Page 3 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

Even as I say it, I’ll admit, Gigi Russo doesn’t look very haunted. She’s beautiful and blonde, with big doe eyes, gratuitous curves, and the effortless kind of glow that looks great in festival wear. She leans her shoulder adoringly into her partner’s and tousles her hair like they’re sitting on a beach somewhere. I succumb to an inward sigh. This would be so much easier – for me and for Teddy – if he didn’t love her. I can’t believe the future of my entire career hangs on the heartstrings of a lovesick middle-aged man.

“Ya know, Heidi, I hear you,” he says stubbornly, “but my therapist says it’s important to feel my feelings.”

“I agree. That is important. But can we also agree that a crowded restaurant where your soon-to-be-ex-wife is hanging out with her new boyfriend might not be the ideal place for those feelings? Especially the… stabby, gin-soaked sort?”

He grumbles something inaudible that sounds vaguely like, “It was vodka.” Then, “But I mean yeah, fine, I guess.”

I smile, taking the win. “Let me call you a ride, or order you some food. Have you had the scampi here? It’s life-changing. Trust me. Everything will be better tomorrow.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“Well, it’s usually true.”

“Hey, it’s a party!” Paolo the publicist says, smiling like he isn’t in fact half an hour later than he should’ve been. “We having dinner?”

“Is this an intervention?” Teddy says suspiciously, turning his wary gaze to me. “Do you have one of your guys following me?”

“No,” I say. A half-truth, maybe, but to be fair, Angela isn’t a guy. “I’m meeting a friend for drinks. This encounter was entirely serendipitous, Teddy. I do have a life outside of work, ya know.”

This is also precariously half-true.

Teddy nods, still watching me like I'm about to stab him in the back.

“Sure, all right,” he says. “First round’s on me. Tell your friend.”

On the outside, I’m smiling graciously. On the inside, I’m annoyed. The unspoken “what’s the difference between lawyer and liar?” hangs between us.

(In case you haven’t heard this faded gem as many times as I have, the answer is “the pronunciation”.)

I’m on a mission to preserve my credibility – and admittedly, yes, my shot at partnership – as I head for the bar. It’s bustling with conversation and lacking any open seats, but I begin scanning the crowd anyway. This is Memphis: I can’t go to Target on a Monday night without running into at least two people I’ve known since middle school. If I can’t find an acquaintance in one of downtown’s hottest restaurants, I’m seriously going to begin questioning my networking skills.

After a couple of minutes, I come up short, but a gnawing feeling tugs at my attention. It takes me a few beats to recognize it as hunger. If I can’t find a friend, I can at least have dinner. They’ve got great grilled artichokes here. I also wasn’t lying when I told Teddy the scampi is a thing of magic. But honestly, a plate of complimentary bread might taste award-winning to me right now.

I attempt to scrunch in near the bar, hoping to stick my name on a list for one of the high top tables. It’s just then that a guy steps up beside me, smiling with a sure sense of recognition that I do not share.

“Hey,” he says smoothly, passing me a fizzy cocktail. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Speechless isn’t something I’ve been accused of often (read also: ever), but as I blink wordlessly into a set of hopeful dark blue eyes, I wonder if maybe I’m hungrier than I thought, as if perhaps I dreamed up this mystery guy. It’s like ‘hangry’, but… hotter. (Horngry?)

“You look amazing,” he continues. “How’ve you been? How’s… everything?”

He looks like he stepped out of an old school Ambercrombie ad and carried that carefree vibe into his early thirties: beachy dark hair, deep dimples that don’t require a smile, a physique primed for tons of incongruous opportunities to take off his shirt. The kind of guy who would look great in grayscale, and probably knows it.

My gaze drops to the spot where exactly two of his fingers are touching my elbow. They slip away, and I’m left contemplating the weight of the highball glass in my hand. It’s rimmed with spicy seasoning, garnished with a lime, and looks suspiciously like one of my favorite cocktails. And he’s looking at me like he actually thinks I might drink it. I give him an amused, assessing stare.

“You don’t know me,” I point out.

The way his smile falters tells me I’m correct.

“But you’re pretending,” I guess, “because you’re either a serial killer who knows my go-to drink order, since he’s obviously been stalking me and is now trying to drug me, or you just ran into… an ex-girlfriend?”

He grimaces, and the tops of his cheeks turn pink. It’s a good look for him. He takes a sheepish gulp of his beer.

“New stepmother,” he admits.

Now it’s my turn to grimace. A laugh escapes me before I can stop myself. “Wow. That sounds remarkably complicated. But I appreciate the plot twist.”

He shifts closer to be heard as a group of women in their mid-forties pass behind him. They’re all wearing skimpy black dresses, led by a ringleader with a hot pink veil. The high notes of their chatter drift by towards the balcony stairs reserved for private parties. He takes this opportunity to lean in confidentially.

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