The Breakup Doctor Read online

  Praise for The Breakup Doctor Series

  THE BREAKUP DOCTOR (#1)

  “A heartwarming and funny story about friendship, romance, and the heart-wrenching reality of breakups—while busting out some spot-on dating advice along the way.”

  — Liz Tuccillo,

  Bestselling Co-Author of He’s Just Not That Into You and

  Executive Story Editor of HBO’s Emmy Award-Winning Series Sex and the City

  “Warm, charming, and flat-out funny—a delightful debut!”

  — Sarah Bird,

  Bestselling Author of The Boyfriend School and The Gap Year

  “A pleasure from beginning to end. The Breakup Doctor is as wise as it is funny.”

  — Sherry Thomas,

  New York Times Bestselling Author of

  The Luckiest Lady in London and My Beautiful Enemy

  “I was expecting a cute quick read, what I got was much more. Brook’s character is great. She is well-rounded and her path to self-discovery through her break-up was realistic and at times heartwarming.”

  – Chick Lit Books

  “If I didn’t know better I’d say Brook was based on me; her story certainly parallels my life. Hitting rock bottom is the best thing that can happen to anyone (in hindsight) and laughter is the best medicine. The Breakup Doctor is packed with entertaining, good advice.”

  — Donna Barnes,

  Relationship Coach, Author of Giving Up Junk-food Relationships, and Founder of the Date Better Online Dating Network

  Books in The Breakup Doctor Series

  by Phoebe Fox

  THE BREAKUP DOCTOR (#1)

  BEDSIDE MANNERS (#2)

  (March 2015)

  Copyright Information

  THE BREAKUP DOCTOR

  The Breakup Doctor Series

  Part of the Henery Press Chick Lit Collection

  First Edition

  Kindle edition | June 2014

  Henery Press

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2013 by Phoebe Fox

  Author Photograph by Joel Martin

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-940976-13-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  I’m not usually much on book dedications, but I offer this one wholeheartedly to Liz Tuccillo and Greg Behrendt, the wise, loving, protective older siblings every woman should have. I also dedicate it to my husband, who was so, so worth waiting—and wading—through every other relationship to find. To my mom, who is not Viv. And I dedicate it to women. Because you are beautiful, and strong, and smart, and worthy. And if you’re not quite ready to believe that yet, then until you are, along with Brook, I will believe it for you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing can be such a solitary pursuit, but the process of creating a novel—at least for me—is a cumulative effort of people without whom this story would not exist. I offer each of them my heartfelt, grateful thanks:

  First, the knowledgeable, accommodating, indispensable team at Henery Press: my keen-eyed and constructive editor, Kendel Flaum; the savvy and always-available Art Molinares; Chloe Harper, and all the in-house chickens. Without fail, the Hen House team has gone beyond my every expectation of what a publisher does, and I consider it a privilege to be among their authors. Their unflagging enthusiasm for The Breakup Doctor has been immensely gratifying.

  I would never have reached this point without the unswerving support and encouragement of my agent, Courtney Miller-Callihan at Sanford J. Greenberger. Not only did she love this story from the beginning, but she stuck by it with endless patience, diligence, and conviction until we found the perfect home for it. I am a lucky writer to have someone like her in my corner.

  Laura Wright, PhD, a counseling psychologist at Florida Gulf Coast University who specializes in college student mental health and training and supervision of new psychologists, was generous with her time and professional expertise, so that I wasn’t entirely shooting my mouth off in ignorance. Any instances of bad advice on Brook’s part are my own fault; Laura was a wealth of information and excellent input, and I would never hesitate to entrust her with my mental well-being.

  Dear friends had the fortitude and tolerance to read early drafts of this story and offer me their feedback, which was invaluable if I was successful in “leaving out the parts that people skip,” as Elmore Leonard says. I owe a great debt of gratitude to Kathryn Haydn Hays, for her lightning-fast emergency read and brilliant comments that focused as always on what was best for the book, not my delicate ego; to Stephanie Davis, for helping me laugh at our dating sagas that helped form the idea; Marcie and Doug Walter, Jenny Smith, Richard LeMay, Merritt Graham, and Jan Davis, for being early readers and well-loved friends. A shout-out to English teacher extraordinaire Connie Corley, for nurturing the seed.

  Thanks to Leah Loftin of LL Kent and Paige Throckmorton, as well as Lori Virdure and Amy Ewing of Langford Market, for their enthusiasm for this book. These generous women went well above and beyond the call of duty and helped me feel part of a team in bringing The Breakup Doctor to life.

  Author, producer, and dating savant Liz Tuccillo has long influenced my writing and my life through her work. How lucky I was to discover she’s as gracious and generous as her work suggests. My bottomless thanks to her for her kindness and support.

  Authors Sarah Bird and Sherry Thomas have influenced me in ways they may not even be aware of. Their writing has nourished my imagination; their generosity and support have nourished my heart. Donna Barnes, relationship expert and founder of the terrific online dating site Date Better, is as kind and generous as she is wise in the ways of dating.

  Kelly Harrell, Amber Novak, and John J. Asher, gifted writers in their own right, are the reason this book is in your hands right now. My Pennies, you allow me to learn and grow by working with all of you. Even as a writer, I can’t find enough words to thank you: For your insightful, generous, and enlightening critiques of my manuscript in drafts ad nauseam. For delicious dinners and brain-sparking, wine-fueled discussions on writing. For limitless friendship, support, and commiseration. You three are almost entirely to credit for anything good in my writing. Your friendship is every bit as intrinsic. The multitalented Amber Novak also made me look better in photographs than I had any natural right to.

  My mother, Carole Hlavin Burns, has ever been my first and most constant fan in any of my pursuits, and her admittedly biased belief in me has never faltered. Mom, in Brook’s words, “You are amazing.”

  As I did in life, I have saved my husband for last. Joel, we met farther down the road than we wanted to, but I will be forever grateful for every single delay, because the journey ultimately led to you.

  one

  It was Sasha who gave me the idea. The day my life was literally reduced to rubble by a wrecking ball, my best friend called at six a.m., while I was still lying in Kendall’s king-size bed at his condo, our legs entwined and sleep crusted in our eyes.

  I answered my cell groggily and heard Sasha’s voice. “Can you come over?” There was a familiar hint of distress i
n her tone.

  I was used to these odd-hour phone calls from my best friend, but Kendall was not, and he grumbled as I slipped from bed. I leaned over to kiss him. “Go back to sleep.”

  She was waiting in the driveway when I pulled up. Her long blond hair was perfect, even at this hour, her body tanned and toned in an adorable Victoria’s Secret short set I couldn’t have pulled off even prior to the freshman fifteen I still wore fourteen years later, and looking gorgeous without a scrap of makeup on. She started talking as soon as I opened my door.

  “It’s Peter. He’s cheating.”

  “Is that the guy you met at the speed-dating thing?” I’d long since stopped trying to keep names straight with Sasha’s dates. It wasn’t like they lasted long enough for me to worry about it.

  “God, he’s such an asshole! How could I not see it? If he’ll cheat with you, he’ll cheat on you. You taught me that.”

  “Sasha...” I searched for the gentlest way to phrase my question. “Didn’t you guys only go out on the one date?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Brook. I told you how well we clicked. I wasn’t the only one who sensed the connection—he was feeling it too. I can’t believe he’d go behind my back with someone else.”

  There was no point trying to rationalize with Sasha at times like this. Rationality played little part in these proceedings. But I also had to tread carefully. She hated it when she thought I was “therapizing” her.

  “Forget him,” I said firmly, wrapping one arm around her and walking us into her apartment. “He wears his sunglasses around his neck, for God’s sake.”

  “A Type Four? You think?”

  Sasha and I had categorized the small pool of available men in the dating wasteland of Fort Myers, Florida. Type Fours—slick, self-satisfied playboys who dated way under their age range—displayed an overzealous use of hair product, all-designer-brand outfits, and inappropriate accessorizing: i.e., an abundance of jewelry, or sunglasses worn anywhere but over the eyes.

  “Textbook. And he’s a chef!” I didn’t want to lose momentum, so I led her to the living room and sat her down on the sofa, still talking. “It’s a known fact that all chefs are alcoholics. Or recovering alcoholics, which is no fun either, because then you can’t drink around him, even though you’re not the one with the problem, and you know you’re going to lose at least one or two date nights a week while he goes to AA meetings. Where statistically most recovering substance abusers hook up, because they have the twelve-step thing in common.”

  Sasha laughed—and that was my goal. “That’s not true. AA bylaws prohibit fraternization among twelve-steppers.”

  I forgot—last year she’d tried pretending she was in the program. She thought it would be a great way to meet new men.

  “Whatever, Sash. Peter wasn’t the one. You’re going to find the right guy.”

  “I don’t know,” she said dispiritedly, fingering her red velvet sofa. “How much longer do I have to wait? I swear, Brook, I don’t know how you pulled through when Michael—”

  “Don’t.” Suddenly my throat felt choked with the sickly sweet taste of buttercream and the gluey thickness of fondant, the flavors that coated my tongue the last day I’d seen my former fiancé.

  “Brook, there’s no reason to be embarrassed—”

  “I’m not. I’m just done with that. I’ve moved past it. It’s history.”

  Sasha stared, then sighed, then heaved herself back against the cushions. “Sometimes I think you’re the only thing that keeps me sane in the dating world.”

  Her basic premise of sanity could be debated. But now wasn’t the time to point that out.

  I squeezed her arm where it rested on the cushion between us. “Hang in there, Sash. There really is someone out there who’ll want to be with you more than anyone else. Who’ll always be there for you.”

  She sniffled and let out a shaky chuckle. “Yeah. That’s you, Brook.”

  I gave my best friend a hug—that was what she always needed most after one of her relationship crises anyway. The talking was just what got us there.

  After a few moments she sat back and wiped her non-red, unswollen eyes—Sasha even cried prettily. “You’re a genius at this stuff,” she said. “I swear, you ought to go into business giving relationship advice.”

  I left Sasha to get ready for an interview she had been assigned and rushed off to take a shower at my own house, a fixer-upper I’d bought in the wrong state of mind last year, blithely congratulating myself for averting today’s major catastrophe.

  Her words didn’t sink in until later.

  Running late, I screeched into the parking lot of my McGregor Boulevard office—and saw a chunk of the building missing, a wrecking ball dangling in midair above it from a crane.

  I left the car running and leaped out the driver’s side, racing toward the building, past a bulldozer and a man in a yellow plastic suit spraying the wreckage with a fire hose, till I was yanked to a halt by thick arms wrapping around me from behind.

  I wriggled to get free. “What the—Let go! I have to get in there!”

  “Ma’am, you can’t go inside.”

  I twisted to face my captor, a burly man in a shiny black protective suit and dark goggles that made it look like I was being restrained by a six-foot cockroach. I took a breath, willing myself to calm down.

  “You don’t understand.” I spoke quickly. “That’s my office. People may be inside. Other tenants. My patients.”

  A crash behind me had me whirling back around to see the wrecking ball rise up from the destruction, then drop back down like a lead tea bag.

  The arms still restraining me tightened. “No, ma’am,” the man said. “The building was cleared this morning.”

  I tried fruitlessly once again to shake off his iron hold on me. “What about my things! I have to get—”

  “I can’t let you go in, ma’am. All the tenants were notified to be out by last week.”

  “What?” I turned back to look at him, and his hold loosened as I finally stopped struggling. “Notified...? We weren’t—”

  “Brook!”

  The voice came from the back of the parking lot, and I looked over to see my colleagues Tom and Uta standing near their cars, gesturing me over. The man let me go and I hurried over. They looked grim, Uta’s face carved into an angry, forbidding expression. I think. Uta is German, and her face often looks like that.

  “Thank god you’re both okay. What the hell is going on?” I said.

  “Ahzbuhztuz,” Uta barked at me.

  I cocked my head, not sure if I was meant to understand her or if she was clearing her throat of dust. “What?”

  “Asbestos,” Tom clarified, running a weary hand across his thinning blond hair. “They found asbestos.”

  “The building is condemned. It’s all over. We’re finished.” This from Uta, who, in true Teutonic fashion, could always be called upon to put the best spin on a situation. Tom nodded morosely.

  “This is crazy,” I said angrily. “They didn’t even notify us!”

  Tom and Uta exchanged a look, and my stomach sank.

  “Tom... Guys, did they notify us?”

  Tom coughed and looked over my head toward the destruction of our offices, and Uta gave an existential shrug. “Who can say what was in all the letters?” she intoned. “Americans hide their meanings in bureaucratic jargon.”

  I stared at her, then at Tom. This time the sudden crash behind me didn’t even make me jump.

  Unlike me, a licensed mental health counselor, my partners were “real doctors,” as my mom was always quick to point out: Tom a psychologist, and Uta a psychiatrist. But for all their education and training, the practicalities of running a business often seemed beyond them.

  “Jesus,” I said slowly. “Jesus. Okay. We have to tell our patients...we’ll h
ave to look for new office space. We can start today.”

  Tom looked away. Uta looked like a shaken soufflé.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her tone flat as the northern plains of the Fatherland. “Maybe this is the sign.”

  “What sign?”

  “The sign. The signal. The reason I am waiting for to make changes.” Uta nodded once, firmly, as though something had been made clear. “I think maybe it’s time I go back home, to Germany. Be with family.”

  In all the years we’d been working together, not once had Uta ever mentioned any personal life at all. She didn’t even have pictures in her office. I had begun to suspect she might be a highly efficient German Borg.

  At her offended expression I covered my disbelieving laugh with a cough. “Back to Germany? But what about your patients?” I asked. “They need you, Uta.” The thought of Hauptsturmführer Uta stirring around in someone’s subconscious was a terrifying one, but her patients kept coming back. “We need you.”

  “Your emotional blackmail isn’t a compelling argument, Ms. Ogden,” she barked. “And therapists should be above it.”

  Now I remembered why we’d never gotten close.

  “Maybe she’s right,” Tom said, shoulders sagging. “Maybe it’s just time.”

  “Oh, come on now. You’re just feeling discouraged. I’ll take care of everything. Give me till the end of the week and I’ll have us something even better than this place.” The thought weighed like cement on my chest, but I remained jolly as Santa Claus.