In My Absence...

I promise an update soon, but if you're missing your Lil' Irish fix in the meantime, check out my post on Indie Ink.

And yes, I did just whore out my blog.

Part II, Chapter 1

It's 8:30 Sunday evening and I have that night-before-the-first-day-of-school feeling. That slightly nervous, mostly excited twitter in the pit of your stomach. I've showered, set up the coffee for the morning, and laid out my clothes. Because tomorrow is It. The first day of work at my new job. The first day of my new beginning. Of my new life.

I've been waiting for this for a long, long time. Since I signed my name to that resignation letter two weeks ago. Since I told my new boss that I was accepting his offer a month and a half back. Since I got my passing score in May or finished the exam in March. Really, I've been waiting for this moment ever since that first CFP class three years ago. When it all clicked and I just knew. This was what I wanted to do with my life. This was that spark I'd been waiting for.

Tomorrow morning, I will put on my black pencil skirt and button up my Brooks Brothers shirt. I'll step into my heels and snap shut the clasp on my watch. I'll make my way down to Wall Street with The Journal in one hand and a coffee in the other. For the first time in five years, I'll walk through a door that doesn't lead to a job; I'll walk through a door that leads to a career.

The Breakup

I felt nauseous and lightheaded and my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I knew what was coming, but no amount of forewarning would make this any easier. Nothing would.

"Can we talk?" I began. My voice as shaky as my hands. I wondered if he knew where this was going. I wondered how he could not.

"I'm not happy anymore and I've decided that it's time for me to move on." He stared at me. Saying nothing. Looking as though he were going to cry. Or scream. Or hit me. "I've accepted a position at another company. I'm leaving, Shuffles."

For what seemed like ten minutes but was probably only two, he said nothing. He sat completely silent, just looking at me with this sour, pained expression. When he finally opened his mouth, his voice came out as a weak, sickly whine.

"I...I don't know what to say, Lil. I...I--"

It felt so good to watch him squirm like the little insect that he is.

"How much time are you giving us for transition?"

Ah, the sweet, sweet icing on the Fuck You, Shuffles, You Asshole cake.

"Two weeks."

I watched as his face transformed. From pathetic to furious in under ten seconds. Contorted with the rage that was about to burst forth. His voice altered from a pathetic whine to a enraged hiss.

"Two weeks?"

"Yes."

"Two weeks?"

I returned his glare and said nothing. Not interested in this last game of tit-for-tat.

"You're leaving us in the lurch! You're not being fair! You should have let me know three, four months ago when you started looking for a job! So we could hire someone for you to train!

"Shuff, I didn't know--"

"Oh come on!"

I expected the foot-stomping to commence at any moment. The tantrum to kick into high gear. I braced myself for the verbal onslaught, trying to keep in mind that I'd have a brand-new, shiny, non-autistic boss in just a few weeks.

"I can't do this right now. I need time to process this. We'll talk later."

Relieved to put distance between myself and The Maniac, I happily retreated back to my office. Smiling all the way.

About half an hour later, after he'd had time to "process," Shuffles slip-slid through my doorway. Looking even more furious than before.

"Lil, you said you would stay through October 2nd. I want you to leave before that. Two weeks isn't going to help us anyway and I don't need to pay for another month of health insurance for you." He turned to walk away but then stopped. Another petty dig popping into his small, sad mind. "And try to act professional until you leave."

Now it was my turn to stare, dumbfounded. I had expected stupidity but not to such a great degree. I was the only person in the company who knew how to do what I do. The only one. Literally. And, when what I do - what I did - is manage the most profitable part of the business...not so smart to spit in my face on my way out the door. Particularly when I've yet to train someone or turn over my accounts.

Stupid fuck.

But his myriad issues were not my problem anymore, so I gleefully began to pack my personal effects and think about the vacation I'd just been granted. Think about the extreme chaos I would leave in my wake.

Of course he came back an hour later and "apologized." Of course he came back and begged me to stay for the full two weeks. Begged me to help with the transition. Promised to pay me the commissions I'd earned through the end of the year. It was all very pathetic and, if I didn't hate him so much, I'd have felt rather sorry for him.

So I decided to stay through the end of next week. Out of guilt, out of a sense of duty, out of a sick desire to watch the office unravel around me. Out of a mercenary desire to get the money that I have coming to me. But the countdown has begun. My days are numbered. It's the end of an era.

And thank fucking God.

Floored

"I have to bail on tonight, I'm sorry."

I texted back to ask him why, already knowing the answer.

"She's coming over, we had a fight last night."

The answer was expected. Just like my instantaneous, angry response.

"Great. Have fun making up."

I put my phone in my purse and tried to ignore it. Tried to put him out of my mind. Failed.

He texted me a few more times throughout Thursday afternoon. Mostly about the Yankees game he was taking me to next week. Where the seats were. If I'd decided who I wanted to bring now that he'd been able to get four tickets instead of two.

My answers were short. My tone cold. I couldn't stop thinking about what I was sure would happen that night. More promises to try to change from her. More inability to cut the cord from him. The same ebb and flow that had been going on for months. And me, just floating on the surface, allowing myself to drift with the current.

A few hours later, at a happy hour with friends, I did my too-many-beers-on-an-empty-stomach stumble towards the bathroom. Not having wanted The Latin (or his absence) to ruin my evening, I'd spent since six o'clock parked on a rickety stool at an FDNY bar. Laughing, tipping back pints, and not eating a blessed thing.

As I waited in line for a stall, I checked my cell phone. Surprised to see several missed calls. And voicemail. Shocked to see that they were all from my mother. Floored to hear what she had to say.

"Hey it's me, I've been trying to call you. Daddy and I will go. To the game? On the 27th? He'll get to meet the family. Call me back. Bye."

Now I felt like I had to pee and throw up. He'll get to meet the family, in all of their wrathful glory.

Being half in the bag and entirely twirled up, I momentarily forgot how angry I was with him. Momentarily forgot that he was with her. Momentarily forgot that I probably shouldn't be texting.

"my parents want to come to the game. i am trashed so this is blowing my mind right now."

Ever the eloquent woman.

"We began the breakup convo tonight. We agree the things that don't work cannot be changed. Ill call you tomorrow."

I texted nothing back, swaying where I stood. Another beginning of another breakup conversation, I thought to myself. Another beginning that wouldn't lead to an end. And I didn't know what to say to that anymore.

The next morning, recovering from a hangover and the bad judgment call I'd made at 1AM, I waited for a text from The Latin. A call to my work phone. An email. I waited for another frustrating conversation about how he hadn't pulled the trigger. About how he would, but on his own time table. At his own pace.

I waited but heard nothing. Not until 2:40 PM.

"I broke up with her."

I stared at the bright white letters against the black cell phone screen. Letters that I'd started to think that I would never see. Finally, five months to the day, his pace had caught up to my own.

And no. We didn't jump on the phone and talk to each other. I didn't race to his apartment after work nor he to mine. We didn't celebrate. We're not together. In fact, we didn't speak until Sunday night and we still haven't seen each other. I'm giving him his space.

He didn't ask for it, but he's getting it just the same. For both of our sakes. Because he needs to be single for a while. Needs to be with me because he's chosen me - not as an alternative to her, but because he wants it. Wants me. Wants us.

And I think it will happen, what with all of our puzzle-pieceyness. With all of our fitting, and clicking, and feeling that we belong to each other and no one else. I think it will happen, I really do. I just don't know when.

But, unlike if, that's a question I can deal with.

Fun And Games

Games. Five months of them. The waiting game, the guessing game. Feeling like I'd get more answers from a Ouija Board or Magic 8 Ball than from him.

The word games. Cute little sayings and mnemonic devices that stopped being cute almost immediately.

"I'm fine," I'd text. When I was anything but.

"FINE - Feeling Insecure, Neurotic, & Emotional," he'd respond. Thinking himself so clever.

He tried to "manage my expectations." "Add value." "Increase my return on my investment." His attempts to woo me were a part of his ABC mentality - "Always Be Closing."

I told him to stop talking to me like I was one of his clients. Or an extra in Glengarry Glen Ross. When he persisted, I was tempted to tell him to go TTYL himself.

But sometimes word games aren't so bad. Sometimes, they rather hit the proverbial nail on its head. Like this acrostic that a friend-in-the-know just handed to me. Written on a scrap of paper as she listened, from the office next door, to my cell phone beep with each incoming text from him. As she read the exasperated instant messages that I typed out to her, laced with frustration and upset.

D rags you down.
U nattractive, cowardly behavior
M onopolizes your thoughts
P ushes your emotional buttons.

H ates sex with the girlfriend but won't leave.
I nability to follow-through.
M ay never leave her.

She said it only took her a minute or two to come up with. A minute or two to come up with seven salient reasons to leave. To break things off.

And yet I've stayed for five months.

All because of another game. A jigsaw puzzle. And the annoying little fact that his piece locks so perfectly into mine.

The Strategic Leave-Behind

Our leftovers from lunch near Grand Central. At a fancy restaurant midway between our two offices because he knew I was uncomfortable meeting him at his. Where everyone knew. Where I felt judgmental eyes that he swore weren't there.

The leather bound portfolio he uses for important client meetings. Like the one he came from to meet me at my apartment at noon that Wednesday. For a lunch hour that neither of us came back from.

An unopened bottle of wine that we hadn't gotten to the next night when I slept over. Because he missed me. After just twenty-four hours.

His jacket. The one he'd draped around my shoulders when I shivered, standing there with him by the ocean after my best friend's wedding on Long Island. The wedding he'd begged to come to with me. The one we'd rented a car and driven out together for. The ceremony we sat through, his hand clasping mine, giving it a little squeeze whenever meant-to-be came up in the service. The reception where we danced for hours, everyone telling us what a great couple we made. How fantastic we were together. Him kissing me during the last dance and saying how happy he was. How happy I made him.

The rest of the baked mozzarella crostini he'd made for me and Margarita when the three of us cooked dinner together last Tuesday. Running out to the grocery store on our corner and taking my keys so he could let himself back into the apartment. Bringing our garbage down on his way out. Just like a real boyfriend would.

His Rolex. Forgotten on my nightstand at 6AM Tuesday morning. In his early-morning, under-slept haze. When all we were thinking about was morning-breath-kisses and not wanting to leave my warm bed. Not wanting to leave each other.

It's always there. The strategic leave-behind. Something that reminds me of him, like the leftovers in my fridge. The bottle of wine returned to the rack where it wasn't supposed to be anymore. Something that he needs and has to come back for. Like the portfolio, the jacket, or the watch.

Or me.

Find Out What It Means To Me

When Beave and I were dating, there was one disagreement that kept cropping up. One argument. One fundamental difference of opinion.

"Is it more important to you that our kids be good people or be successful?" he would ask.

"Successful," I would respond. With unwavering conviction. Without a moment's hesitation.

He would be horrified and the fighting would commence.

Perhaps it was how I was raised, with such an emphasis on accomplishments. Perhaps it was the rush I got from the achievement of my goals. But being a "good person" was never exactly a major priority. Never the thing that motivated me. It's nice; but I would exchange an unblemished soul for a life filled with financial, intellectual, and professional success in a second. Half a second even.

Beave was a good person. Wholesome. With a black and white moral code that allowed for no grey in the palette. By conventional standards, he was the type of man who deserved my respect. My admiration. But he had no drive, no ambition, no insatiable desire for success. I loved him but, without those qualities, I never respected him. Not really. I couldn't.

So when people wonder how I can have such strong feelings for The Latin when I couldn't possibly respect him, my answer is simple. I do. I respect his unfettered ambition, his tenacity, his drive. I respect his professional success. His intellect. I respect the way he locks in on something that he wants and goes after it until it's his. And I admire the way he is unapologetic about that.

These are the things that drew me to him, and these are the things that make me stay.

I've been in lust and I've been in love, and I know that this isn't the former. This isn't about great sex or good looks or an on-paper checklist. Not about being lonely and filling the void with just someone, anyone. It's about having found someone who understands me and whom I understand. Someone who makes me laugh and smile and think. Who makes me feel more than I've felt in a long time. Who makes me feel at home. Whom I respect in spite of his shortcomings.

Would I rather he not be a cheater? Of course. Just like I'd rather my father not be an alcoholic. This doesn't make them bad people; it makes them people with flaws.

And I'm not going into this under the delusion that The Latin will change. I know that it's a rare person who does. So I know that there is an exceptionally high chance that, if and when we get together, he will cheat. We've talked about it and he says he doesn't want to, will try not to. But I'm a realist and I take it with a pillar of salt the size of Lot's wife. He is who he is and I wouldn't love him if he were not. It becomes a question of what your deal-breakers are and that, with him, is not.

In anticipation of the chorus of but-you-can-do-better comments, let me say this: I know. I know that I can probably find a man who wouldn't cheat. I know that I can probably find a man who is both successful and a good person. I know that I can probably find a relationship that isn't rife with conflict and drama. I know. But I want him. Him, with all of his inglorious flaws and fuck-ups.

Us, with all of our clicking and fitting like puzzle pieces. With all of the good mixed in with the bad.