.

  “Yeah. Will said he’s going to keep away from the house for at least two weeks, giving me enough time to pack.”

  I suspect Will’s spending those two weeks in New York with Esther, but I don’t say anything.

  “We’ll put the house on the market right away. How about you?”

  “I’m going to have a quiet weekend before it’s back to life as usual on Monday.”

  “You want to do something?”

  “No, I need a couple of days by myself.”

  “To mourn Jake?”

  I nod.

  “Well, the only way to go from here is up. For the both of us.” Amelia hugs me and hops into a taxi. I take the one after hers.

  As I push the door of my apartment open and drop my bag to the floor, I feel like a failure. Naomi moved out while I was in Mexico, so the apartment’s completely empty. I stroll to her room and take in the mess she’s left behind; she didn’t bother to clean. Garbage and no-longer-wanted clothes are scattered everywhere on the floor. But I’m too depressed to get angry, and anyway, I’m so glad she’s out of the house that I don’t care about the amount of trash she’s left for me to clean.

  I walk back to the kitchen and open the fridge. The only things inside it are a huge ice cream tub and some cans of diet Coke. I couldn’t have hoped for anything better. I don’t care that massively enlarging my derriere with ice cream probably isn’t a good idea. I need comfort food. I sit on the couch and scarf down as much cookie dough as my stomach can hold. High on sugar and fats, I wander into my bedroom and take a box out from under the bed. On the lid, I’ve glued a picture of a jukebox. Where the word ‘jukebox’ should have been, a name’s spelled out of letters cut from magazines: Jakebox. I know, my teenage self had a cunning sense of humor.

  I take the Jakebox into the living room, put ‘Since U Been Gone’ by Kelly Clarkson on replay on my iPod, light a fire in the fireplace, and sit in front of it. I take a deep breath before lifting the lid of the Jakebox. My heart starts beating violently as I stare at all the mementos of my life with Jake, years’ worth of memories. I’m glad I have physical things I can burn. What do teenagers who have grown up in the era of Facebook do when they break up with the love of their life, plan an assassination on Mark Zuckerberg?

  On a first look inside the Jakebox, I see some solid items I can’t burn, so I take the trash bin from the kitchen, bring it back to the love-bonfire, and start sorting items.

  First out of the Jakebox are the tickets from our first movie night, Kill Bill: Volume II. Also the night of our first kiss. Fire.

  The Kill Bill: Volume II DVD itself is the next item. Bin.

  Next is a sheet of crumpled paper Jake passed me in class the first year we dated. On top, it says, “Prom?” Below are two choice squares, one says, “Yes,” and the other says, “Yes.” I marked both of them and stamped a lipstick kiss underneath. Fire.

  Next, little plastic golden miniatures of the Little Mermaid and Prince Eric from a Happy Meal surprise. I was obsessed by the Little Mermaid miniature because I couldn’t find it anywhere and Jake ate McDonald’s for a month to get me one. Bin.

  Next, a blank card sprayed with his aftershave. I made it when I moved to Boston. I remember sniffing it whenever I missed Jake. I lift it to my nose. It’s faint, but Jake’s aftershave’s still there. Fire.

  Next, a ton of photos. I leaf through them, scattering them on the floor. There’s everything: proms, graduations, concerts, vacations, everyday life. One, in particular, catches my eye. It’s my favorite picture of Jake. I took it the first night we made love. We were at his parents’ cabin at the lake. It’s a shot of him from the chest up. The photo’s a bit dark because Jake had the sun behind him, but his face is still visible. He’s shirtless and has one arm raised above his head, braced on a tree branch. He’s wearing a surfer necklace, a present from me for his birthday, which he thought was super cool. He never took it off all that summer. His face is tilted to the right, and he’s smiling a crooked smile. I’m not sure why I love this picture so much, but it’s… it’s just Jake. My Jake. He wasn’t posing or anything; he’d just looked up at me calling him when I shot this and it’s as if his face is lit with love, happiness, and youth. I drop the picture back on the pile on the floor, staring at it, still overwhelmed. That’s when I start sobbing. Tears blind me and rain down on the pictures. Out of rage and scorn, I collect the photos in my arms and throw them all in the fire.

  Next, I pick up a stone in the shape of a heart. From a vacation somewhere. I hurl it at the bin.

  Next, a sheet of paper where Jake copied the lyrics of I Want to Know What Love Is for me. Fire.

  Next, a bunch of tickets: planes, movies, school dances, and concerts. Different years, different cities… still us. Fire.

  A CD compilation Jake made me. We still used CDs, bless us. Bin.

  A postcard of Hawaii. We promised we wouldn’t go there, not until we got married and we went on our honeymoon. Fire.

  Seashells from a day at the beach. Bin.

  A letter. I can’t open it. Jake sent it after we broke up, pouring his heart out in it and begging me to take him back. I honestly don’t understand how I could not have replied. Why did I let him go? Why was I so damn proud and stupid? Why? Fire.

  A page from my old diary. Despite my better judgment, I read this one.

  Dear Diary,

  For the first time in my life, I’m in love. How can I tell I’m in love for sure? Because Jake asked me to come watch his soccer practice and you know I hate soccer. It’s soooooo boring. But today instead of being bored out of my mind, I’m just happy. And soccer seems like the best thing in the world.

  I’m happy for the way Jake’s eyes search mine on the stands before anyone else after he’s scored. I’m happy for the little flutter in my belly I get every time he waves at me. And I’m happy because last night Jake kissed me, and it was the best kiss ever. Not that I’ve kissed anyone else before, but I’m sure Jake’s the best kisser in the world.

  I love him soooooo mu
ch. I love him sooo soooooo much. I told him last night after the kiss. And he said it back. I’m in love. We’re in love. I’m sooooooooooo happy.

  Underneath there’s a Gemma-loves-Jake doodle. But Kelly Clarkson is my queen, and the only thing I’m soooooo going to do right now is move on. Fire.

  Next is the first rose Jake gave me, exsiccated. Can I burn this? Better not take chances. Bin.

  Lining the bottom of the Jakebox is the wrapping paper from the first Christmas present he gave me. I can’t believe I kept this. Fire.

  That’s all, folks.

  I tie a couple of tight knots on the black garbage bag resting inside the bin. I run outside to throw it in the trash before I can change my mind and try to retrieve something. When I get back inside the apartment, the only thing left is the actual Jakebox. I burn the bottom first. I take the lid in my hands and trace Jake’s name with my fingers and then I throw the cover in the fire too. It stays there unscathed, suspended in time for a few seconds before the letters start to blacken and blur—I’m not sure if it’s due to the fire or the tears in my eyes, or both. It doesn’t matter anyway because in five minutes, it all turns to ashes.

  Nine

  Dinner Talk

  ♥♥♥

  Thursday, June 29—London

  In my apartment, I cup Jake’s face and kiss him. “I can’t believe you’re really here.” It took him three weeks to settle all his things in California, pack his stuff, and join me in the U.K. Meanwhile I went to visit my sister in San Diego and I got back to London in time to clean the mess Naomi—my former roommate from hell—had left hanging around.

  “I can’t wait to show you London. You’re going to love it.”

  “Not as much as I love you.” He kisses the tip of my nose.

  “Were you able to bring everything?”

  “I’ve brought the essentials, my mom’s selling whatever I’ve left in Cali, and the rest’s arriving by cargo ship next month.”

  “You have much? Because my place isn’t that big.”

  “Don’t worry; I won’t steal your closet space.”

  “So, err… Sharon didn’t burn anything?”

  “No. She didn’t.”