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I nod with a small smile, grateful for Eric and Tristan’s friendship. Eric moves over to my side and hands me the rest of the bagel. I eat it this time and thank him silently for taking care of me.
I announce I’m going to head home after being asked for the hundredth time if I’m okay. The only thing I need right now more than anything is my son.
***
Sitting on the sofa, I press play on the DVD as Andy and I snuggle to watch the movie Toy Story 3. Mary Jean just left to head back home with the promise of visiting again shortly. With my baby curled into my side, I sniff his hair until he pushes me away. Andy never likes to talk during movies, watching intently with his eyes and laughing on cue. Andy loves Toy Story and will jump every time he hears his name and say, “Mama! That’s my name!”
I laugh as Ken graces the screen with his over-the-top fashion, something which confuses Andy, of course. It’s nice to give my mind a break, but it’s short-lived as the movie comes to an end. I start to bawl like a baby at the character, Andy, going to college. What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s just a damn m
ovie.
Andy has fallen asleep in my arms. I cradle and carry him up the stairs. Inside his room, I place him on his bed, tucking him in. Tiptoeing away, I make it to my room and just to torture myself, I check my cell. Nothing. Climbing into bed, my head falls against the pillow. Sleep seems so good right now, and just when I think it’s the answer to my problems, my body shudders unexpectedly, and the sobs build up in my chest.
Tonight, I cry into my pillow.
That’s day one over.
Day two, I’m a human-robot.
Going through the motions, switching to mom-mode during the day, busying myself with Andy and with some work at the boutique. I don’t stop to think about him all day. I’m strong. I need to give myself some credit here. Who needs a man, anyway? Okay, a little overboard and googling First Wives Clubs in LA seems a little insane and very ‘I am woman hear me roar.’ I may be all woman, but I stopped roaring sometime after Andy fell asleep. I feel the familiar spiral come on, and just as I break out the sweatpants, Eric is at my front door dressed in his fancy thousand-dollar pajamas.
“Did you drive here in those?” I ask as he stands on my porch.
“Yes, now let me in because that weird lady across the street is eying me from her house. She looks like Kathy Bates, don’t you think? Is your cell charged in case we need help?”
“Get inside, drama queen.”
Eric is carrying a bag. He takes me to my bedroom, and we both climb into bed. He pulls out an ancient-looking Walkman and places it between us. He then pulls out a tape that reads ‘The Greatest Love Songs of all Time.’
“How is listening to sad music going to help?”
“My first ever breakup was with a guy named Bobby Hart. I still remember it like it was yesterday. Anyway, my mom gave me this tape. She said you have to go through the motions and let it all out.”
He follows by taking out a zip-lock bag full of miniature bottles of alcohol, then another bag full of chocolate bars. With a headphone placed in one ear, he clicks the button and presses play. I recognize the tune immediately as ‘I’m All Out of Love’ by Air Supply that blasts through the headphones.
Fuck, it hurts like hell.
I find myself singing along, out of tune, and when the pain strikes hard, the little bottle of gin numbs me, and the pain becomes a little less. But after a high, comes the fall which happens somewhere in Sinead O’Connor’s ‘Nothing Compares to You.’ Even Eric starts crying, and just when our tears seemed unstoppable, we lose ourselves in the chocolate and head on to the scotch. Now, the scotch seems to work wonders, using our gospel voices and over-dramatic hand gestures for ‘Hero’ by Mariah Carey, but then we hit rock bottom. Whitney Houston starts singing ‘I Will Always Love You.’
“Eric, I miss him. He said he loved me,” I openly cry.
“I know you do. I miss having him around, too. He does love you, Adriana.”
“Why did he leave me?”
Eric opens a bottle of vodka and hands it to me. “He’s got things to work through. It got hard. He’ll come back.”
I down the bottle in one go, letting out a rasp as the burn invades my throat. “You can’t promise that.”
“I swear on my vintage Chanel messenger bag he will return.”
“Eric, you can’t swear on that. You love that bag.”
“Okay, you’re right. I swear on my Armani loafers.”
“The crocodile skin ones?”
“Uh-huh.”
