The Rom Con(86)

I barely make it to the toilet before I retch.





Chapter 18

The next few weeks are a top-to-bottom life upheaval—for both Gran and me.

Upon checking her into the hospital, doctors determined that Gran had, in fact, suffered a mild stroke, and while the left side of her body was not quite paralyzed, she was experiencing substantial weakness that would permanently affect her mobility unless she underwent aggressive physical therapy. Surprising absolutely no one, Gran flat-out refused to convalesce anywhere but her own home, which meant she needed round-the-clock, live-in care (which—you guessed it—she also rejected, insisting that she “didn’t want strangers in her house”?). As an alternative, doctors suggested a family member temporarily move in to oversee Gran’s rehab needs—a job I quickly volunteered for.

It was an obvious solution. With both of my siblings busy raising families of their own and the physical demands of her care a lot for my sixty-something parents to take on, this was one circumstance where my youth and perpetual singledom could actually come in handy. I may not be adding any branches to the family tree, but this was a way in which I could positively contribute. Besides, I found myself with an abundance of free time ever since giving my notice at Siren. What better way to spend it than with Gran?

While my grateful parents lauded my selfless sacrifice, the truth is that the situation suited me perfectly. I wanted to go into hiding, and holing up at my grandmother’s 1970s ranch in Connecticut is about as off-the-grid as it gets. Breaking my lease proved surprisingly simple; in fact, think I did Nat a favor—it gave her an excuse to move in with Gabriel without shouldering the guilt of abandoning me. It’s about as much lemonade as I can make out of a situation with a serious dearth of lemons.

All I knew was, I needed to get out of New York. Everything I previously found romantic about the city now triggered heartache: the leaf-strewn paths of Central Park, the cozy couples huddled together at crowded sidewalk restaurants, the rows of stately brownstones, even the frenetic energy of Times Square. Every landmark was tainted, haunted by the ghost of him. Around every corner was a memory that stopped me in my tracks, stealing my breath and my peace, relentlessly reminding me of everything I’d lost.

It was like a nuclear bomb went off in the hotel room that morning, blowing up every area of my life at once. As I’d feared, the Page Six piece proved to be just the tip of the tabloid iceberg. In the weeks following the gala, a slew of additional news outlets picked up the story, the tale of another Brawler mogul behaving badly apparently too juicy to pass up. While I didn’t escape unscathed—I probably deleted a hundred “request for comment” voice mails and emails in the days following the dustup—my no-name status in the media world clearly worked in my favor. I faded from the headlines fairly quickly, all things considered, while Jack bore the brunt of the bad press—though true to form, he never addressed the controversy in any sort of official statement.

Much worse than the sleazy gossip columnists digging for dirt on my personal life, though, is the fact that I haven’t heard from Jack since he walked out the door of that hotel room.

It’s strange. I think a part of me expected a cooling-off period, maybe even a couple of days of radio silence, or at least until he had a chance to take control of our (admittedly chaotic) situation. But I also assumed that once the shock wore off and he had a chance to calm down, he’d show up with his tail between his legs and apologize for reacting the way he did, for berating and accusing me, for leaving me to fend for myself when I needed his protection the most.

Boy, was I wrong.

It’s been weeks and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him. Despite the way we left things, I’m stunned by his indifference, that he could cast me aside like yesterday’s mail, then carry on like I never existed. Like none of it ever happened. How could he spend the night making love to me, confessing his feelings in a way I know was heartfelt and true, then walk away without looking back?

I’ve never been an overly emotional person, even-keeled and unflappable to a fault, but nowadays I find myself cycling through the five stages of grief multiple times a day. My mood swings from sad to hopeful to bitter so frequently I get whiplash. One minute I’m so angry I could kill him with my bare hands, the next I miss him so much I can hardly breathe. Some days I tell myself I’m better off, punctuating the point by taking a Peloton revenge ride and belting out girl-power anthems at the top of my lungs (I can love me better than he can, damnit!). But on others, the fog of depression is so thick I feel like I’ll never claw my way out of it. Couple that with the anxiety surrounding Gran’s fragile health, and my tears are on a constant hair trigger.

I think it’s the unanswered questions that hurt the most; the lack of closure. I realize I could reach out to Jack myself (and you better believe I’ve fantasized about showing up at his apartment and demanding atonement for his sins like a disgruntled Bachelor contestant), but I can’t ignore that in cutting me out of his life he’s sent me a very clear message, and how I choose to receive it is the one thing that’s still up to me. I don’t know why he’s ghosted me—the job, the breach of trust, the scandal, some combination of the three—but none of it really matters because he’s made his choice, and there isn’t a thing I can do to change it. I can fall to pieces or make a fool of myself chasing after a man who’s rejected me, or I can accept responsibility for the role I played in our relationship’s demise, learn from my mistakes, and move on with my life.