Even though I know she’s trying to be supportive, her words have the unintended effect of making me feel like an idiot for even letting those two into my life.
I put down my glass and rest my forehead in my palms. “Oh god, Jordan. What am I going to do?” I hate the hopeless tone in my voice, but I just need to be pathetic right now.
“Oh, sweetie, I didn’t mean to upset you.” She leans over and hugs me again. “Here’s what you’re going to do. First, we drink. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, compliant with this plan and then take a large gulp of the mimosa she so kindly made. “But, ugh, I’m going to have to face Neil sometime soon. He does still need to get his stuff.”
“No, you don’t. This is what we’re going to do today. After these mimosas, we’re changing the locks.”
“We can’t do that. How’s he going to get in?”
“He’s not.” She gives me a pointed look. “Then we’re going to pack up his stuff and put it downstairs with the doorman. You’ll call Neil and tell him to pick up his stuff or it’s going in the trash.”
Getting into the spirit of this plan, I say, “Better yet. Let’s just put it in the trash room. Then that way if he doesn’t pick it up, it’s definitely going in the trash.”
Jordan winks at me and raises her glass. “See, I can tell you’re feeling better already.”
After we finish our first mimosas, I head downstairs to see if my building’s engineer is around. He’s not. So instead I talk to my doorman, Robert. “It’s Sunday,” he says. “I don’t know if José can do it today. Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“It’s, it’s …” I start to stammer, trying not to cry. “It’s a bit of an emergency. Neil and I broke up.”
Robert’s eyes widen. “Noooo. But the wedding?”
I shake my head. “It’s off.”
Robert’s eyes are still wide and knowing that he loves good gossip about the tenants, I give it to him. “Neil cheated on me.”
He gasps and puts his hand to his heart. “What a fool! I’m sorry to hear this. You know sometimes these young guys get cold feet and do something stupid.”
“Oh, it was stupid all right.” And even though it pains me to admit it, I feel this information will further help my cause. “He cheated on me with my maid of honor.”
All of a sudden Robert’s eyes turn serious, and he holds up his index finger. “You wait right here, Miss James.” He picks up the phone, dials a number, and says, “José, we have an emergency. Come to the front desk.”
When I return upstairs, Jordan has already begun stuffing Neil’s clothes into several garbage bags. Noticing I’m back, she says, “I can do the clothes. That’s pretty obvious. So if you want to start on the other items … or if that’s too painful, just point them out to me, and I’ll take care of it.”
I stand up straighter and pull my shoulders back in determination. “I can handle it.”
I feel like we’re cleaning up a crime scene—that Jordan is my Olivia Pope from Scandal and I am her gladiator—and I swiftly grab a garbage bag and head to the bathroom. I start dumping everything from his medicine cabinet and drawers into the bag. I notice that the cologne he always wears is missing, as are his favorite hair products and eye cream. (Yeah, Neil, while you were making fun of my facials and nightly skincare routine, I know you were secretly into man products.) Since he appears to have taken his bathroom essentials, I have no problem throwing this bag in the actual trash.
The physical exercise of removing Neil’s belongings from “our” place feels liberating. This was my place before Neil moved in. I was getting tired of wasting money on rent, and when most of my friends were coupled up and embarking on home ownership, whether in the city or the suburbs, I followed suit on the next step to responsible adulthood—a mortgage. Later, with Neil’s lease up and after a year of dating, we decided it made sense for him to move in with me. He sold his furniture and moved his clothes and other belongings into my two-bedroom, two-bath condo. While I paid my mortgage, he paid the monthly HOA fees, our utilities, and grocery bills. We didn’t share any credit cards or bank accounts or, apparently, commitment, which paved the way for Neil to move out as quickly and cleanly as he moved in.
Thank goodness I’m now a far cry from the sad heap on the floor that I was this morning; instead, I’m a determined woman with a mission to reclaim my home and banish all traces of Neil’s prior existence from it. His hideous Notre Dame blanket on the bed, his random sports teams coasters cluttering the coffee table, his tacky baseball bobblehead collection—I want it all gone.
As we’re packing, José comes and changes the locks. He looks at me sadly, and I intuit that he is on Team Allison, which also helps me feel a little better.
By three o’clock, the locks are changed, and Jordan and I have finished the champagne and orange juice, as well as our packing.
“Should I call Neil now?” I ask, though I don’t want to. I don’t want to speak to him, even if it’s just texting.
Reading my face, Jordan says, “Why don’t I call him?”
“You’re the best. Thank you.” Grateful and relieved, I toss her my phone. “If you don’t mind, I don’t even think I can handle listening.” My voice starts to break and I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to cry again.
“Why don’t you take a shower while I call?”
That’s when I realize that I’m still in my pajamas from this morning—so not Allison of me. “Good idea.”
AFTER MY SHOWER, I feel clean and light. When I step out of the bathroom in my robe, I notice that all the bags are gone and Jordan is sitting on my sofa flipping through my latest issue of Marie Claire.
“So?” I venture.
“He didn’t answer, so I texted from my phone that he had twenty-four hours to pick up his shit or else, and signed it very truly yours, moi. Didn’t want to leave any incriminating evidence on your phone.”
“Thanks.” While I’m not surprised, it’s still pretty depressing that this is what it’s come to—ignored calls and intermediaries. “Where did the bags go?”
“I took them down when you were in the shower. José and Robert helped me. Make sure to tip big at Christmas this year.”
“I always do.” At least there are still some decent men in my life. I collapse down on the couch next to her. “Now what?”
“Whatever you want. Movies? Pizza? More booze? Name your distraction.”
I survey my living room, which is now missing Neil’s framed photos, sports memorabilia, and random books. The emptier space feels oddly claustrophobic.
I look back to Jordan. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but let’s go out.”
Jordan and I walk over to Fig & Olive on Oak Street, where we sit at the bar ordering small plates and more bubbly.
“So what’s your plan?” asks Jordan.
“For what part?”
“All of it. Wedding? Job?” She waves an unsteady hand in the air. “Do you need any help making phone calls?”