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We’re very dismissive, as a culture, about heartbreak. We talk about it like it’s funny, or silly, or cute. As if it can be cured by a pint of Häagen-Dazs and a set of flannel pajamas.
But of course, a breakup is a type of grief. It’s the death of not just any relationship—but the most important one in your life.
There’s nothing cute about it.
“Dumped” is also a word that falls short of its true meaning. It sounds so quick—like a moment in time. But getting dumped lasts forever. Because a person who loved you decided not to love you anymore.
Does that ever really go away?
As I waited at the table in the conference room, the first person there by a mile, that’s what hit me: Robby leaving had felt like a confirmation of my worst, deepest, most unacknowledged fear.
Maybe I just wasn’t lovable.
I mean, yes—I was a good person. I had many fine qualities. I was competent, and I had a strong moral compass… and let’s add: I was a pretty great cook. But how does anybody just ever assume they’d be somebody else’s first choice? Was I better than all the other great people in the world? Was I special enough to be the one somebody picked over everybody else?
Not for Robby, I guess.
I didn’t want to see him again. Or think about it. Or have a self-esteem crisis.
I just wanted to get the hell out of Texas.
THE FIRST PERSONto arrive in the conference room was Taylor. My best friend. Freshly back from Madrid with my ex. Though that wasn’t her fault.
Her hair was shorter—a little European bob—and tucked behind her ears, and she was wearing mascara, which was new, and made her green eyes pop. I squealed at the sight of her and took off running, catapulting myself into her arms.
“You’re back!” I said, hugging tight around her neck.
She hugged me back.
“I killed all your houseplants,” I said, “but that’s the price you pay for leaving.”
“You killed my plants?”
“Didn’t you see the corpses?”
“On purpose?”
“By accident,” I said. “A combination of neglect and overattention.”
“That does sound lethal.”
Taylor gave me that big smile she’s famous for.
We’d talked on the phone much more this time than we usually would on assignment. Mostly because I kept crying and calling her.
She was good about it, she really was. She let me process and vent and agonize to my heart’s content—even when I kept waking her up.
Seeing her now, I realized how long it had been since I’d asked her about her.
“How was the trip?” I asked.
“Fine,” she said.
Not much of an answer.
As we sat down, I could not rein in the impulse to lower my voice and say, “And how is he?”
“How is who?” Taylor asked.
