Best of Luck Elsewhere Page 2

  It was back to writing rejection letters and, as Adam Mestas had so delicately put it, crushing people’s dreams.

  CHAPTER 2

  Liam always locked the front door. He knew I got home within an hour of when he did, and he knew that I unfailingly had an armload of manuscripts to balance, but the door was always locked.

  When we first moved into the condo and I’d noticed his door-locking habit, I had asked him to leave it unlocked at least until I got home. He’d replied with a straight face that if the door was unlocked for even five minutes, some criminal could easily walk in and steal his Xbox and we’d never know what happened to it.

  “How awful,” I’d replied sarcastically.

  “A criminal, Lizzy,” he had asserted. “In our house.”

  “A smooth criminal?” I’d asked, but seeing that he was very serious about the issue, I had dropped it then and there. The door was perpetually locked.

  Now, arms full of manuscripts, as usual, I gently tapped my forehead on the door, hoping he was downstairs and would hear me. No answer. I pressed my hip against the doorbell and from inside I heard the chime of the pause button on his Xbox, followed by some shuffling, and the door was flung open. Before even speaking, Liam grabbed one of my armfuls of manuscripts and set them on the table next to the door. I followed suit, and as soon as my arms were empty, Liam gathered me up for a big hug. “Welcome home, oh famous one! Dinner will be done in ten.”

  “Smells good.” I smiled as he released me. Liam closed and locked the door behind me. “Italian?”

  “Pesto risotto.”

  “Yum! You’re so great.”

  Liam’s lanky figure moved back to his perch on the floor in front of the big-screen TV. He folded his pale white legs underneath him and took up the Xbox controller, declaring, “You bet I am! Check this out!” There was a chime and he was back to his game.

  “So great,” I affirmed as I started up the stairs.

  “Remember, dinner in ten,” he called after I’d turned the corner on the stairs. “Be there or be eating cold risotto.”

  I made my way up the stairs, and then slowed to look at the picture collages on the stairwell. Most of the pictures were from college and the few years after, and most had Liam and me smiling or goofing off, as though nothing existed before we’d met. I looked at the picture of us dressed up and smiling on Halloween as Mario and Luigi, the picture of us smiling and wind-whipped on the deck of the ferry to Coronado, the picture of us smiling and showing our muscles in front of the fence we had repaired in his parents’ yard. These pictures still made me smile, no matter that I saw them every day going up and down the stairs.

  Then there was the picture a waiter took of him proposing to me at our favorite restaurant, the one from the surprise engagement party with all of our family, and the one of us holding the keys to our new condo. These always brought on a sad smile.

  There was only one picture, at the beach with a group of his friends where Liam is half-buried in the sand and smiling and I am contributing to the burying and only half-smiling, from after the breakup.

  Turns out you can have a soul mate who is not meant to be your actual mate.

  As of last summer, Liam ceased being my boyfriend, my fiancé, my “intended,” and became just my roommate. We’d gotten along great for a while there, never fighting. We’d sleep in separate rooms, date other people, and never, ever have sex.

  As a matter of fact, we rarely had sex even when we were a couple, which was a large part of why we are now platonic. We kind of always were. Sure, we smooched all the time, and there were the here-and-there innuendos that never led anywhere. I want to remember a time when we were overwhelmingly passionate about each other, but always in my memories, I am trying to seduce him, and he just concedes. We were so busy during the first few years of our relationship that we saw each other only a few days a week, and we’d get our groove on maybe once a week. I’d always assumed that once we moved in together as we kept planning, he would become the insatiable sex machine that magazines always make men out to be.

  When we bought the condo and nothing changed, I wondered if he had some religious hang-up that I was not being sensitive to. So I decided it would get better after we were married and completely legit.

  After a few months of living together and being turned down countless times, though, I became more hurt than sexually frustrated. I stopped re-applying my makeup and brushing my hair before heading home from work so that I’d look cute for Liam, since he obviously didn’t notice. I stopped trying to get him to make love to me. When he seemed happy not to be badgered for lovemaking, I felt even worse. Was I not pretty enough? I began to feel very ugly. Was I a bad lover? I no longer even wanted to make love to him, because I no longer felt sexy. I’d gone from sexually free to ice queen in 3.2 months.

  I then started to wonder, with guilt at my own self-centeredness, if he had some kind of hormonal problem. I was just getting up the nerve to suggest he make a doctor’s appointment, wanting to solve this before we tied the knot, when I came home an hour early from work one day. He usually got home from work before me, and I’d thought my gesture of leaving early myself to have the conversation might show him that I felt it was a serious enough issue to pursue.

  When I opened the door and came around the corner, however, I found my fiancé completely nude in front of the computer, eyes shut tight in ecstasy. Before he could open them, I ducked back around the corner and to the front door, which I opened and slammed shut. I heard the quick clicking of his mouse, obviously closing several web page screens, before he gasped, “Hey, my sweet! You’re home early! I’m just about to step in the shower. I’ll be out in a sec.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, stricken with the fact he had chosen something so impersonal for release instead of making love to me. It was like a brutal stab to my heart.

  I was available. I hadn’t ever turned him down. And yet he preferred to masturbate with a two-dimensional image instead?

  I’d never felt worse about myself than at that moment.

  When I heard the shower turn on upstairs, I plopped down at the computer desk to take advantage of my narrow time slot, and went directly to the most recent site in the history. I reached unconsciously for the few mini-chocolates left in the little bowl we kept on the desk.

  What was I expecting to find? I feared that I’d be face-to-face with fifty thumbnails of sexy naked women with straight blonde hair, creamy white skin, perky little breasts, flat abs, and hips so narrow that they were almost boyish. What I saw was more boyish than I’d expected.

  Boys Next Door. Hollywood Hunks. Sexy Sampsons.

  “What the hell?”

  If I had to compete with the pictures I’d been expecting, I could have told Liam to get the hell out of my life and find the kind of cookie-cutter chick he wanted.

  But what could I possibly say about this? I couldn’t compete with these men. With any man. I was out of the picture completely.

  The shower turned off, but I could not peel away from the computer. Somehow, I knew it would be better for him to see me seeing this than for me to try to bring it up later. Moments later, Liam strolled casually into the office without knowing that his life was going to change in a few seconds. Both of our lives.

  He had a towel around his waist and his brown hair was dark with moisture and hanging straight to his chin. Shimmering droplets of water ran from it down his smooth chest. When he saw me, he stopped in his tracks and neither of us could say a thing for what seemed like a nightmare of an eternity.

  He stood dripping and gaping until he was able to finally muster a pathetic, “Oh, Lizzy, I didn’t mean for you to…I was just…”

  In response all I could muster was the energy to pry my hand from the mouse, pull off my engagement ring, and drop it into the small bowl of torn silver foil wrappers which had until recently been filled with rich chocolate.

  * * *

  After many very difficult weeks of trying to decide what
to do, trying to figure out our feelings, and trying to explain to our friends and families that we were going to “postpone” the wedding for “personal” reasons, we finally knew the relationship was over.

  There was nothing to work out. No problems to solve. I hated that Liam had led me on. Liam hated that he could not make a life with me and that he had been forced out of the closet that he had been somewhat comfortable living in.

  We met with a realtor to put the condo up for sale, planning to pay off the loan and split the decent profit we had made in the short time we had owned the place. Then we would go our separate ways with only baggage of the emotional sort to deal with.

  While the realtor looked around our home, tears welled up in my eyes, and though I was able to push them back, Liam noticed.

  “Why can’t we,” he started cautiously, “just stay here? We get along perfectly, besides bedroom stuff.”

  I shook my head sadly, staring at my sandals. “We’ve talked about this, Liam. Over and over. I can’t commit to a sexless marriage. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.” I stroked the slowly disappearing lighter band of smooth skin where my engagement ring had been. My skin was almost back to normal. I was hoping that my heart was in tow, even if it was just taking a little longer.

  Liam grabbed my hand. “We can be roommates. A very easygoing kind of thing. If we stop getting along, or one of us finds someone else, or whatever, we’ll just sell. The worst that will happen is that the condo will appreciate in value a little more and we’ll part with more money. The best that will happen is that our life will go on just as before for a while longer, but without sex. It was the only thing that ever seemed to be hard on the relationship.”

  I glared at him like he was crazy, but as the realtor came down the stairs, some clarity set in. She moved down the stairs slowly and we both knew that, like all of our visitors, she was looking at our happy picture collages. By the time she made the turn and came into view, I had made my decision.

  “Cute pictures,” the realtor commented airily. “You guys seem like you have lotsa fun.”

  “I don’t know if we’re ready to sell,” I said suddenly, as though it were an answer to her compliment. From his place standing by my side, Liam’s face turned in my direction. Though I continued to look straight ahead at the realtor, I could see in my peripheral vision a smile playing over Liam’s lips.

  And really, what was the harm? Our condo kept going up in value. Liam began to go out a little, feeling more comfortable in his new life. I had more time to focus on work, not having to worry about my home life as I had when we were a couple. In fact, I even appreciated all the work I brought home because I didn’t have to worry about my “civilian” life much at all if I was wrapped up in reading manuscripts. The situation was good for both of us. The lack of certainty about the future just gave us some semblance of freedom. And of course, Liam still cooked for me, and how many people can say that about their platonic roommates?

  * * *

  “Thank you for making dinner. It was so good, as always! Bravi!”

  “Gratzi! I figured it was as good a time as any to celebrate.”

  It was a nice enough sentiment if he’d been talking about my article. But something in his voice indicated that he hadn’t been. It was something else he was celebrating.

  Something outside of my sphere.

  I played along, delaying the news. “Ah shucks. You’re impressed with my newfound fame, eh?”

  “Oh! Yeah.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable, but came up with a quick save. “I’ll bet ol’ S. Rain was quite impressed.”

  “Believe it or not, she was the one who arranged it.”

  Liam set down his wine in disbelief. “No!”

  “It’s probably too ‘inconsequential’ an interview to take up her valuable time,” I explained with an air of superiority, mocking my boss.

  “I don’t know how you can stand her.”

  “I can’t stand her. I mostly just do my job and stay out of her way. You know that. Oh, by the way, Adam Mestas is coming by before I leave tomorrow to take a picture of me.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Adam, the editor from the newspaper. He said he’ll be here by nine.”

  “Is Rain pissed that you’re taking time off?”

  “Surprisingly, no. I’ve been worried since I booked the flight that she’d come up with some big project to cut into my vacation. But I think she’s wrapped up in herself right now.”

  Liam snickered, “What do you mean right now?”

  “I overheard her the other day on the phone. Her office door was open and I was walking by. I don’t know who she was talking to, but she was talking about signing divorce papers, and then later heading up to San Francisco for a long weekend.”

  “Wow. She’s that much of a bitch that even her husband couldn’t stand her.”

  I smiled at his joke, but felt a little sad for Rain. I knew firsthand how relationships didn’t just end because someone was being bitchy. I’d never ask Rain why hers ended. I’d never given her a tissue and connected with her based on my own history. But I did feel a little sorry for her.

  “Okay, Liam. Enough killing time. What are you celebrating?”

  Liam was caught off guard, but set down his fork and took a breath. This would be big.

  “I think the time has come to sell the condo.”

  I knew it. I knew it was coming sooner or later. I was about to protest, try to change his mind, but then I thought better of it. This will be as good for me as for him. I can finally move past this relationship. It was a hope more than a belief.

  Liam was about to continue, but I replied first. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”

  He took a long, relaxed breath. “Ahhhhh. I’m relieved, honestly, Lizzy. I was sure I’d have to convince you.”

  “I’m not in love with you anymore, Liam. Nor am I desperate.”

  “I know, I know. So I’ll call that realtor from last time we were going to sell. Unless you want to buy out my share of the condo.”

  “With all the money I make in the publishing industry?”

  “I’ll call the realtor.”

  * * *

  I looked at my watch: 9:01. Adam Mestas would be here anytime now, and I waited for him in the driveway. Leaning up against my car, I said a little prayer that he would not want to come inside and sit down—the place was a disaster area. This morning I’d done more than my fair share of tossing things around as I packed and unpacked and re-packed.

  Please let him be comfortable taking the picture out here!

  I watched the curve in the street, expecting Adam’s flashy car to come around it any second, maybe a red Corvette or a BMW convertible. Where was he? It was 9:07.

  Jittery and nervous about being late for my flight, I killed time by jogging to the front door of the condo once again to make sure it was locked. It was, and as I meandered back to the car I found myself scowling at Adam’s tardiness. What’s the point in being hot if you’re rude? I better not miss my flight!

  I popped the trunk to my car and scanned its contents, trying to decide if anything should be taken into the condo before I left. There were a number of manuscripts and a small stack of form rejection letters that I could attach to the manuscripts that clearly didn’t make the cut. That way, I wouldn’t have to remember which I liked and which I didn’t like. Made it easier for the interns in the department to stuff SASEs with rejection letters, too.

  I decided these probably shouldn’t sit in my trunk for the next two weeks, so I grabbed the first two stacks of manuscripts and took them inside. As I headed back out to pick up the rejection letters, I saw a car coming around the street corner. I wondered if it could be him; the car certainly did not compare to Rain’s Porsche. Just in case, though, still worried about having to invite him inside, I dropped the form rejections back in the trunk, thinking, They’re just as safe in here as in the house. Cleo said she’d clear a space in her garage for my car.
It’s not as if it’s going to be sitting at LAX.

  I realized that it was indeed Adam Mestas when he nearly jumped out of the ’88 burgundy Mustang. “I’m sorry I’m late. I always forget to factor in traffic on Route 78.”

  “I hope you didn’t take Interstate 5 to Route 78 from downtown. That’s going way out of the way. You could have taken—”

  “Interstate 15. I know. I came from my place in Oceanside, though. I am very sorry for being late. I know you have a plane to catch.”

  I decided to use any guilt he felt as leverage for my argument about not going inside. “It’s all right. Do you mind if we do the picture out here? The lighting is really poor in there.”

  “Oh!” He looked a little surprised, as though he had expected me to invite him inside. “Yeah, of course. I wasn’t thinking that we’d have to go in your house or anything. I’m glad you could meet me again, even if it’s just for a minute. And I came up with another question last night.”

  I scanned his appearance. He’d looked good in the suit yesterday, but hotter still today in corduroy pants the color of burnt umber and a white polo shirt that not only showed his tanned forearms but also hinted at an impressive bicep right where each sleeve ended.

  Ask me if I’m single, I willed him. Ask me if I’m busy some weekend later this month. Ask me out. Ask me to invite you inside right now. I’ll risk letting you see the mess for the opportunity to have you pull off that polo.

  Despite my silent urging, he said instead, “It probably takes an unusual kind of mind to write a mystery novel, specifically to come up with the details of an imaginary murder. Do you ever worry about retaliation from the people you’re dealing with? Maybe a disgruntled author of a rejected manuscript?”

  I laughed nervously, not because I was actually frightened, but because I’d caught myself in a sultry thought and I hoped my face was masking it. I coughed to buy a moment. It was enough for a catty comeback. “It’s okay: My boss’s name is the one on the form rejection letters.”

  “Saw that yesterday. So you’re safe then, I guess.”