Confessions Of An Ex-Girlfriend

Confessions Of An Ex-Girlfriend
Lynda Curnyn

Ex-Girlfriend Emma Carter has a lot on her mind. Her boyfriend got a life–in L.A.Her hairdresser found God. And that extra ten pounds of "relationship flab" she acquired while falling in love with a commitment-phobe has just put her out of the running for new romance–or so she thinks. But before Emma can get on with her life, she's got to face a few startling truths about being single in New York City….Confession #5: Marriage suddenly seems like a social disease.Even the latest bride in my family–my mother–has put me to work in the service of her wedding day. What about us non-brides-to-be? Working in the warped little world of wedding planning has only led me to one conclusion: If you don't get married in this world, you get nothing. Once, in an editorial meeting, I jokingly suggested that a woman should get a bridal shower when she turns thirty, wedding or not. Everyone looked at me as if I were some kind of nut. I am 31 years old; am I not entitled to free Calphalon yet?Who ever thought that baring your soul could be this good?

“Sometimes an Ex-Boyfriend is just an Ex-Boyfriend.”

—Sigmund Freud’s Ex-Girlfriend

This book is dedicated to:

My mother, Marianne Nappo.

You gave me not only love, but courage. Congratulations

on finding your soul mate.

My father, James Curnyn, for always believing.

Rose Nappo and Lillian Curnyn, the original city girls.

Linda Guidi, my redheaded sister,

and most inspired and inspiring friend.

Tony Chiaravelotti, my love, my friend,

my “Dear,” and my Ex-Boyfriend Extraordinaire.

Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend

Lynda Curnyn

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Special thanks to the following people for advice and endless support:

Joe and Joanne Scotto di Carlo, for believing in the magic of the Skinny Scoop man. My lovable brothers, Jim and Brian Curnyn. Kim Castellano-Curnyn and Trina Palumberi, who not only had cool NYC apartments, but snagged great guys.

Dave Webber, the great guy who snagged my mom mere moments after I penned the proposal.

Linda Jean Curnyn, whose struggle to maintain sanity on the home front did not go unnoticed.

All the city girls, ex-girlfriends all at one time or another, who lent their womanly wisdom: Anne Canadeo, Lisa Sklar, Jennifer Bernstein, Alison Stateman and Karen Kosztolnyik.

My editors, Joan Marlow Golan, whose encouragement and creative spirit guided me through this first writing adventure, and Margaret Marbury, whose hipness I trust emphatically and whose solid advice I came to count on. Margie Miller, for creating the coolest cover!

My wise, dear friend, Roberto Lugo, for keeping me not only blond but sane.

Laura Wilkes and Todd Smith, the most lovable lawyers I know, for helping me keep the details straight, and for cheering me on. And let’s not forget Bismarck (the rabbit), of course, who, like Lulu, may just have matchmaking qualities. You never know….

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

One

“Ex-Girlfriends are made, not born.”

—Emma Carter, recovering Ex-Girlfriend

Confession: I should have seen it coming.

M y friend Jade claims that if you’re dating a serial killer, he will, however subtly, let you know his intentions from date one. And if you are especially attracted to said serial killer, you will merely nod and smile at this admission, then promptly forget it.

It’s true that on our first date Derrick told me he’d be moving to the West Coast just as soon as he sold his first screenplay. But since this comment came just moments after our first kiss—complete with a sunset view of the Hudson, along which we were romantically strolling—I did not register that he would one day be leaving me but only that a) he was an amazing kisser, and b) he was a writer, which essentially translated into soulmate for me. I was a writer…of sorts.

Now it’s a horrible fact of New York City life that every man you pine for is either too ambitious, too creative or too desired by the rest of the world to even have the time of day for you. Yet somehow, after spending the past two years of weekend nights curled up with Derrick on the futon in my rent-stabilized studio, I had mistaken us for a couple Meant-To-Be. Especially considering how we got together against all odds.

We met on the West 4th Street Subway platform, the uptown side. The main reason I noticed Derrick was that we were dressed similarly, in black T-shirts and jeans. And there was something so stumbling and shy about the way he was trying to catch my eye, I could hardly resist. “Hi,” he said, meandering closer.

For a neurotic instant, I thought of those nutballs who had lately been pushing unsuspecting women onto the tracks, but when I saw his neatly trimmed goatee, I felt an odd sense of security. There was something soothing, yet edgy, about a man with a goatee. I also remember being startled by the clear blue color of his eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Oh, and the glasses got me, too. I love a man in glasses.

It was summer, and the air hung thickly around us. “Hot down here,” Derrick remarked.