The Breakup Doctor Read online

  He nodded to my bandaged foot in the sandal I’d stepped gingerly into as I left the house. “Cut your foot, huh?”

  “I just need a tetanus shot.”

  “Ow. Step on a nail?”

  “How did you know?”

  “That’s the only reason anyone ever gets a tetanus shot. That or opening beer cans with their teeth, and you don’t seem the type.”

  I couldn’t tell if he meant that as a compliment.

  “How about you?” I asked politely.

  He shrugged, right shoulder only. “Broken, maybe,” he said, indicating his left arm with his chin. “Fell off a ladder onto a retaining wall.”

  “And they’ve left you sitting out here all this time? Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “Not as bad as it did when I fell. Maybe they’ve got someone else back there in worse shape than us,” he said, again with the one-armed shrug.

  We fell silent, having exhausted our conversational repartee.

  I thought about calling Sasha, or Stu, or my dad, but I didn’t want to worry them, and there was nothing they could do about it that I wasn’t already taking care of myself.

  I really wanted to call Kendall. But he was working, and until I could make things right after our argument, I didn’t want to call him about something trivial.

  More long minutes ticked by. It was awkward sitting so close to the man in the empty waiting room without talking, and I was grateful when the blonde at the counter called my name. I sneaked a glance over at him as I stood, his head bent a little and his mouth tight with pain. He still had the newspaper open on one knee, but clearly he wasn’t seeing it.

  “Excuse me,” I said quietly when I reached the counter, “but you might want to see that gentleman before me.”

  “I can’t hear you, ma’am.”

  I leaned over the counter close to her face and raised my voice not at all. “That man has a broken arm,” I bit out. “My injury isn’t that serious. I suggest you take him back first.”

  She pulled back, but her face stayed expressionless. Finally she snapped my insurance card down sharply on the counter in front of my chest. “We aren’t ready yet,” she said icily. “I was calling you to pick up your card.”

  I slid it toward me across the laminate counter as noisily as possible, glaring at her the entire time. She looked bored.

  I went back to my seat, braving the man’s sweat smell in a futile show of solidarity.

  “Well, it was a nice try,” he said as I flopped down angrily. “Thanks.”

  “You heard? She’s horrible.” I leaned back and grabbed a magazine off the table, tearing it as I yanked it open.

  “So I’m gonna guess...up on a ladder painting, stepped down onto a two-by-four with a nail sticking out.”

  I looked over. I liked that story a lot better than the real one, in which I starred as the mentally unbalanced, dangerously violent destroyer of my own home. “Yup—you got it.”

  He winced. “That had to hurt. Major renovations, huh?”

  “You have no idea.”

  There was an article in the magazine about Brad and Angelina having another child, or adopting another baby, or whelping puppies, for all I could tell. Mostly I was looking at the pictures, too unsettled to concentrate.

  “I’m in home improvement myself.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I kept my eyes glued to the magazine.

  “Yup. I build houses.” I heard a slapping sound and glanced over to see him brushing at his muddy jeans leg. “But you probably guessed that already.”

  I thought it rude to tell him that no, I hadn’t actually been speculating on him at all. “Oh. Well, tough time for it these days.”

  “You’re not kidding. Market’s dried up like crazy.” He reached into a pocket with his right hand—carefully—and extracted a business card that had lost all its original crispness. “But we’re looking to create a niche here—maybe you’ve heard of us?”

  I took the crumpled card by a corner and glanced at it: Millennium Homes—Conscious Building for a Greener World.

  “No, sorry, I guess not,” I said, handing the card back.

  He waved me off. “Keep it.”

  “I have a boyfriend,” I blurted.

  He looked amused. “That so? Congrats. I have a dog. Nice we could get to know each other a little better.”

  Heat flooded my face. Ridiculous. I was covered in particles and chunks of drywall, my hair flying in uncontrolled frizzies all around my head, and I still wore a pair of panty hose around my neck. He wasn’t hitting on me. I yanked off the hose and shoved them into an outside pocket of my purse, tucked the weathered card in after it, then focused hard on my magazine.

  The man went on as though I hadn’t made an idiot of myself. “So what are you renovating?”

  “My entire house,” I said, and then muttered, “My entire life.”

  He whistled. “Whoa. Now that’s an extreme makeover. So is that what you do—flip houses?”

  I looked up and met his pale, drawn face. The man was only trying to distract himself from the pain his arm was clearly causing him. I yanked myself out of my embarrassment and self-involvement. “No, I don’t—that’s just to keep the walls from literally crumbling around me. Actually I’m a counselor.” I nodded down at the paper in his lap. “A relationship counselor. I write an article in the paper.”

  To my surprise a wide smile came over his face, straight white teeth against his sun-browned skin. He had a really nice smile, actually. “That’s you? ‘Ask the Breakup Doctor’? My mom showed me that article.”

  “Really? I just started writing it.”

  “She says you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. She loves reading about stuff like that, even though she... Well, it’s been a hard time for her.” He pressed his lips closed and stared back down at his paper.

  “Divorce?”

  “What? Oh—no! My dad passed away a few years ago. She just... Well, you know. Dating’s tough at her age.”

  “Not in this town.” Actually, his mother’s demographic was probably the only age group for whom Fort Myers was a dating mecca. It might even be in the welcome materials for AARP.

  He gave that one-armed shrug again. “Yeah, well...she’s having a hard time letting go of my dad.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say. My mother didn’t have a hard time letting go of my dad.

  We both heard the blonde’s tinny little voice drone out, “Benjamin Garrett?”

  He stood up, but didn’t walk toward the counter right away, standing in front of me as though he’d had something he wanted to say. The moment stretched out awkwardly until we heard the receptionist call out his name again, this time with a crisp edge of impatience.

  “Hope that’s not indicative of the bedside manners around here,” he said finally.

  I laughed. “Good luck.”

  “You too,” Benjamin Garrett said. “With everything.” He continued over to the counter and a moment later disappeared into the hospital’s inner sanctum.

  The receptionist called me back about twenty minutes after Benjamin Garrett went in, and I waited another forty-five minutes in an exam room until a male intern came in to take my blood pressure (which to my surprise was not 180 over 110). Then I waited another half hour before the doctor came in, glanced at the wound, gave me a tetanus shot, and advised me to be more careful.

  When I left the hospital it was after eight o’clock. As I turned the car toward my house to face the mess I’d left and take a much-needed shower, I turned my phone back on—the snarky receptionist had informed me that all cell phones had to be turned off in the hospital, and then stood there in my exam room, arms folded, until I did it in front of her. I thumbed my call log. Nothing from Kendall.

  I wasn’t surprised, but I felt a pang in my stomach. It was our firs
t argument, and I hated the unsettled feeling it had left me with. Now I wished I had called sooner to let him know about my accident, and that everything was okay with me. And with us.

  I dialed his cell number. It rang four times before going to voicemail.

  “Hi, it’s me...” I started, then trailed off. I didn’t want to apologize on voicemail, and I didn’t want him listening to it while a client drummed impatient fingers if he was still at the office. I did the best I could in the meantime: “I hope... I hope you had a good day. I’ll be over in little while—let me know when you’ll be home.” I held my finger over the “end” button, then changed my mind, brought the phone back to my ear, and hastily added, “Love you.”

  I pressed the phone off and let it flop onto the passenger seat. I knew he was busy—we both were. But it would have been nice to have someone there to talk to today at the emergency room, to wait with me, help me calm down, and keep me company.

  Well, someone besides Benjamin Garrett.

  As soon as I stepped in my front door I felt my eyes start to sting and my lungs contract from the acrid smell. My living room was a demolition zone. In the heat of my anger I hadn’t fully taken in the damage I’d done to my wall, but after the pristine, clinical sterility of the hospital, it looked even worse to me. Most of the wall bordering my guest bath was gone, the edges deckled haphazardly around a gaping dark pit. Bits and clumps of sodden drywall were splattered on the walls and floor. A trail of dark red blood splotches stained the bare concrete slab leading across the floor. The house felt tired and empty and sad.

  Wearily, I unplugged the sander from the wall, noticing as I picked it up to wind the cord that it rattled like a boxful of screws. I’d add buying Dad a replacement sander to my list of expenditures. Along with the cost of fixing my wall—and whatever plumbing catastrophe was happening inside it. And probably the cost of mold remediation. And my visit to the emergency room—since I was nowhere close to meeting the deductible on my health insurance coverage for the year, the entire visit would be out of pocket. On the plus side, if my home improvement efforts kept going the way they’d begun, I’d meet the deductible in no time, and then all my subsequent medical emergencies would be covered.

  It felt hard to stay optimistic when my “bright side” scenarios were growing ever more feeble.

  When I neatened up as much as possible, I went back to the bedroom and, with arms that felt heavy as lead, threw an armful of clothes into a suitcase. I drove to Kendall’s town house and let myself in. I was too tired to even unpack my clothes, just wheeled the suitcase into the closet and dropped it onto the floor, shutting the door so he wouldn’t have to see the mess.

  In his expansive frameless slate-walled shower I let the hot water run over my shoulders and back for a long time, the high-pressure showerhead loosening up tight muscles.

  When I came out there was still no sign of Kendall. I hoped he’d listened to the message I’d left him. If he was still angry or frustrated or annoyed, maybe he was working late to avoid me. Now I wished I’d called him at work and apologized directly. I picked up his house phone and tried him again.

  After four rings it slipped into voicemail. “Kendall, it’s me. I’m home—here, I mean, at your house. I hope you’re not... I’m sorry about today. I know you’re busy. So am I. I just get frustrated. I miss you. I miss spending more time with you. I wish our day hadn’t ended on such an unpleasant note. I had a great time until then.” I sighed, feeling stupid for pouring my heart out to a digital recorder. “We’re okay. This is just...you know, one of those couple things. I miss you. Come on home, okay?” I pressed his phone off and set it on the sofa table behind the couch.

  Then I lay down on the cream-colored leather and reached for the remote, letting the drone of CNBC bore me into an exhausted, restless sleep.

  I woke up with a start, my heart racing, feeling disoriented in total darkness. Michael. Where was he?

  I sat up, my fingers on the cool leather of the couch bringing me back to myself with a rush of shame. Kendall. I was at Kendall’s house. What time was it? I blinked blearily at the DVR. Three in the morning? How had I slept so long?

  I swung my feet off the couch and shook off the lingering dream I’d been having about my ex. I rubbed the back of my neck. It was stiff from being propped up against the armrest, and my shoulders had once again started to ache. I wished Kendall had woken me up when he got home, so I could have moved into the comfortable king-size bed.

  I hauled myself to my feet and stumbled into the bedroom, focused on soft pillows and cool sheets and warm boyfriend.

  Except that the bed was still perfectly made, and there was no lump in it where Kendall should have been.

  I blinked again and tried to clear my head. I trudged over to his side of the bed and sat down, pulling the small alarm clock over closer in the darkness to peer at the numbers, wondering if I’d misread the other clock, or the power had gone out while I slept.

  Two forty-nine.

  A.M.

  I reached to the nightstand for the phone and dialed Kendall’s cell. Four rings, then voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message. Where was he?

  I racked my brain. Had he told me he was taking clients out tonight? I couldn’t remember. I didn’t think so. Then again, if some visiting big shot had been in town looking for a good time, Kendall would of course have shown it to him.

  My foot throbbed where I’d punctured it. My shoulders ached from wielding the heavy sander, and my eyes felt gritty from the Sheetrock particles. I knew this wasn’t the way things would be forever—that I’d get the house into some kind of order, that Kendall’s work would slow down. But right now I hated it. I might as well be single.

  I scooted over to my own side of the bed and pulled the covers over me. Then I reached for Kendall’s pillow and brought it over to my face, inhaling. It smelled like laundry detergent. I drew the pillow all the way against my body and curled myself around it, and after a few more minutes of feeling sorry for myself, I finally managed to drift back into an uneasy sleep.

  Bright, sharp sunlight woke me up shining directly into my eyes, because I’d neglected to draw the blackout curtains. The cheery daylight illuminated the entire room, including the other side of the mattress—where the undisturbed covers clearly showed that Kendall had never come to bed.

  thirteen

  No need to get upset. Nothing would be accomplished by storming into the other room to find out why Kendall had stayed out so late without calling, or didn’t even let me know he was safely home before crashing on the couch. We were both adults. We could discuss this calmly.

  I stood up, smoothed my hair, and even took a moment to brush my teeth and check for eye crust in the bathroom mirror. No sense coming at a “we need to talk” moment with sheet creases and bed head.

  When I thought I was ready to approach him in a rational, calm way, I strolled into the living room.

  Where Kendall was not lying on his cream leather sofa.

  Of course. He didn’t even like me to curl my feet up on it. I headed for the guest room, not even trying to tippytoe. If he wanted more sleep, he shouldn’t have stayed out so late.

  The navy-and-cream comforter was as pristine and undisturbed as it always was, thick pillows plump and perfectly creased at the tops.

  Had he not come home at all?

  I fumbled my cell out of my purse and checked the call log—nothing.

  Dropping down onto the leather-backed stool at the breakfast bar, I forced my foggy brain to think. Granted, yesterday was the first fight we’d ever had. But how bad had it been, really? A little disagreement, some tense words, that was it—we’d barely even raised our voices. Was this how Kendall dealt with conflict? We hadn’t dated long enough for me to know, but if it was, it wasn’t a great sign.

  Maybe he’d just been out with a client, and it had gone late. I tried to
imagine what kind of client could convince even Kendall to do an all-nighter, and couldn’t imagine anyone with enough money for that. Well, at least not any of his clients I knew about. If a high-roller had enough money to invest, I could see Kendall dancing nude in the middle of the Edison Bridge if the client wanted him to.

  What if something had happened to him? My heart faltered and then started back up double time.

  No point in panicking, I told myself firmly. It was only seven a.m. Kendall could come strolling in any second, looking rumpled and wrung-out and sheepish. If he’d taken his clients out too late—or had just decided to pout all night about our argument—maybe he stayed at his friend Ricky’s house. Not calling was unacceptable, and we’d be having that conversation in no uncertain terms when he came home. But at least he’d had the sense not to make the long drive home if he’d over imbibed.

  My phone vibrated in my fingers before the ring even started, and as I fumbled to answer, relief made my hands shake and my heart race.

  “Where have you been?”

  There was a beat of silence, and then, “Well, I’ve been to paradise—but I’ve never been to me.”

  “Oh. Sash.”

  “Wow, you know how to make a girl feel special.”

  I sighed and got up to go around the counter and into the kitchen. I didn’t really need the caffeine after the jolt of adrenaline the phone had given me, but I started the coffee brewing for the comforting routine and smell of it. “Sorry. I thought you were Kendall.”

  “I can’t imagine any way you might mistake me for him.”

  “He didn’t come home last night.”

  “What?!”

  I was instantly sorry I’d said it. “Don’t get excited. He...” I didn’t want to tell her about our stupid argument. Sasha had never warmed to Kendall, and she didn’t need any fuel for that particular fire. “He was with clients, I’m sure, and probably just stayed with a friend once it got too late to drive home.”