Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir by Stephanie Klein Read Free Book Online

motherin-law cliché into high gear, revving things beyond “cold feet” and landing full-throttle on the “she wasn’t right for you anyway” gear. “Don’t worry about Stephanie’s lost deposit money, we’ll take care of everything. If you’re not ready, Gabe, you shouldn’t get married.” That’s what parents do—they want to save their children pain, from repeating their mistakes. Gabe’s father Marvin concurred. He had, after all, divorced after a very brief marriage, while he was in law school, before committing his life to Rome. They only wanted the best for their son. It’s what any parent wants. “We’ll give Stephanie back the money she lost, so don’t even factor that into your decision.” I would’ve said the same thing to my own child, except I would have followed through and done some reimbursing.

    Electra’s ceremony was a flood of fragrant yellow roses, punctuated with a hint of stephanotis, flowers I’d considered for my own wedding. I felt anxious seeing them there along the aisle between the tapered candles and flowing gauze. It all should have been mine, but mine was canceled.
     
    Gabe somehow thought he could cancel a wedding without canceling us. So he slid into “postponed” mode, claiming he just needed more time to figure himself out.

    “I promise we’ll do it soon, just not now. I’m not ready now. I want us—”

    “You never should have proposed to me if you weren’t ready. And now you want to postpone the wedding and somehow keep us intact?”

    “No really, I know I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Stephanie. Really, soon, I promise.”

    “Soon isn’t good enough.”

    Here’s what I’ve learned about “soon”; it’s short for “someday.” We make space in our lives for what matters, now. Not in promises and soons, but on mantels with sterling frames, in shelves we clear to make room for our now. Everything else is talk. I didn’t want to share space with someone who didn’t want his someday now.

     

    I MOVED IN WITH SMELLY WHILE I SEARCHED FOR A NEW apartment.

    I also took up residence in the self-help aisles of bookstores. I needed something to make me feel better, some book, a phrase, words to get me through. I purchased a breakup book for lesbians and read it in a taxicab on my way to work. It was the first morning I’d spent not waking up in our bed. Gabe and I didn’t have our anymore except for our broken engagement. It was raining. I pulled my knees to my chest as we drove down Fifth Avenue. We was me, alone in the backseat, a cab driver taking me to work. We were stopped at a red light in front of the Met. It was too early for lines, just staff sweeping in yellow ponchos, a man pushing a pretzel cart, opening his red umbrella. Pigeons hiding beneath benches. I wanted to ditch work and sit at The Stanhope to drink tea and half-sleep it, upright. Maybe I’d meet a foreigner who’d offer me a tissue or a tea sandwich. Maybe I’d meet a mother who’d offer me her son. I wanted to heal; if a new prospect were in the picture, I was certain I’d heal faster. I know better now. Now, I’d just stick to the tea.
     
    I bought the book because surviving a breakup as a lesbian is the same as enduring the ending of any serious relationship. Despite the years we’d been together, as man and woman, because we weren’t married, it somehow counted less to everyone else. It shouldn’t have. When it’s divorce, people pay attention and know it’s a big deal. But when you’re gay, too many people diminish the severity of what you’re dealing with. They don’t understand your partnership was as profound as any marriage. The book understood how hard this was for me, how acute my pain was.

    “It’s a breakup. They happen all the time,” Smelly said, hoping to soothe me. With a trivial flip of the hand, my reality was fanned aside as I was told, “You’ll be back at it in no time,” as if that were the good, healthy thing to do.