Romance Is My Day Job (10 page)

“I am very happy,” he says.

“Me too.”

A strange yet familiar feeling comes over me: passion. I notice where I am when he's with me. I see every line on his face. How his eyes sparkle when I say something funny. He likes to provoke me, so he often repeats himself just to irritate me. When I realize what he's doing, I poke him and tell him to stop. He laughs. “I do it on purpose.”

I haven't felt passion in a long time, maybe since Paris, when I ran around like a headless chicken after those waiters, after Rodin and my next Gauloise. It's humbling to discover you've existed without such a vital force. Colors seem brighter and I'm excited for each day.

I have passion again. Chris is my passion.

A few days later, when Chris is away on one of his races, I look over at my single bed—the one my father bought me for graduation—and decide to trade it in for a bigger model. Adults sleep in big beds to facilitate sprawling or welcome other adults. Getting in the mood, I buy candles, incense, and new clothes for Chris's return.

He does come home and appraises my new exotic furniture. His expression goes from lighthearted to stern. I can see him looking around and thinking,
This is a little much.
It
is
a little much. Now all he has to do is eat my cereal and ravish me on the kitchen table, just like Kevin Costner. But he claims fatigue and we forgo most romantic activities.

Just as we are about to go to sleep, my cat, Jack, jumps onto the bed. He's a friendly animal who loves everyone, but Chris grabs him with one hand and throws him off the bed.

“I hate that cat.”

“Oh.” I can't think what else to say. This should be the deal-breaker.

My new bed, the incense, the floating candles in the bathtub, all for him. This is how you create romance. He must appreciate it since I think I bring out the same passion in him. He cares about us, I know he does, deep down.

 • • • 

“I'm not sure how much time I can devote to this relationship,” he tells me the next day on the phone.

“Oh.” It's a temporary condition. In love, you can't skip through fields of daisies all the time. I'm almost happy for his cold feet since it means our relationship is deepening. If I play it cool, he'll realize how lost he is and come back to me.

“Okay, take whatever time you need,” I say cheerfully.

Though when I put down the phone, I worry that our days are numbered.

 • • • 

A week later, I attend another Natasha party, only this time the boys are off at a race near Juárez.

But in the middle of dinner the phone rings.

“Phone for you,” Natasha says, handing me the receiver.

Excited that Chris would call me from the road, which feels so couple-y, I take the phone.

“I can't do this anymore,” he says, straight off.

“Oh,” I say once again. I didn't quite plan for this breakup to be so soon, like three weeks after our first kiss on my stoop, under a full moon. Only three weeks. Twenty-one days. That's not enough time for me to fall in love, but my emotions are bone deep. This despair doesn't feel right. I'm too scared to admit it may have little to do with Chris and more to do with that awful empty feeling I keep having when someone leaves.

“Okay,” I say distantly, hoping that once he gets home, he'll change his mind.

 • • • 

A few months go by. I turn twenty-six, which seems ancient. The breakup with Chris is always on my mind, an agony that disrupts my visions of the perfect romance. Chris was perfect for me—smart, adorable, abrasive, handsome, self-aware, and sensitive (but never showed it). This romance added up. It was supposed to work out.

“You have got to read this Venus-penis book.” Natasha hands me
Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus
. It's the big book of the past two years, detailing how men and women are different, which will help the sexes get along.

“This might explain Chris's behavior,” she says soberly.

Because I'll do anything, I devour the book in one sitting. Here's what I discover: Chris isn't rejecting me at all. He's
in his cave
. Secretly, he may harbor a deep love for me—which I suspected all along. Chris just needs to be alone. Giving him space is the best possible thing, so I go about my business and sign up for the French master's program at the University of New Mexico. When Natasha tells me about Chris's new girlfriend, I stop talking to her and focus all my attention on my degree.

 • • • 

Lucky for me, small private schools tend to turn over with young staff, and Ashley, the new freshman English teacher, soon stands in as my BFF. A year younger than I am, she's new to town and starting her life over after a string of bad boyfriends. I can relate. I'm reading depressing French novels after a bad romance.

As for Chris, my love is still there, and it feels like an illness, growing stronger with each month. My disease reaches a fever pitch on New Year's Eve 1994. Ashley and I decide to bar-hop, knowing we will run into Chris at some point. In my intel-gathering, I notice he has befriended another over-the-hill cyclist who spends most of his time yelling in bars. The two men hit my favorite haunt, Gecko's, regularly, so I know they will be there on New Year's Eve. This tells me that he is single again, has nothing else happening. It's time to strike.

Within an hour of my arrival at Gecko's, Chris and his loud friend enter. My heartbeat echoes in my ears. I can't bear that he's not with me, but I play it cool, waiting for him to come over and talk to me. In the height of celebration, my ultimate wish comes true. Chris asks me out again.

“Maybe we can see what happens, huh, Patience?” he says, emphasizing my name. “I can't make any promises. You can be patient, can't you?” He laughs.

I'm shaking with joy. “Sure. I can be patient.”

 • • • 

During this time, I feel so benevolent that I forgive Natasha and we become fast and furious friends again, on the phone constantly, laughing in the halls at school. I've missed her energy, that spontaneous friend who wants to go out for Thai food at a moment's notice.

Natasha seems happy that Chris and I are getting back together, but I know they kind of hate each other. She's so supportive that she shows up to help five minutes before the long-awaited date. She wants to “prep” me, approve my makeup and wardrobe. Maybe she'll say hi to Chris and everyone will be friends again.

We wait. And wait. An hour goes by.

No Chris.

By eight o'clock, he's officially a no-show. There's this sinking feeling in my gut. I know why he bailed.

The next morning I check my e-mail:
I saw her car,
he wrote.
This isn't going to work.

 • • • 

My last resort is bending Chris to my will in another way. The Wicca way. Yes, I'm going to try witchcraft. If it worked for Samantha on
Bewitched
,
why not me?

It seems so crazy. Maybe I am going nuts. In a crowded gymnasium, right before morning assembly at school, when I should be taking attendance, I
pssst
Lou and whisper in her ear, “I'm doing a love spell.”

She looks back at me and smiles. “Good for you.”

Oh, okay, so I'm not crazy if mentor-goddess Lou is approving. I am going for the gold, taking an active role, fighting for love, even if my methods are not traditional. I'm not praying, getting a makeover, or doing another drive-by of his house—just a spell. I consult books, gather ingredients, and ponder my desires. I scratch his name into a black candle and make fervent pleas to the universe to grant my wish. I want to be the Bride of Chris, i.e., Mrs. Chris Cyclist.

In doing the spell, a strange thing happens.

I open up to what could happen, though I have no control over my future. I let the universe take over. I can't do anything else. I have to let go, let him go, love him despite not being with him. I may never be with him. As I do this universe-opening, candle-scratching, flame-gazing ceremony, a serenity comes over me and it has nothing to do with Chris.

I begin to
see
my wedding.

It is winter, a small ceremony, candles, lights, and a groom. He is standing there, a mystery groom, waiting for me to come down the aisle, waiting to marry me. An eerie calm takes over my body and I just
know
. I will get married someday. I won't even have to do anything. He'll just be there. No more obsessing, okay?

This kind of event isn't covered in romance novels. The worst part is that I can't give up on Chris as my romantic hero. Despite this, I'm grateful that Chris made me feel passion again. Two years before, I felt depleted. I wanted to stay under the covers and let each day pass uneventfully. Chris made me excited to go out and live life in a big way.

But still, I should have walked away when he threw my cat off the bed. A real hero would never do that. Just for that, I get Jack a brother and name him Antoine.

 • • • 

The era of Chris fades, and I figure I'm doomed to be Marianne Dashwood, the girl who runs after her gold-digging lover during a storm and contracts a deadly cold, almost dying from her sensibility (and she's poor).

That's right, I'm reading
Sense and Sensibility
finally. I should be more like Elinor, i.e., Sense. Stay in your parlor, do embroidery, and don't go bananas over the whole marriage issue. I'm also knee-deep in my master's program, anyway, reading amazing books about postcolonial theory, postmodernism, and naturalism. I can't be this fixated on my love life anymore—unless by secretly reading romance novels.

It's an especially lonely time since my brother, Patrick, has just left, returning to his bank job in New York City. Because acting isn't exactly lucrative, he's found a more practical job at a bank, which results in a greater need to blow off steam on vacation. When Patrick and I weren't indulging in a movie marathon, he occasionally had to use my e-mail account to correspond with his colleague Gunther. They had work to discuss, a pain for Patrick since he loathes Gunther but was grateful the guy covered for him during his visit with me.

Now that Patrick is gone, Gunther becomes this intriguing forbidden fruit to me. He lives far away in New York City. What if I befriend Patrick's rival? It's a little what Marianne would do, though if I keep things simple, talk about the majesty of the Sandia Mountains, I might be okay. My new, restrained Elinor nature is within reach. Gunther is merely a potential long-distance stranger-friend. We've never met before so this makes our interaction mysterious.

I concoct my plan and coyly answer an e-mail Gunther addresses to my brother. Patrick's nemesis latches on and one e-mail turns into several, just as Patrick is landing in New York. It sort of feels like cheating, which only adds to the insanity of why I would write to Gunther in the first place.

How were your holidays?
Gunther writes via e-mail.

Dreadful,
I write back, tempted to unload all my troubles onto him.

Gunther, if you only knew,
I want to write. Finally, I do. And he seems so nice! Everything Patrick told me about him is wrong. Why would my brother hate sharing a cubicle with such a warm guy as Gunther? The man allegedly screwed over Patrick's friend: He slept with her and then treated her shabbily, then dumped her and slept with her again. Patrick heard the story and relayed it to me even before I started writing to Gunther. It's so confusing now and must be far from the truth. The woman must be a terrible person, otherwise why would Gunther be so mean to her?

I could cheer you up,
Gunther responds.

I'm sure you could
, I want to write but don't. I giggle at the light flirtation. With five years of teaching under my belt, my restlessness is growing. Isn't there more to life than watching cyclists and teaching the
passé composé
in a mostly Spanish-speaking area?

Inevitably, by January 1996, a couple weeks after our first e-mail, I hit that somber time when I remember what happened to me in Cleveland, but Gunther's e-mails wrap me in a warm cyber-blanket. Since I've never met Gunther, I ask my brother for physical details. Patrick describes him as “interesting,” which means “ugly,” but he has unreasonably high standards. So what if Gunther's eyes are dark brown, beady? I think they're sparkling. He wears sexy serial-killer glasses, has a voice-over voice that would make a grandma's panties moist. Though ten years older than I am—another thrill—he takes all my problems seriously, answers my e-mail, and “validates” my agony. Gunther quotes Jung, talks about me as his anima.

Gunther is my Colonel Brandon, the old soldier who whisks Marianne from her obsessive chasing of Willoughby. Though I convince myself nothing will come of this, I run home every day to check my e-mail and spend hours checking and rechecking my messages.

I feel so much for you,
he writes during one exchange.

This comment makes me insane with joy.

It turns serious near Valentine's Day 1996. I go into school on February 13, expecting nothing. Without a thought, I pass the receptionist's desk.

“Uh, missy, you've got flowers.”

I stop, eyeing the enormous yellow bouquet. “Really?”

“Those are for you,” the receptionist says with a wink.

“Who's the boyfriend?” the librarian asks as she passes by.

“Just someone I'm e-mailing.” I grin and rush off to teach.

That night, my pen pal turns into a phone pal. Our lengthy conversations set my hormones afire and I replay the scripts in my head. I wake up cheerful and ready for a new day.

 • • • 

Booking a flight to meet Gunther in the flesh is easy, plus it coincides with my tenth high school reunion.