15
I HAD NO CHOICE. As a self-respecting, more-or-less-employed adult woman, with family members and coworkers who found Stuart, at best, lacking, I had to break up with him. I did it at eleven p.m., figuring he’d be off the road, on a bar stool, awaiting some ping that signaled attention being paid in the form of a retweet.
I texted We’re done. I’m breaking up with you. I mean it this time. Your ex-fiancée, Faith.
Followed a second later with PS: cut up my credit card.
My phone rang. “Babe? What’re you trying to say?”
“I just told you. We’re done. Finis.”
“But, babe—”
“Don’t call me babe. And after this, don’t call me at all.”
“But, but, but . . . why?”
“As if you don’t know,” I cried.
“I don’t know. If you saw the stunned look on my face—”
“I’ve been trying to reach you every possible way short of an all-points bulletin. For days!”
So predictably and—realizing this very late—characteristically, he was the injured party. “You know I can’t always return calls,” he whined. “My roaming charges would be ridiculous.”
Not totally confident in that arena, I took the plunge anyway. “Roaming charges? Within the United States? That’s total bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit! You know my calling plan. I had to get the rock-bottom one.”
“The issue isn’t your calling plan. The issue is your total self-absorption. I left you messages of every kind. I needed to talk to you. I was nearly fired for something I didn’t do. I was—there’s no other word for it—in despair.”
In a voice devoid of empathy, reflecting only apprehension related to his empty wallet, he repeated, “You were fired?”
“All weekend I thought I was! And where were you? Instagramming in a saloon!”
“Do you want me to come home? Because I will. I’ll end this journey right now, right here, in”—a long pause while he looked for a geographical cue—“Mattoon, Illinois. I’ll get on a bus and be at your door by the time you get home from work tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that.”
I had not been expecting this. Nor, I realized, did I even want this. “What about your journey? Your lifelong dream?”
Given his sudden desire to give it all up for the woman he allegedly loved, I thought he might say, My dream? You’re my dream, Faith, or at least something with emotional content. But what I heard was “Can you hold for a sec? I have another call.”
I admit it. I held. A refilled glass of wine later, I heard, “Sorry, luv. That was potential money on the other line. By the way, I heard from someone named Nick, who wanted me to call you. Who’s he again?”
“My coworker. And friend.”
“Girlfriend, it sounds like,” Stuart said.
“What does that mean—‘girlfriend’?”
“Your BFF, all bent out of shape because you and I didn’t speak for what, like a day? You confide in him? Have lunch together? . . . Oh, shit. Can you hold a sec?”
I yelled, “No!” But he’d left just the same. Pride and fury dictated that I hang up.
What had this conversation accomplished? Nothing. Was he sorry, not sorry, coming home, not coming home? An hour later, a text woke me. All good? he asked.
Reggie, my idiot department head, was back at work after his three-day weekend, apparently taking advantage of an early snowstorm on some southern Vermont slope.
“What are these for?” I asked, pointing to the enormous bouquet of flowers he was holding aloft.
“You know . . . the stuff. Last week . . .”
“Are they meant as an apology?”
“No!” said Reggie. “Not an apology. A thank-you.”
I glanced Nick’s way. His eyes were open wide, a silent plea for me to keep Reggie on the hot seat.
“And you’re thanking me for what exactly?”
Reggie, looking around, asked, “We have a vase, right?”
“I believe we do. Somewhere.” I turned back to my keyboard, wrists high, piano-recital graceful.
“Frankel?” I heard. I looked up. Reggie was pointing the cellophaned bouquet of Thanksgiving-hued mums at me.
“Yes?”
“Bottom line? You kicked ass—a hundred-grand donation? When does that not deserve a big fat muchas gracias?”
I asked, “That depends. Is this an adios con muchas gracias?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s asking if this is a cheesy golden parachute,” Nick volunteered.
“No way! Can’t a guy, a boss, say it with flowers? Is that sexist or something?”
I said, “You weren’t at work yesterday. How do you know I’m not a goner?”
“I’m your boss, that’s how. Ever hear of conference calls?”
I took the bouquet. “Thank you,” I said. “Although I could’ve done without this whole ordeal.”
“C’mon. What ordeal? It’s done. Over. Forgotten.”
I said, “A hundred percent?”
“A hundred percent what?” Reggie asked.
“My job is safe.”
“She’s asking for ‘dismissed with prejudice,’ ” Nick supplied. “Permanently. Never to be raised again. Never showing up on a written evaluation.”
“Okay. I guess so. Sure.”
“Flowers are nice,” Nick continued, “but if I were Faith, I’d be looking for combat pay.”
“Huh?” said Reggie.
“You know exactly what I mean: a bonus, for Chrissake.”
“Jeez,” said Reggie. “I don’t have that in my budget. Plus, we don’t do bonuses. I mean, we’re here to raise money for the school.”
“Then how about a raise? When was the last time Faith got a bump in her salary?”
“Never,” I said.
“And, I’ll tell ya, buddy,” said Nick, “sometimes a raise at the right juncture can nip a lawsuit in the bud.”
“A lawsuit?” Reggie repeated. “For what?”
“I could see a defamation suit . . . slander—”
“Pain and suffering,” I added.
Nick said, “Both my brothers are lawyers. Did I ever mention that? Franconi and Franconi, LLC.” Feigning deep attention to some bogus matter on his screen—and in what he would later characterize as punching above his weight—Nick said, “Thank you, Reggie. That’s all. You can go now.”
With Reggie out of the room, I whispered, “Do you really think you should talk to him that way? You could get fired for insubordination.”
“Oh, hush,” said Nick.
“Franconi and Franconi? Really?”
Nick smiled. “In the Yellow Pages. In Springfield, I believe. Same spelling. Who knows? Maybe our great-grandfathers came from the same village.”
I waited a while, started on a note that wrote itself due to what the school was genuinely grateful for, a used van that could hold eight kids on a field trip. Then I announced, “Stuart? My fiancé? He got your message.”
“He called you?”
“Sort of. I texted about where we stood, and he called right back.”
Nick swiveled away from his computer so that he was facing me. “And where do you stand?”
I summarized my text. “It’s over. PS: cut up my credit card.”
Nick said, “Wow. You did it. Via text . . . very bad social etiquette.” He paused. “I might be tempted to say congratulations, but then you might say, ‘Actually, he called right back and was all I’m sorry/I love you/I wanted to call but I’ve been lying in a ditch.’ ”
“I think I did do it. He tried to put me on hold—”
“You’re kidding!”
“Twice.”
“What an asshole! I never met the guy, but Jesus! And you were paying for this midlife crisis of his. Is that what the PS meant?”
“The card was supposed to be only for emergencies.”
“Good luck with that. I’d call the bank and cut him off right now.”
“I already did.”
We both returned to work. Nick set up two appointments with alums, and I put stamps on my morning’s output.
I heard, “I’m getting myself a cup of coffee, the good stuff from the faculty lounge. Want one?”
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”
He opened the door, took a step, came back. “I’m in no position to say good riddance; I mean, no one knows what goes on in a relationship. But, God, what a douche he’s been—at least from where I sit. My unsolicited personal opinion is that you’re well rid of him.”
Did that sound . . . No, never mind.