Harper's Rules (4 page)

“So then what, Harper, I have to play a game? I have to live a lie in order to get a great job?”

“Now you've got it! And, by the way, doing it my way, you continue to get paid. Your way, you start living off savings.”

I knew Harper was trying to look out for me, and I knew he was probably right. So how come so often doing the right thing can make you feel so crummy inside?

“What about your book, Harper? With your logic, no one should ever leave a marriage without having another partner to go to first. You are saying no one will want me now that I'm single and available, that I should have found someone else while I was still married because I was more attractive then.”

“You want to play hardball, Casey? The answer is yes: We want what others have, not what they discard.”

“I seduce the best people from companies and offer their direct competitors a chance to steal them away. That is the thrill of it, the magic. It's why they pay me. And yes, the principle holds for relationships. You can be mortified if you want, but the fact is: Most people don't have the courage to end a marriage—or a job—until they are motivated by the prospect of going to someone else.”

“You should know this better than anyone. Donald sure did.”

I felt a stinging in my scalp, the way you do when you first step into a really cold shower.

I've only seen Donald once since the divorce ended. It was by chance at a mall during Christmas time. We hugged stiffly, and as we pulled back, I noticed the Victoria's Secret bag, and he noticed me noticing and shrugged, and we both laughed so hard we had to sit on the bench outside of Banana Republic.

“I hate you, Harper Scott. I don't think we should speak again.”

“That was a cheap shot. I'm sorry. I was just trying to keep you from making a mistake.”

“I'm quitting my job this morning, Harper. End of story. I think your theory about relationships and jobs does in fact hold; you're just wrong as to how. I'm not going to deceive my company. I don't want to take their money when I'm no longer committed. And I don't want to work for any company that doesn't respect me for that. And if I am ever again in a relationship that stops working, I am going to be honest, make a break, and free myself to look for someone else. And any guy that doesn't respect me for that—I don't want him, either.”

“Okay, I'm in,” Harper said. “Take good notes because I'm about to dictate Part Two to you right now. Here's how to give notice and end a relationship. Ready?”

It was too late. My boss knocked once and then bounded right into my office. Harper was all over it in an instant. “Say goodbye and act like you're hanging up, but leave your speaker on.”

He quietly told me to pay attention to the screen because he was going to walk me through this via instant messaging, and he suggested I keep my mouse within easy reach. He told me to relax and trust him. “Now hang up, Casey.”

“Okay, well, I have to go now,” I said, and managed to activate my speaker while hanging up my handset.

I suddenly felt like I was the flight attendant and both pilots were passed out; Harper was ground control assuring me that anyone could land a commercial airliner and that we were not all going to die.

Within a few moments, while my boss and I did the obligatory warm-up, Harper's first IM came across my screen:

HARPER'S RULES
How to Terminate a Relationship

Rule #1: Use direct, simple language.

Deliver the bad news within one sentence. Don't say “I think,” don't say “I don't know how to say this,” and definitely don't say “I want you to know this is hard for me and that it's not about you.”

My boss was still going on about his daughter's award-winning crab cakes at the culinary institute she was attending when I blurted out, “I'm resigning. I'm sorry to interrupt, I'm sure they were fabulous crab cakes, but I want you to know I quit.”

Rule #2: Realize this is not an exit interview.

This is not the time to tell him all that went wrong.

On cue, my boss said he was shocked. He asked why I had come to such a decision. I stammered something out about how much I appreciated his mentoring, but this was just a gut feeling I had. “Okay, that sucked. Do I need to script this for you? He is about to ask you what he can do to get you to stay. Here is what you tell him . . .”

As I was trying to read Harper's message, my boss said, “But your gut feeling must have come from somewhere. Is it about money? I have a lot of flexibility, Casey.”

“Repeat this, word for word:”

There are two kinds of breakups: the kind where you don't really want to break up but you're trying to change someone's behavior, and the kind where you just want out. I just want out.

And out it came, word for word. It hit him hard. I realized he knew that the word was out, that Tynan had given up on him. “Far be it from me to try to change a woman's mind. I've had two wives and three daughters, and I haven't been able to do it yet. We'll miss you,” he said, to which Harper replied, “Oh, gag me. Okay, you're doing great.”

Rule #3: Never burn a bridge.

Offer two week's notice. Tell him you will work hard during that two weeks, and you will not disparage the company.

Rule #4: Ask for a written reference and a commitment to give you verbal references on demand.

My boss was more than happy to commit to the reference, and when he said he would tell any VPs of sales that they'd be “foolish not to hire you,” I looked over at my screen: “Excellent. You're done. End this meeting. Don't let it go on because he'll try to dig for ways to get you to reconsider.”

Sure enough, ten minutes later, my boss was still in his chair, but Harper bailed me out.

Rule #5: Offer to submit, just for documentation's purposes, a written letter of resignation.

When I made the offer, my boss nodded and then almost whispered, “Can I ask you one more question, Casey? Can I have the name of your headhunter?”

“He's a loser,” Harper wrote. “Tell him you'll email the contact info, and I'll give you the name of another headhunter who is as big a loser. They'll love each other.”

I placed my hand on my boss's hand and quietly and stoically said, “Of course. His name is Harper Scott.”

CHAPTER THREE

The morning after I quit my job, I could find no reason not to go to my gym.

I've been a member of Gold's Gym for three years, and each month they take one hundred and twenty-nine dollars from me, despite the fact that I don't go for months at a time. But I never quit the gym. Knowing they are taking my money every month regardless of my lack of presence is what gives me hope that someday I'll be able to sustain an interest long enough to make it a habit. So here I am again, everyone!

Ten minutes into my ride on the elliptical, my cell phone rang.

“Hi, Harper,” I managed, my breath labored.

“Just because you're unemployed, you don't have to take my call during sex.”

I explained where he had caught me. “I have two goals, Harper: get a job and lose weight. Of course if I don't get a job, I'll lose weight because I won't be able to buy food. What's up?”

“Tynan is going to ask you to have dinner, and then he's going to hit you with a counteroffer. Lots more money, probably your boss's job.”

“So what do I do? I have to hear him out, right? I can't insult him and not go to dinner. I mean, I need him for a reference, too.”

Harper laughed. “By tonight I will have sent you chapter three. It will walk you through how to handle the counteroffer.”

My concentration was broken by Cute Guy, a Gold's employee, now on the glider next to me. He was pointing to the control panel.

“Sorry,” Cute Guy said, “I know you're on the phone, but did you know your machine is off? You've been riding with no resistance.” I could hear Harper crack up.

“Oh. Thanks. Would it do any good to pretend I knew that?” And Cute Guy flashed a really great, genuine smile.

“I can tell you're having a moment. You should have the pages by early evening.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said. “Does this make me your muse, Harper?”

“Not in the least. I've been thinking about this book forever.”

When I got home, there was already an email from Harper:

Your homework assignment before you get tonight's chapter. Answer this question: “Did you ever consider going back to Donald?”

That could wait; it was only my first day unemployed, and you have to pace yourself.

I was about to fade into a nap when the phone rang. Tynan's secretary asked me to meet him the following evening at a restaurant that required a month's lead for a reservation. Suddenly I was wide awake, Harper's question seared into my brain.

Did you ever consider going back to Donald?

Yes, Harper, I did.

When you get divorced in your thirties, and there are no children, and you've only been together a half dozen years, you walk out of the courtroom thinking you may never see your former spouse ever again. You imagine one day reading in the obituaries that your ex has died, and the accompanying sidebar points out trenchantly how he never recovered emotionally from his failed marriage and that he died of heartbreak, penniless and alone, survived only by his ex, who lived a full and remarkable life and is now living in a beach house on the ocean, and I mean right
on
the ocean.

It was not in the plan to get a call from Donald four months after the divorce was final, especially since he was crying so hard it took me a moment to realize it was him. Big Gerry, as we all referred to his dad, had died that morning. Big Gerry was the kindest man I ever knew. He called me the night Donald moved out to tell me his son was a fool and that he loved me very much.

Donald said he was sorry to bother me but he thought I should know. Then he hung up. I drove to his condo, knocked twice, and opened the door, momentarily thinking this was inappropriate and that Sasha would be furious. I calmed him down and made him tea. I told him what I felt at the time, what I still feel: that all that was good and sweet and endearing about Big Gerry was true of Donald as well. I asked him if there were arrangements he wanted me to make. He said all he wanted was for me to stay a while. We made a meal, we opened wine, and we recounted stories to soothe the pain.

When he mentioned that Sasha was at a family reunion in Sacramento and wasn't coming back for the funeral, I nodded and agreed it was a long flight. And I spent the night. We went to separate bedrooms to play the dance out, but he knocked on the door within a few minutes, he walked toward the bed, and I opened my arms. I knew that I was helping him cheat on Sasha, but all I could think was that I deserved this after all I had been through.

When I woke up, I heard the familiar sound of ESPN's SportsCenter. When Donald moved out, my first act of independence was to get rid of the wall-mounted flat screen Sony in the bedroom and to promise myself to never again sleep with a man who watches sports before bed. And yet the sound was oddly comforting. Donald was already halfway through a bowl of oatmeal. He smiled and handed me a bowl of my own, along with a steaming cup of coffee. This was our morning ritual for our entire marriage. How did we get back here so easily?

“I cooked it. In a pan. No microwave.”

“I'll alert the Food Channel.”

We ate in silence. He kissed my shoulder. And then out it came.

“Let's stay together through the funeral. It's just a couple of days. I'll pack some stuff and follow you home. Okay?”

“You want to play house?” I asked. And he looked down, as Donald always did when he was gathering himself. And when he looked back up his eyes were wet. He shrugged. And my response came out of me from someplace deep inside, someplace I thought was gone.

“Okay.”

Suddenly I realized the doorbell was ringing. I shook off the groggy nostalgia and found a manila envelope on the ground with a note from Harper.

“You absolutely cannot go to dinner with Tynan without reading what's inside.”

I tore open the envelope and saw the cover page: “Harper's Rules: Why You Never Accept a Counteroffer.”

But I wasn't ready for Harper's propaganda. I put it down on the dining room table and went upstairs. As I transferred a load of whites from washer to dryer, I found myself drifting back to the week of Big Gerry's funeral, my after-the-fact performance as Donald's wife.

The funeral itself was the easy part. I'm cool in a crisis; I think clearly under extreme pressure. As I brought drinks and plates of potato salad to various mourners, as I tipped the hearse driver because no one in the family remembered, I thought for a moment that the real problem in my life is not crisis management, but all that time in between crises, when none of my choices seem as sure or righteous. I realized that sitting in Big Gerry's living room on the day of his funeral was the most contentment I had felt in a long time.

That night we decided to forego cooking and drive into the city to get sushi. We drank way too much sake. Donald told me how much it surprised him to miss Starbucks and the way she would climb on his chest at night and suckle his neck. Donald started to slur his words a little.

“You want me to drive home?” I asked.

“Where is home, Casey?”

“Sorry—my house.”

“I want it to be ‘our house' again,” he croaked. “Maybe this . . . is why he died. Maybe it was to get it through our thick skulls that we have to be together.”

I touched his cheek. “He died because he died, Donny. It had nothing to do with us. And what about Sasha? You love Sasha. You threw your world away for her. You had to do that for a reason.”