“I’ll pretend I never saw him.”
“Perfect.” I give her a big grin, then say, “I better run. I left some rice on the stove and I don’t want it to boil over.”
“Thanks, Emma. You’re the best friend ever.”
“I know,” I say, winking at her. “Now, you go call what’s-his-name back before he finds someone else.”
I hang up and start back toward the restaurant just as the kitchen door bursts open. David and Daniel spill out onto the ground, punching the hell out of each other while an elderly couple, who happened to be walking by, gape at the display.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “You wanted this, Emma.”
36
The Mother Teresa of Breakups
Pierce
As much as I hate to admit it, it appears as though I may be nothing more than what the great Ms. Tina Turner called a typical male. I'm not sure, having never been in this situation before, but I suspect I may be suffering from a serious case of man grief, characterized by the incessant need to distract oneself from any reminder of a certain woman from whom you've recently parted ways.
In my case, I have pathetically been doing all of the archetypal things men do—the partying like it's nineteen ninety-nine, the seeing her face everywhere I go, the throwing myself into my work with wild abandon (which is utterly ineffective when you have no work-in-progress to distract you, and every time you try to think of a new storyline, you end up with characters who resemble the very woman you're trying to forget). I've now moved on to the bulking-up phase, which entails spending several hours per day in my home gym. This is where I am at the current moment. It’s cardio day, so I’m running on my treadmill at a punishing level ten incline. Impressive, no?
The bulking-up phase is an attempt to become insanely shredded (should I meet someone who will distract me from the cavernous hole that resides just to the left of my right lung lobe), but also should serve as an effective means of exhausting myself in an effort to try to get a full night's sleep. It's not working, by the way. I’m still staring at the empty pillow next to mine for half the night while I torture myself by going over every second of our last moments together in excruciating detail. What could I have said or done that would have led to a different outcome? What if I had taken her home first and we spent a couple of days together ‘bonding?’ What if I had asked her if she’d ever consider movingbeforeI bought the damn restaurant?
No matter what I do, I can't escape the truth, which is that Emma was right, as was Leo, surprising as that may be. My grand romantic gesture was, in fact, a very selfish act designed to get exactly what I wanted with the least amount of effort possible, allowing me to dress up my demands as a gift and hold it against her should she say no. The crazy part is that I think deep down Emma knew that, had she accepted, I would have quickly lost interest in her because she's not wrong—I was essentially trying to buy her, no matter how nicely I packaged it. And here’s the irony: it seems as though I can only love a woman who won't allow me to use my money to manipulate her, but in attempting to reassure myself that she couldn’t be bought, I’ve lost her.
Because she couldn’t be bought.
And, like a total boob, I tried to buy her.
Sadly, this brings me to the inescapable conclusion that I, Pierce Davenport, am simply not capable of love or of sustaining a long-term relationship. You’d think coming to this sort of major revelation would help me move on, but it’s an utterly useless bit of knowledge. If all I can do is think about Emma day and night, knowing that I can't have her, I pretty much am screwed as far as enjoying the rest of my life goes. I'm not even enjoying my fortress of solitude anymore, and it used to bring me unbridled joy.
Leo has taken off with some friends to the south of France for a few days, and instead of revelling in my delicious seclusion, my mind is focused solely on the fact that I am very much alone, a state which used to thrill me to no end but now feels pathetic.
I’ve creeped on her Instagram page where she showcases the meals she's been working on. She's changed her profile to read “Head chef, Paradise Bay Resort Brazilian Steakhouse/Part-time creator of Carib-Asian Cuisine.” Based on her posts, it would appear that Thursday nights are Carib-Asian night at the steakhouse, and I can't help but feel a strange sense of pride and excitement for her that she's finding a way to make her own dreams come true.
I slow to a fast walk and open my Instagram app. There she is. Well, not her exactly, but a photo of some braised beef ribs she made today. I run my fingertip over the screen like an imbecile. Somehow, the sight of those brown hunks of meat that I can neither smell, nor taste, brings me a strange sort of sustenance inside.
Oh, Christ, I really am themostpathetic of the bunch, aren't I? The mighty Pierce Davenport, lone wolf, intellectual, creative genius—brought to my knees by a feisty chef.
I know I shall never get her back, and I can live with that (sort of), but only if I can find a way to make it up to her. Because if she's feeling even a tenth of the anguish that I am at our parting ways, I don't think I could stand it. So far, the only thing I’ve thought to do is to hire her friend Priya (who really is a great chef, by the way) because I hoped it would make Emma happy. But I’ll think of other ways, I promise.
Until I kick off (likely very prematurely from the loneliness of having to live without her), I shall find ways to quietly improve her circumstances because if I could at least know thatsheis happy (and that I had a hand in it), it would bring me some sense of peace. So really this all just reinforces the fact that I’m a selfish bastard because, at the end of the day, I’m only trying to make myself feel better.
Yes, I’ll be the Mother Teresa of breakups. Next stop, sainthood.
37
How to Make a Total Arse of Yourself in Three Easy Steps…
Emma - Two Months Later
It’s late afternoon for me as I do the mental math calculation to figure out what time it is for Priya. I have a few minutes before the dinner rush starts and Ireallyneed to talk to her.
Let’s see, four p.m. here so it’s got to be…eleven o’clock for her. Perfect. She’ll be available. The two of us have had to adjust to our new time zone difference/incredibly hectic head chef schedules, which has left us with a very narrow window of time when we can speak. Unfortunately, it’s always when we’re both at work—before my big rush and after hers. Otherwise, one of us is always sleeping or she’s hanging out with her new boyfriend, Ivan, a handsome and deliciously nerdy Avonian who’s doing his masters in Zoology.
I’m happy for Priya. I really am. It turns out Intermission is the cat’s pyjamas as far as jobs go and Ivan sounds like a great guy. They’re super cute together and it warms my heart to see her go from down in the dumps to on top of the world.
So overall, things are looking great for both of us. I’m honestly too busy to be wasting my time thinking of what’s-his-face, which is for the best because when his facedoesintrude on my day, it’s like a kick to the lady junk.
