Around eleven in the morning, as I’m still sitting in my pajamas jotting down notes on some potential employers and tinkering with my resume, I hear the sound of keys being inserted into the lock on the front door. I look over and see the knob turning. My heart stops and like a doe in the headlights I freeze.
The door opens and there stands Neil. His bug-eyed expression tells me that he is just as shocked to see me as I am him. “Oh, oh, sorry,” he stammers nervously, his hand still on the doorknob. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“It’s my condo. Why wouldn’t I be here?” I’m staring at him in horror, my hands still frozen over my laptop.
“It’s Sunday, so I thought you’d be at yoga or running errands at this time.”
“Well, I’m not,” I say coldly. Though I’d made the decision to try to keep up my normal routine, I’m still annoyed by his assumption that I’d be so regimented after he dropped his bomb on Friday. I close my laptop and then lean back into my chair crossing my arms tightly and resisting the urge to jump up and murder him.
“I see that.” He stands awkwardly in the doorway as we stare each other down.
I’m hoping he will look apologetic. I’m hoping he will say he’s made a big mistake. I’m hoping he will offer a better explanation of what happened to us. Finally, after several painful seconds, I’m hoping he will just say something and not continue to stand there in silence.
When he doesn’t say anything, I break down and ask, “What are you doing here?”
“I, uh, wanted to pick up some of my stuff,” he says, darting his eyes around the living room. “I can get the rest when you’re at work or something. You know, at a time more convenient for you.”
My first instinct is to kick him out, but I fight it. I swallow hard, trying to remain calm, though anger surges through my veins. I want something to happen in this moment, but I don’t know what. I haven’t practiced how I want this to go down. Do I want to release the bitter-jilted-ex-fiancée or play this as the calm-collected-ex-fiancée? I don’t know yet. The only feeling I’m sure of is that I feel like I’m owed more information.
“Don’t you think we should talk first?” I say.
With his lips pressed tightly together, he shakes his head grimly. “I already told you everything on Friday. There’s nothing more to say.”
“It wasn’t exactly a conversation. You told me nothing except that you’re in love with Stacey. Aren’t I owed some more answers?”
“It’s just the same answers, Allison. It can’t help to keep going over them.”
I feel a white-hot fury coming on, and the bitter-jilted-ex-fiancée is about to rear her ugly head. I clench my teeth to hold her back. Though I want to go all Welcome-to-the-Thunderdome on him, this is not the end. We still have to figure out our living situation, he still needs to fully move out, and we still need to discuss canceling the wedding contracts. And I want to be more prepared—not sitting in my pajamas nursing a mild hangover and being ambushed by my ex for the second time in forty-eight hours.
“Fine. Get what you need and then please get out,” I say firmly, proud of my calm tone. “We still need to talk about canceling the wedding though and the sooner the better.”
“Can’t you just do that?” he says, his voice sounding tired and annoyed. “You know I was never that involved in the wedding stuff.”
Wait. Did he just whine to me? The man who called off our wedding to sleep with my maid of honor just whined to me that he doesn’t want to deal with canceling the contracts that need to be canceled due to his adulterous behavior? And with that thought, the bitter-jilted-ex-fiancée fights her way past all of my other personas, and suddenly I’m standing and screaming at him, “GET OUT! GET OUT!! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!! AND NEVER COME BACK!!!!”
I’m sure every capillary has burst on my face as I’m stomping my foot and screaming while pointing to the door. Meanwhile, Neil just stands in the hallway white-faced with shock. In our five years together, I have never screamed at him like this, but instead always held back and chose my words carefully. But now I have no control over what I’m saying.
“I’M SERIOUS, NEIL! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE AND BACK TO YOUR TRAMPY WHORE, OR I SWEAR TO GOD I’M GOING TO SHOVE YOU OUT OF HERE MYSELF!”
Just as I’m about to lunge at him, Neil quickly leaves. The front door slams behind him, and I hear his feet running toward the elevators. As soon as he’s gone, I deadbolt the door and slide down to the floor and start heaving big fat ugly tears. I sob uncontrollably for what feels like an hour to the point where my entire body hurts. And even after my tears are spent, I don’t want to get up because I don’t want to get on with my day. I don’t want time to keep moving. I just want everything to stop and go backwards. Because how did I get here? How did this happen to me? Was I complicit in all these crimes? Did I cause this?
My phone rings. Oh my god, if this is Neil I’m going to lose it even more so than I already have, and I don’t want to see what that looks like. I peel myself off the floor and look at the screen. Gilchrist & Jenkins.
“Hi, Jordan,” I snuffle.
“Allison! Are you okay?”
“Hold on.” I put the phone down to blow my nose and then pick it back up. “Yeah, I’m fine. Neil was just here.”
“What did he want?”
“To get some of his stuff.”
“That bastard.”
“That bastard, indeed. I didn’t let him.”
“Good for you.”
“Yeah, well, it got a little ugly. I didn’t let him take anything, which means he’s going to have to come back.” And with that thought, the tears make their reappearance.
“Oh, Allie, I’m so sorry. Stay put, I’m coming over.”
“No, no. It’s okay. I’m fine.” I sniffle loudly.
“I’m coming over,” she says more forcefully, and when she takes that tone there’s no arguing with her.
After we hang up, I head to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my puffy face. When I see my reflection in the mirror, somehow the reality of it all sinks in even more, and I start bawling all over again, even harder, if possible.
I’M STILL TEARY when Jordan arrives. “Oh, honey, come here,” she says and envelops me in a big hug in my doorway.
When we pull away and she comes inside, I manage to ask, “What’s in the bag?”
“Supplies.” She sets the brown grocery bag on my kitchen table. “How do you feel about mimosas?”
I laugh a little, which feels great after crying so hard. “Why not?” So much for my Sunday yoga; mimosas sound like a much better idea.
Jordan grabs two champagne glasses from my cabinet and starts mixing our drinks while I slump down into a kitchen chair. When she hands me my drink, I’m immediately about to guzzle it down, but she stops me.
“Not yet. We need to toast,” she says.
“I don’t think there’s much to celebrate here.”
“Oh, there is. Let’s toast to that bitch Stacey for finally taking that asshole Neil out of your life.”