Is It Me?

Do you want to get married?

He asked boldly, and out of nowhere.

I’d been deciding what to order for lunch, staring out to the Hollywood sign in its bright white glory rising out of the dusty hills. I never took the view for granted, nor the office that provided it. It was huge, with giant windows and custom furniture the agency let me choose.

Some little girls imagine the big house they’ll live in one day and what color dresses their bridesmaids will wear. But I’d never been one to dream of picket fences and bake sales. This was what I wanted – the office, the assistant down the hall, the corporate credit card. That sign.

Sure, working in Errors and Omissions Insurance for movie scripts may not sound sexy, but it more than paid the bills. And Hollywood is Hollywood, as far as I’m concerned.

Without a beat, NO! I scolded Pete, as if he’d asked if I’d ever contemplated murder.

And then I laughed, relishing the thought of what a mismatched couple Pete and I had been, a relationship born from a one-night stand that never seemed to find its end.

Maybe it was terrible of me to laugh. Or maybe he should’ve known better than to cowardly propose marriage over the phone, 3000 miles away.

Another year passed until he called again, as I boarded a plane back to LA from a conference in Miami.

You were here in Florida and you didn’t call me?

I didn’t have the heart to tell Pete that I didn’t remember where he’d moved.

What do you want, Pete?

It was less a question than a command to state his purpose.

He stumbled over his words – something about one of his steps in AA, making amends and all of that.

I rolled my laptop bag behind me down the jet way, behaving like one of my colleagues who disrupt other travelers with their loud phone calls and typically need to be told to shut down their phones so the plane can take off.

But – THIS, I needed to hear.

The smell of exhaust irritated my sinuses.

Pete danced around, never quite arriving on the two obvious words he owed me.

He didn’t apologize for the scene he made at my Georgetown roommate’s wedding or the one he made at my mom’s funeral; or the time I drove two hours to pick him up from a holding cell in the middle of a New Jersey snow storm. He didn’t acknowledge occupying the worst best years of my youth, or for allowing me to convince myself that if I’d just loved him enough, he would stop. I could fix it. I could solve the problem.

Instead, he asked about my dad and twin sister Lisa.

Since when do you give a fuck about my family?

Without waiting for his answer, I closed my flip phone with a gratifying snap.

And that was that.

With Pete.

But – there’d be others.

Tom reeked from the combination of his own success and a hefty inheritance built on the sweat of his Detroit-raised father. What did he need to abuse alcohol for? Our weekend in Vegas nearly turned into an office scandal over the damage we did to his mini bar alone, never mind the bar tabs he submitted on his expense report. I talked our way out of it somehow. Then the threat of me calling the police eventually ended the two weeks he stalked me after our tryst.

And Erik – how I loved Erik - a gentleman from the type of southern family that spent weekends at a country club dressed in matching pastels. They were of the kind of pedigreed wealth that buys a wing at the local hospital displaying the family name. Erik had been born on third base and made no apologies for it.

Erik’s was a stealthy alcoholism, the kind that no one noticed because of his poise and education. Arguably the most dangerous type. He died of liver failure just before his 45^th birthday.

It was his wicked sense of humor that drew me to Pete.

Ambition that attracted me to Tom.

And to Erik, his charm and good manners.

These guys had nothing in common besides their addiction.

And me. With a drive to fix what’s broken.

Is it me?