The Good Life Part 1

The Good Life.

A Novel.

By Jodie Beau.

For Ian, the little boy who turned my cup half-full.

PROLOGUE.

It was late August. The air was warm and humid. Even at 3:30am it was still over eighty degrees. The young couple lying in the bed of the pickup truck threw their blanket off of them in an attempt to cool down. The move was a little risque since they weren't wearing any clothes underneath.

They had come to the lot near the airport after the bars closed because they needed a place to be alone. She lived with her parents, and he shared an apartment with her older brother. There was a super-icky factor about being caught naked by any of those people. They preferred not to risk it. It was more fun to chance being caught by the police instead.

The lot was deserted; the restaurant it belonged to closed hours earlier. The girl had discovered the location about five years ago, shortly after she got her driver's license at sixteen. It was serendipity, she'd thought at the time, having just learned the word. That was before the movie came out and everyone else learned it, too. A happy accident it was.

The engine had been overheating on her old POS Buick and she'd pulled into an empty run-down parking lot next to a boarded-up restaurant to give it a drink. As she lifted up the hood, a plane flew right over her head after take-off. It was so close she felt she might have been able to touch it if she jumped high enough. She'd never seen a plane so close before and was amazed by its size and power. The best part of all was the blast of air she felt. It was only enough to mess up her hair and blow her skirt up a tad, but that small blast of air gave her a huge rush of adrenaline and she was hooked.

For the next few years she parked in the lot quite often. She would come after school and lie on the hood of her car while she listened to music and studied. Sometimes she watched the planes and fantasized about being on them, especially if they were going to New York City. She'd been fantasizing about New York City since the first time she'd seen the movie Breakfast at Tiffany's when she was nine. The city seemed so alive and the people who lived there so glamorous.

One day she would live there, too. One day she would be glamorous. She would wear liquid eyeliner and big sungla.s.ses and smoke cigarettes out of one of those long cigarette holders. She would attend the best parties, wear the best clothes and would make walking in high heels look easy. She would make it happen. One day. New York City was her soul mate. She knew they would eventually meet and live happily ever after.

It wasn't that she didn't like Michigan. It was fine. It had four distinct seasons, five Great Lakes and one fantastic hockey team. It was home to her family and friends and a perfect spot for watching planes land. Even if the abandoned restaurant was now reopened and the previously vacant lot was now occupied during business hours, she could still use it as a secret place to hang out with the boy late at night. Because Michigan also happened to be the home of one really sweet boy with a smile that made her heart do somersaults. And when she was lying under the stars with him in the back of his truck, she had no thoughts of moving to New York to flutter around the city in a tiara. As she watched the planes fly above them, she didn't think about where they could take her one day. She only thought about where they could go together. The only place she cared to be was in his arms. But she seriously needed to cut that s.h.i.+t out. It was totally cheesy, and people all over the world would be swallowing their own vomit if they knew what she was thinking.

This was only a summer fling. That was the plan. They were only hooking up because he was her safety guy. You know, like a safety school is not your first choice but it's a sure thing? A safety guy was a guy who was sure not to hurt you. He was her safety guy because it was a sure thing she would not fall in love with him.

And that's not what's happening now, she told herself.

It didn't matter anyway. She was leaving for North Carolina the next morning to begin her final year of undergrad at UNC and this whatever it was was over.

"I was kinda thinking..." he said. He had one arm under her neck and one arm under his head and looked as cool and laid-back as the Marlboro man used to look back when smoking was still cool. "It might be fun if I drove down with you tomorrow. I've never been to North Carolina, and it's so long for you to drive by yourself."

A sunny 700-mile road trip with him sounded absolutely amazing to her. Since cla.s.ses didn't start until Monday, they could take their time, maybe stop at a flea market, and eat lots of gummy worms and rock candy. She could show him the mountain that looked like a giant b.o.o.b with a nipple on top. She could introduce him to her friends at UNC and spend just one more night in his arms. Yes, it sounded like the best frickin' idea ever.

"I don't think that would be a very good idea," she lied. "That's something boyfriends and girlfriends do, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he said. "I don't know what I was thinking."

It was too dark for her to see the disappointment on his face. But when he pulled his arm out from under her and let her head hit the hard plastic of the bed liner, she could feel it, the difference.

He sat up and tossed over her Carolina-Blue tank top and they got dressed in silence.

CHAPTER ONE.

Eight Years Later.

I was sitting on the toilet when he told me he wanted a divorce. This wasn't the way I imagined it would happen. In fact, I didn't ever imagine it would happen, which is odd because I'm the kind of person who likes to be prepared. I consider myself a hardcore planner. Not the kind who takes a list to the grocery store or sticks a ch.o.r.e chart to the refrigerator. That's too easy. I'm more of a life planner. I don't sit by and idly watch life happen to me. I grab the wheel and let me happen to life. I imagine every possible scenario behind every corner and by planning ahead I make the ordinary moments extraordinary and the disasters more bearable. It's not because I'm a total control freak or anything; it's because, well, I guess I am a bit of a control freak. And if we're dissecting my personality here, I should probably admit to being a tad bit neurotic because you're going to find out anyway. But not in a crazy, spastic kind of way. I like to think of myself as more quirky than crazy.

As a film junkie I had a habit of expecting my life to resemble a Best Picture nominee. Or maybe a Golden Globe or MTV Movie Award would be more my style. But nevertheless, I wanted a life filled with edge-of-your-seat excitement and the kind of comedy that makes people shoot soda out of their noses. I wanted witty dialogue, romance and suspense in all the right places and a perfect soundtrack playing in the background. It's a lot to ask for, yes, but we only get one shot at life. There are no second takes. If I find myself in a c.r.a.ppy moment, I can't just "fix it in post" or delete the scene like I can with editing software. So I simply don't allow c.r.a.ppy moments. That is all.

This obsession with perfection started when I was a teenager. There are certain things little girls look forward to as they're growing up. For example, their first kiss. My big moment happened when I was fourteen. I was walking home from school with my brother, Adam's, best friend, Jake. Jake Odom had lived around the block from us for as long as I could remember. He spent so much time at our house playing Nintendo (the original Nintendo) with my brother he was practically another member of the family.

Adam and Jake were both juniors that year and I was a freshman. Jake and I walked home from school together nearly every day. We weren't exactly friends but since we both went to the same school, lived in the same neighborhood and he didn't have a car and I wasn't old enough to drive, we ended up walking together by default. I guess we ended up friends by default, as well.

Adam did have a car but he also had football practice after school in the fall and basketball practice in the winter and baseball practice in the spring so I never got to take advantage of that particular older brother perk.

There we were, two non-athletic high school kids stopped at a crosswalk, when he suddenly turned to me, grabbed my head on both sides by my ears, pressed his lips on mine and stuck his tongue in my mouth. I was so shocked and disgusted by the slimy violation that I gasped in shock and got my raspberry-flavored bubble gum caught in my windpipe.

It was the closest I'd ever been to death. I was unable to make a sound so I started flapping my arms around like a panicking penguin until Jake realized he had literally taken my breath away. Fortunately for me, he had taken a first aid cla.s.s in middle school. He got behind me and Heimlich-ed the gum right out. Unfortunately for him, a lady who happened to be looking out her window at the time thought he was a.s.saulting me and called the police. The cops found some rolling papers in his pocket and busted him for paraphernalia. Magic moment? Hardly.

Girls also think losing their virginity is going to be a sacred and special memory. I was sixteen and one of the last of my friends to take the plunge. After hearing the horror stories from everyone else, I knew better than to expect roses and candlelight. But when my boyfriend led me into his bedroom after school while his parents were at work, I was expecting something at least a little bit sweet, like maybe some Boyz II Men on the CD player. What happened instead is he never even took his s.h.i.+rt off. He dropped his pants and went at it looking like Winnie-the-Pooh in his red polo s.h.i.+rt. And the worst part of it all he farted! Loudly and intentionally, at his moment of climax (about fifteen seconds in), he farted. He said later he thought it would be a good way to break the ice. Break the ice!? Really? Your p.e.n.i.s is in my v.a.g.i.n.a! We're like six months and three layers of clothing past ice breaking!

I don't consider myself to be an unreasonable person. I could make do with a less-than-perfect moment every once in awhile as long as it was something I could laugh about later. The kissing scene, for example, was quite funny in retrospect. Jake and I have laughed about it on more than one occasion. And I can deal with a man being in such a hurry to get in there that he can't even take three seconds to get his s.h.i.+rt off. That kind of urgency can be s.e.xy at times. I also understand that accidents happen and sometimes things just slip out. But a flatulent ejaculator is unacceptable. Fart jokes stop being funny to girls when we're about six. I understand boys mature at a slower pace, but farting should stop being funny for them by at least age thirteen. And farts are never funny when your p.e.n.i.s is in my v.a.g.i.n.a.

After the fart fiasco I was determined to make sure I had no more blooper-reel moments on my DVD. That's when I became a bit obsessed with directing I mean planning. I realized my experiences could not be put into the hands of others.

I can't always predict how the supporting cast will behave. Sometimes they forget their lines or decide to adlib. But I can be prepared to turn things around if they start to go sour and that's why I always have a trick up my sleeve. This girl does not like awkward silences or second act slumps!

I've been doing a pretty good job of keeping the pace so far. My life post-virgin has been better than I hoped for. I was voted "Best Laugh" and "Most Likely to be Seen Pus.h.i.+ng a Car Down the Road" in my senior cla.s.s superlatives. Both are less boring than "Most Likely to Succeed," if you ask me.

I went on to a pretty good university where I grabbed the proverbial bull by the horns every chance I got, as well as the literal horns on the mechanical bull at City Limits Saloon in Raleigh, where I stayed on for 5.3 seconds.

I changed my major three times (Film, Journalism and Social Work), wrote a popular column for the school newspaper and was a DJ at the campus radio station during a primetime study hour slot. I never declined an invitation to a party and went somewhere tropical every year for spring break. I had lots of friends and lots of fun, which amounted to four years of great "footage" and ever-lasting memories. Isn't that what college is all about? I mean, except for the learning and never-ending debt.

It was the beginning of my senior year when I met Caleb Golightly during Speed-Dating Night in the Morehead Lounge. (Yes, that's really the name of the place. I am not making this up). I wasn't looking for anything serious, but I couldn't believe my luck when he introduced himself. Breakfast at Tiffany's was my all-time-fave! Holly Golightly was my hero! And when he told me he intended to move to New York City after graduation, I decided not to meet with any of my other "speed dates" that night. He was the one. That's a wrap!

Caleb Golightly was a dorky grad student with an ambitious goal of becoming an investment banker in New York City after he got his MBA. I liked a guy with goals, no matter how far-fetched they might be, and I'd always been turned on by guys who were smarter than me probably because so few of them existed.

Speed-dating night was the beginning of a whirlwind romance with lots of roses and candlelight and even some Boyz II Men during flashback hour on 90.1. Our pa.s.sionate courts.h.i.+p led to a (totally prepared for) proposal back in Morehead Lounge, complete with a bended knee from him and a dramatic exclamation of surprise from me (one I'd been practicing in the mirror for nearly two weeks). I had a Photojournalism student waiting in the wings, so not only was a picture of the proposal in the school paper, but I now had a canvas print of the perfect memory on our mantle.

I became Mrs. Roxie Golightly three months after graduation. The ceremony was held in my hometown of Ann Arbor, Michigan, in front of two-hundred of my closest friends, acquaintances, former cla.s.smates, coworkers and neighbors, and a few people that Caleb knew, too.

I was a young bride, only twenty-two. I definitely showed my age when, after a little too much champagne, I stole the microphone from the DJ and burst into Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York." After my dazzling performance, I told all of my guests that Ann Arbor sucked and I was leaving and never coming back. I am not proud.

We moved to New York City after the wedding and spent the next few years living in a studio apartment in the West Village. A studio apartment in Michigan means you have a living room, kitchen and bedroom, but no walls to separate them. A studio apartment in Manhattan means you can cook your dinner on the stove, eat your dinner at the dining room table and then wash your dishes in the kitchen sink, without ever getting off the couch. It was tight, but I made the best of it by spending as little time there as possible. While Caleb's full time job was looking for a job, I worked as a c.o.c.ktail waitress at night and stayed busy during the day by exploring the city in my big black sungla.s.ses, occasionally drinking Starbucks in front of Tiffany & Co. NYC wasn't what I imagined it would be. It was even better!

What happened next is something I'd dreamed about, but never thought would really happen. I didn't think Caleb would get his Wall Street dream job. Or that he would be really good at it. Or that we would eventually move from our closet-sized apartment to a two-bedroom condo in Battery Park City complete with doormen, concierge services and the most incredible views of the East River and Midtown.

He wasn't an overnight success. He worked his b.u.t.t off for several years before we bought the condo, and his hard work was worth it because every year he climbed higher and higher up the corporate ladder. And me, what have I been doing? Not too much. I watch a lot of ridiculous reality TV and cooking shows. I do a lot of shopping. I also take care of the condo. Granted, it's very small, only 900 square feet plus the terrace (we have a terrace!), but I keep it clean. I also take care of Caleb, even if he doesn't notice. I cook his dinners, pack his lunches, make sure his expensive ties match his expensive s.h.i.+rts, and the creases in his expensive pants are perfect. But the bottom line is that I do not have a job outside of the home, and this is why my friends call me a "kept" woman. I preferred the term "Trophy Wife."

Once we settled into our life together I started preparing for my next role: MILF. I wasn't pregnant yet, but I was planning. I had a list of baby names. I had a board on Pinterest filled with ideas for the nursery decor. I had an unpublished baby registry at Pottery Barn Kids just waiting to go live. I'd even gone as far as making a big-to-us-but-small-to-them donation to a prestigious preschool. From what I heard, Manhattan preschools were a real b.i.t.c.h to get into, and I was hoping to get a leg up by making donations every year. Right now we were still considered middle-cla.s.s compared to the crust of the Upper-East Side, but I figured by the time our baby was ready for preschool we'd certainly be sending the kid off to school in pinstripes.

A baby. That was supposed to be the next step. Not a divorce! Even during our nastiest arguments or the longest stretches of dullness, divorce was never an option. Not because we're the happiest couple on Earth, or because I'm super religious or anything, but simply because I don't like to admit when I've made a mistake. Especially when that mistake was made in front of two-hundred people, several of whom told me to slow things down and not get married so young. I figured if I had chosen to go against the advice of my family and friends, it was my own fault, and I deserved nothing less than to suffer in this gorgeous loft with breath-taking views!

So no, I hadn't taken the time to plan an ideal divorce, and now I was caught with my pants down literally! As dumbfounded as I was by the morning's topic of conversation, all I could think about as I stared at the tile on the bathroom floor was Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt.

They were America's sweethearts. I was disappointed and crushed when they announced they were divorcing. Okay, maybe "crushed" is a bit dramatic, even for me, but there was a moment when I doubted if happily-ever-after existed outside of fairy tales. Then I saw a photo of them looking sweet and romantic on a Caribbean beach that was taken just one day before they announced their separation. Those pictures seemed to soften the blow a little. There was no better way to say goodbye to each other than by walking hand-in-hand on a warm sandy beach. At that time I told myself if ever I was to divorce, I was doing it up as cla.s.sy as they did.

Is it too late to book a vacation? I wondered, as I looked at the grey sweatpants and old cotton panties that were pooled around my ankles. This is definitely not Anguilla.

CHAPTER TWO.

I felt humiliated, unwanted and ugly, and I just wanted him out of the bathroom so I could wipe in privacy. As if reading my mind, he turned the faucet off (leaving little chin hairs all over the sink that I would have to clean up later) and said he was going to start breakfast, and I should join him on the terrace when I was finished.

Once he was gone, I stood up and looked in the mirror. I felt like someone slapped me across the face, and I kind of looked like it, too. My face was blood red with a mixture of embarra.s.sment and anger. I could honestly say I had never felt more betrayed in all of my life and that was saying a lot.

The first thing I needed to do was make myself look better. Maybe if I looked better I would feel better. They say that looking good is a girl's best defense, right? I didn't know if that was true, but I knew I could not go out there and face the man who didn't want me anymore while I was sporting bed-head, circles under my eyes and sagging b.o.o.bs under my sleep cami. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't ridiculous enough to think that brus.h.i.+ng my hair could save my marriage; but some time during the last ten minutes he had gone from being my occasionally loving husband to a total b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and I couldn't let a b.a.s.t.a.r.d see me in such disarray. Even if he did just watch me pee.

Working quickly, I sprayed some sea salt texturizing spray into my hair to create waves and applied mascara and lip-gloss. I put on s.e.xy panties and a push-up bra under my pajamas and followed the scent of bacon out to the kitchen.

We have breakfast on the terrace nearly every morning as long as the weather allows. Usually something simple like bagels and lox because Caleb has to get to work. On Sundays, though, we go all out. I make the eggs. I can make eggs about three dozen different ways thanks to the Food Network. Caleb is always in charge of the bacon. I don't know what he does to make it taste so good, but his bacon is so tasty I can devour a whole plate even while watching Charlotte's Web (sorry Wilbur).

Mornings on the terrace were always my favorite part of the day. We'd drink our coffee and read the papers. We were the rare couple who still read real papers you know, the kind that gets ink on your fingers instead of those on electronic gadgets. Caleb would sit with the Wall Street Journal and me with the New York Times crossword puzzle I struggled with every morning (I even finished it a few times!). We'd sit together in a comfortable and amiable silence before he'd kiss me goodbye and head off to work. I always thought couples who could sit quietly together were the good ones. Apparently I'd been mistaken.

It was a Thursday, but Caleb was making bacon anyway, which made the whole morning even more unsettling. Despite feeling sick to my stomach, I reached for a frying pan to start my eggs. He gently swatted my arm away.

"I'll take care of breakfast. You sit down," he said. "Your coffee is already outside."

I stepped out onto the terrace where my coffee sat on the bistro table. We bought the loft about four years ago and the view from the terrace still took my breath away on a daily basis. It was a beautiful morning in the beginning of June and the sun was s.h.i.+ning, making the surface of the East River look like a bed of Swarovski crystals. I could hear the traffic on the street below. One thing I'd always loved about Manhattan was that I was never alone. The ambient sound of the city always surrounded me taxi cabs honking their horns, police sirens wailing, car alarms blaring all a 24-hour reminder that I was not alone.

I sat down at the bistro and took a sip of my coffee. Yum creme brulee creamer. There are few things in life better than coffee with a great view. Coffee with a great view and a cigarette was one of those things. I quit smoking last year to get my body healthy for a baby. In typical Roxie fas.h.i.+on, I made a huge deal of it by throwing a Quitters Party. I hung up posters of Richard Nixon, loaded up the CD player with Paula Abdul and Jay-Z, and had my guests beat the c.r.a.p out of a pinata that looked like Sarah Palin. The bigger the spectacle, the more likely I was to stick with it because you can't have a Quitters Party and not quit, right? But I could really have used a cigarette then. I was thinking about calling the concierge desk to see if they could send one up when Caleb walked out with a tray of bacon, eggs and toast. He set a plate in front of me but I didn't make any rush to touch it. Am I really supposed to eat right now?

Caleb sat down across from me and cleared his throat. "I know this must come as a surprise to you," he said gingerly.

I realized then that I hadn't spoken yet since I'd woken up. It was probably better if I remained silent. That was probably true in most situations. Less words = less to use against me later. But there was one thing I had to know.

"How long have you been wanting this?" I asked in my sweetest, softest voice, hoping it would make him feel guilty. You know, the whole kill-him-with-kindness trick.

"That's something I hope you can understand," he said. "I don't want this at all. What I want is for you to love me and for me to love you and for us to have a family and live happily ever after. That's all I've ever wanted."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He sounded like a prince from a Disney cartoon. FYI-Disney movies weren't the kind I liked to emulate; too many damsels in distress and dying parents.

"I know you must love me on some level," he continued. "And I have love for you, too. I'm just not in love with you. There's no magic here. We're more like roommates than husband and wife."

I was confused by this statement for two reasons. First of all, what's wrong with roommates? Roommates are fine, especially when you can have s.e.x with them and they make good bacon. Second of all, who is to say that roommates and a husband and wife of seven years aren't one and the same? Did he actually go around asking married couples if there was still "magic" in their relations.h.i.+ps? And which married couples would he ask? Surely not his coworkers and their a.s.shole wives!

"If you want magic we can go see The Quantum Eye," I said, about the off-Broadway show. I was only joking to lighten up the mood a little. Divorce was way too serious of a topic for me.

He stood up, dusted toast crumbs from his s.h.i.+rt and set his napkin on the table. I knew he was angry even though he seemed calm and cool as ever. Caleb owned the ability to change his personality and demeanor according to his environment, like a chameleon of sorts. He was always very mild-mannered and polite when he was around me. But I'd seen him at work a few times, and he was completely different there. He was loud, fast and hungry. He treated his work like it was the last drumstick on the last turkey in the world and he was determined to sink his teeth into the meat before anyone else got to it no matter how much juice was left dripping down his chin. The transformation was quite scary, to be honest. If I was the overly paranoid type, I might wonder if the guy was a total sociopath and moonlighted as a serial killer. But I'm just an average paranoid type, and I knew his hunger for success was the reason I lived such a charmed life, so I didn't question it.

"I guess you're going to make a joke of this like you do everything else," he said, as he tightened his tie.

I silently hoped he would strangle himself with it.

"I've got to head to the office," he said. "We'll finish this conversation via email."

And with that he walked back into the condo. A few seconds later I heard the door close.

I sighed and took another sip of my coffee. This. Changes. Everything.

I have always been p.r.o.ne to anxiety, but once I heard Caleb leave I was pretty sure I experienced a real panic attack. At first, I stayed on the terrace and waited for the punch line. Because this had to be a joke, right? Maybe someone at the firm dared him to play a trick on me. Maybe they were holding a Punk'd contest for a bonus check. Or maybe Caleb woke up today and felt like mixing things up a bit for a laugh. I tried to think of any possibility other than the truth. But deep down I knew it was real. Because, let's face it, Caleb doesn't joke around.

I slowly walked back into the condo and hoped he would pop out from behind a door and say, "Ha ha, got ya!" But it was quiet, super quiet. He really was gone. He really was ending this, us.

I stared at the door he had just closed, knowing that with it, he had closed the door on the last eight years of my life. He didn't even give me a say in it. My perfect little world was broken without my permission. The future I had been planning was never going to happen. All of that time, all of the planning, wasted! Decisions had been made outside of my control-freak hands, and I couldn't handle it!

I couldn't breathe. I felt dizzy. I felt sick. I dropped to my knees in front of the door, covered my head with my arms, tornado-style, and tried to talk my heart into beating a little slower. I squeezed my eyes shut, took slow, deep breaths and waited for it to be over.

When I finally got myself under control I didn't know what I should do next. Should I call the concierge for a cigarette and a Xanax and keep refres.h.i.+ng my email until I received further instructions? I decided to call for reinforcement before turning myself into a stereotype.

"What the eff?" That was Allison, my best friend since second grade, talking. She cut out swearing after she had her first kid in high school. She never cut out unprotected s.e.x, though, and that's how she ended up with two more before we could legally buy beer. Her kids were now practically old enough to babysit the kids that I would probably never have.

She probably wasn't the best person to call. She married her high-school sweetheart, had three well-behaved kids that preferred to eat yogurt and apples instead of chips and cookies, and actually had a picket fence separating her yard from her neighbor's. They started young, but they turned themselves into a near perfect little family and I doubted she could sympathize with me now.

"So he's seeing someone else," she said.

"He said he's just not in love with me," I said, defensively.

She snorted. "Of course he's not going to admit it. You probably get more in the divorce if he's cheating."

"I think New York is a no-fault state."

"You can't just think these things. You need to know them." She started giving me a list of tasks as matter-of-factly as if she were a divorce attorney herself. "You need a lawyer. ASAP. You need to know the laws and your rights. You might even think about getting a judge to freeze your a.s.sets before he starts hiding money, if he hasn't done so already. You need to make a list of all property acquired during your marriage, not just your condo but also things like jewelry, artwork, timeshares, 401ks, stocks and bonds -"

"You know we don't have a timeshare," I interrupted. "Where are you getting this from?"

"The internet!" she said. "The same place you can get it from. You need to be proactive about this. You need to act like your old self again. You can't just sit there and let it happen to you. It's time for you step up and take charge, or his lawyer will eat you up and spit you out!"