Staring at the ceiling, I moan, “Why, Jordan? Why her? Why everything?”
“You were too good for him.” That’s what she keeps saying, but it rings hollow. If I’m too good, then why does everyone keep discarding me? I’m tired of trying to feel empowered. I can’t keep it up anymore; all strength has left me and whatever tough act I had going on is all gone. Right now I want to wallow and play the victim.
There’s a knock at the door. Jordan gets up to answer it and I sit up. I hear a male voice with a Spanish accent say, “This is courtesy of Mr. Sloane our maître d’. Where would you like me to set it?”
“On the desk is great,” says Jordan.
Alejandro walks past me and nods in greeting while balancing the tray. When his back is turned to us, Jordan raises her eyebrows meaningfully at me. I get her meaning. Even in my sorry state I can appreciate that which is Alejandro.
When he is finished arranging the tea, he then hands us two menus from the restaurant. “Mr. Sloane asked me to give these to you and to tell you to order whatever you like. It’s on the house. He also told me to stay and take your order.”
I’m not hungry, but I know Jordan needs to eat. I also know it will stress her out if I don’t eat anything, so I simply ask Alejandro what his favorite dish at the restaurant is—the fava bean ravioli—and order that. After he leaves, Jordan stands by the door watching him disappear down the hallway. She then closes the door and comments, “That Mr. Sloane is a thoughtful man.”
“Yes, though I’m not sure if you’re referring to the service or the server?”
“A little of both.”
I nod and take a sip of my tea. My eyes start to water, this time not from tears. “Whoa! This is the strongest tea I’ve ever had.”
Jordan takes a whiff of hers and then a sip. “Is that brandy?”
“It’s something.” I drink it down despite how hot and alcoholic it is.
Jordan is sitting at the desk playing with her phone. “What are you looking at?” I ask.
“Trying to find out how long a drive it is to Vegas.”
I give her a confused look.
“We don’t have to stay here,” she says. “I’m not sure more ohm-ing and ah-ing and nature hikes are going to cut it. You’ve been doing the introspection thing, which is awesome, but there’s something to be said about partying your ass off to forget your troubles.”
I sigh. “This is not how this day was supposed to be. I was feeling at peace with everything. This was supposed to be a celebratory day, with or without Neil.”
“Yeah, then that bastard has to crash the party. Typical,” Jordan hisses. “I could just kill the sonofabitch.”
“Though that would be something to celebrate, I don’t think orange jumpsuits are our color or style.”
“You’re right. Thank you for being practical.”
“And I don’t think we need to go to Vegas to get shit-faced. Drunkenly dancing on the bar being groped by strangers at the age of thirty-five isn’t very life-affirming.” I sigh pathetically: all bravado has left the building. “I think I just want another hot toddy and to go to sleep.”
After we eat our dinner, with me mostly pushing mine around the plate, and get a second viewing of the handsome Alejandro when he brings us our food, Jordan insists on sleeping in my room with me. “I’m not suicidal,” I tell her.
“I know, but you shouldn’t be alone. Besides, those toddies were strong, and I’m here to stop you from any texting, calling, emailing, tweeting, or Facebooking Neil or anything else about Neil.”
I’m too weak to argue.
Turns out when there’s a knock on the door around midnight that wakes us up, I’m grateful Jordan is with me. “Ignore it,” Jordan mumbles half-asleep.
But when the gentle tapping continues, Jordan gets up with a harrumph and answers it. There is some surprised whispering and then she shuts the door.
“What was that about?” I ask, a little alarmed.
“Alejandro was checking up on you.”
“Did Mr. Sloane send him?” I’m surprised.
“No, I think this was Alejandro’s taking the initiative.” She pats my leg as she settles back into bed. “Even with mascara running down your face, you’ve still got it. Take comfort in that.”
After the knock, I can’t fall asleep. I spend most of the night staring at the ceiling and trying not to toss and turn. In the morning, I feel like a zombie, and with my gray skin and dark circles under my eyes, I resemble one too. Our flight is this afternoon, and while I don’t want to show my face in the hotel any longer, I’m not that excited about going home either.
Jordan and I drink coffee on the little patio off my room.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to Vegas? We could still change our flight. I’m in no hurry to get back to work,” Jordan offers.
I shake my head and sigh.
She pats my hand. “It’s going to get better.”
“I know.” Though I don’t believe it.
“And, remember. There’s always Alejandro. You can stay here and have beautiful Spanish babies with him.”
The mention of babies makes me want to cry again for the umpteenth time. Though I love Jordan and everything she’s done for me, I also need some space to privately bawl my eyes out so I don’t have another outburst on the plane.
“True,” I say. “So, hey, I’m going to take a shower now. Maybe it’s time we start motivating for the airport?”
“Sure, sure. I’ll do the same. Let’s meet in the lobby in an hour.”
“Great.”
Once she’s out of my room, I turn on the shower. I step inside and, hoping that my room is soundproof, let out a lonely, painful howl. I half expect coyotes to howl back in response to my plaintive wailing. All the advice, new rules, and affirmations aren’t going to help me now. Before, I could think anything I wanted about Neil—that he was a commitment-phobe or just a cheater or that he didn’t want children. But the truth is that he didn’t want me. He wanted all those things with the right woman, and I wasn’t her. And I wasted five years of my life making excuses. I hate him for not stepping up and breaking up with me much sooner, before we moved in together or before he proposed. Why did he even propose? Was it because of my prodding? For the love of god! Who is the real idiot in this scenario? Sadly, I suspect it’s me.
ON THE PLANE ride home, my eyes are too tired and swollen to read anything. All I have anyway is a trashy magazine and a half-baked self-help book that tells me it’s all my fault for attracting this mess that is my life. So I feign sleep until it finally, blissfully comes. When we touch down at O’Hare, the landing jolts me awake. I look over and Jordan already has her phone in her hand ready to switch back on.
“Hey,” she says. “We’re home.”
As we taxi, she doesn’t seem too happy about it as she frowns looking at all her messages.
“That bad?” I ask.
“It always is. But I guess when you’re spending that much money, everything is a crisis.”
She angrily deletes some messages and with lightning fast fingers types some responses. Jordan has left the spa.