Page 69 of Two to Tango

‘Erm, more the other stuff. It’s just nice to hear from you. I’ll see you soon.’

‘Be safe, sweetie.’

‘You too.’

* * *

After speaking with Anna, I wash my face and go out for a run. I had intended to clear my head but for the two hours I’m running, I just keep thinking,Brooks will be standing in the studio waiting for me to dance now. And,Brooks will be sitting in the bistro, asking Angie to make him a breakfast shake. Or,I wonder if he makes love to the other woman as good as he did when we were together.

Did it ever mean as much to him as it did to me? Didn’t he feel like the earth stopped spinning? Like we were no longer part of a mundane routine but we were starting something different, new, and exciting; something remarkable?

I don’t know how to answer my own questions or put an end to my chaotic thoughts. So I find myself here, in Walgreens, taking Anna’s advice.

‘That’ll be nineteen thirty-five,’ the cashier tells me as she bags up my bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.

I pay her and walk back to my borrowed apartment. By the time I’ve showered, it’s noon, a perfectly acceptable time of day to fill my body full of toxins and watchP.S. I Love Youon my Mac.

While I’ve always preferred the book – it had me a blubbering mess from page forty – and I am one of those people more than a little angry that the movie was set in New York rather than Ireland, I’m dripping tears into my melting pot of ice cream within the first ten minutes. Subsequently drowning said tears with large gulps of sauvignon blanc, which are traveling straight to my head. Perfect!

When Brooks calls for the fourth time, I don’t send him straight to voice mail; I turn off my phone altogether. You choose another woman; I choose Ben, Jerry, and Gerard Butler all at once.

As I watch Hilary Swank playing a young widow, dancing around her apartment in her dead husband’s clothes, singing along to the TV through her hairbrush, with drips of ice cream decorating my white string vest, I ask myself what on earth I am doing. I didn’t lose someone who loved me enough to marry me. No, sir, I dodged a bullet.

My resolve wanes when Hilary Swank receives the first love letter, written by her husband when he was dying. I blubber away, opting to drink directly from the wine bottle rather than topping up my glass.

Halfway down the bottle – now room temperature – I start to think my sister is right. Why should I be the one in tears? Why should I be crying over spilled milk? Brooks is like the worst kind of milk: full-fat dairy. He deserves to curdle and smell like cheese.

I take another mouthful of wine from the bottle wedged between my crossed legs, then place it on the coffee table. I minimize theP.S. I Love Youscreen and pull up my blog.

In the blog title box, I type:

Brooks Adams: Hound Dog

Ha, that’s funny. I take a much-deserved drink of wine and start to type.

I’ve learned a lot about Brooks Adams over the last week or so. Like how he has two left feet and his hips move as if they’re stuck between steel girders. How he has tantrums when he can’t get his own way and needs anger management when he’s hungry.

In the last couple of days, I’ve also learned how he can lure women in, put them under a spell. He can be the guy singing country tracks on his guitar and the man who likes black-and-white movies.

My biggest discovery came last night, when I realized Brooks Adams is a lying, no-good scumbag.

I take another large gulp of wine before writing the next part.

I fell for the act. Shame on me. But once Brooks had left his mark on me, he turned to another woman, or his other woman.

I interlace my fingers and push my hands out until my knuckles crack.

The worst part is, if Brooks is reading this, he’s still trying to deceive me. He still thinks I don’t know that he carried this woman to his bed last night and kissed her goodbye this morning.

Here, I copy and paste the photo I took of her outside his apartment.

If you’re reading this, girl with the pink hair, and Brooks did the dirty on you, I’m so sorry. I had no idea you existed. I have never, nor would I ever, intentionally cheat. If you’re reading this and you, Pinky, knowingly did the dirty on me, I consider you the filth that lines sewage drains, just like your lover.

Well, Brooks Adams, you ain’t never caught this girl and you ain’t no friend of mine.

Ha, that’s witty. Very funny, Izzy. Very funny.

I’m too drunk to bother with spell-check, so I move my cursor to the submit button. There’s a part of me that knows this is childish and petty. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to humiliate the man I had come to respect. But I remember, he was lying to me the whole bloody time, and I click the button to publish the post.

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