Page 7 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

Q: I’ve waited fifteen years. What’s one summer?

I bit into my smile, but I didn’t text back. I did, however, click to confirm the reservation. It uploaded itself to my calendar and settled just at the edge of my brain. I wandered through the weekend with an anticipatory feeling in my veins, like I might run into him at the corner market where I buy my groceries, or at the dive bar where I meet my running group for post-jog pints, or simply on one of the many sidewalks of downtown, where I always seem to be rushing purposefully from place-to-place.

I’m sure many would assume that I’m another stereotypical, over-scheduled, heartless automaton clawing her way to the top. I’m not. I just learned a long time ago that love is an excuse people use to treat each other badly. I don’t have time for it, the same way I don’t have time for another guy who thinks he’s so great in bed he’ll change my mind. They all think they can change my mind.

I don’t need anyone to change my mind.

Plus, I’ve got plenty of healthy relationships. One of which faithfully sends me into the espresso-scented bustle of the trendy coffee shop where my best friend works every single weekday morning. Unlike every other weekday morning, though, at the start of this week, Meg greets me with a squeal.

“There she is!” she exclaims.

The three customers waiting at the end of the bar for their to-go orders glance up from their phones expectantly. They look disappointed to find I’m a random woman with a sleek ponytail and an unremarkable pencil skirt, stopping in to fuel up on her way to the office. I shrug.

“You’re especially chipper this morning,” I tell her.

Meg scampers around the counter with my usual oversized cold brew and a dish boasting a beautiful blackberry tart, like she’s been waiting for this very moment. She shoves both into my hands before I can protest and beckons me to sit at one of the modern-industrial tables near the front window.

“Am I dying?” I ask, sinking into one of the brown leather chairs across from hers.

“I’m just so proud of you!” she says.

“I…”

She’s nearly bouncing out of her seat with excitement as she shoves her phone at me. I set the tart down and take it. I’m met with a photo of myself, looking especially polished and, dare I say, fierce. My hazel eyes are bright, almost green. My hair is my signature wavy, dark caramel.

“Nice picture,” I offer. “My eye makeup is especially on point. Where’d you get this?”

Meg jiggles in her seat, impatient. “Scroll down.”

That’s when I realize this is an article. The article. The one I’d put off interviewing for so many times that it had clearly come up against a deadline. Now, here it is in all its online glory, for the entire internet to read.

Apparently Jeanine had done what she had to do.

The best part of breaking up is calling Heidi Krupp.

“Oh god,” I grimace. My stomach does a little flip, and I take a long sip of my iced coffee, as if this will somehow soften whatever comes next.

“My best friend is so famous,” Meg giggles. “This makes you sound like a total badass. I mean, you are a total badass, but now people will know about it. You basically have a jingle!”

“Yeah…” I offer, wondering how much other incriminating stuff is in here. I audibly sigh when I get to the tidbit about the lemons and sweetener.

“Everyone will want to date you,” Meg gushes. “After reading this, I want to date you.”

I take a consolation bite of blackberry tart, chewing as I scroll. I’m allowing its buttery, citrusy divinity to fortify me against the certain incoming onslaught. God, how many people have read this? My family? My coworkers? My bosses? I’m going to need another vat of coffee.

“Nobody wants to date me,” I tell her. “Hazards of the job.”

She gives me a look, but she knows it’s true. It’s not only that I’m career-oriented and financially independent – which either intimidates guys or makes them think I want to be their meal ticket, with very little in between – but it’s also the fact that I know exactly how to “take someone for everything he’s worth”, as my last serious boyfriend put it. He wasn’t talking about money, in that scenario, just his dignity, I guess. But still, the point stands.

“I can’t read this,” I say finally, putting the phone face down between us. “It feels too much like looking for my name on the bathroom wall.”

“What? Like, ‘for a good time call’?”

“No, like, grammatically incorrect sharpie slander. Such as, ‘Heidi, your a bitch’, no apostrophe or E.”

“Oh,” she laughs, deflating a bit. “Sorry. I thought you’d be excited.”

“I am,” I offer gently. “I mean, nobody could eat this amazing tribute to seasonal fruit and not feel excited.”

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