Leg Breaking, Part II

The day following the drunk texts, I raced to to airport to meet up with Plastic Surgeon and Shawn. I drank a pot of coffee at home and another venti Starbuck's pumpkin spice latte (which was my favorite until I realized that it has more calories and fat than a Big Mac. From now on, I'm just grinding one of those up in a blender and drinking it from a Starbuck's cup.). I found them at the gate just as boarding began.

Tickets had been booked last-minute, so none of our seats were together. I settled into my seat and took one last look at my phone. A text came through from Sam, and we had a short conversation.

The first one from him said, "Almost, I am so sorry. All this time, I didn't understand what you were going through and I haven't been a good friend to you, but now I know first hand what you've been talking about."

Confused, I wrote back, "You've been a great friend to me, what do you mean?"

"I mean that I haven't been supportive of your situation and have only concentrated on business. I didn't realize how hard it must have been to get this company off the ground and deal with the personal stuff, too. But now I get it and I'll be a better friend to you."

"Huh?? What are you talking about?"

"There's a price on my head."

"A what?! What does that even mean?"

"I mean that I almost got jumped last night because the personal space invader put a price on my head." (I used to call Ex the Personal Space Invader, but at this point, couldn't quite process what I was reading.)

At that precise moment, the flight attendant told us we had to turn our phones off to prepare for takeoff. "Oh, this is just perfect," I thought. "Now I have hours to ruminate over what the f*ck is really going on here with nobody to ask for advice." Which is exactly what I did.

For the next several hours, I vacillated between kicking myself in the ass for my phone phobia, because if I had just called Sam when I received his first text I would have already been in the know, and wondering, could it be? Could Ex really have done something like that? No.... but would he? He's crazy, but he's not that crazy.... right? And what does, "price on my head," even mean?

We landed in New York and I checked voicemail. The first message was from a friend of mine who had been in the bar with Ex and B.B. (who was bartending) the night before. He said, "Almost, I'm sorry, this is an emergency. I overheard something last night and you have to call me back. I think someone is in danger. Call me." The second one was from the club owner, a long-time friend, and he said, "Almost, I need to talk to you ASAP. Something bad went down last night with Ex and I need to warn you."

We all took the same cab to the hotel, so I was trying to put on a front like everything was fine, but PS, damn her, is so perceptive that she knew something was wrong. Perhaps it was that she could see my heart uncomfortably lodged in my neck. I explained what I knew. She didn't look surprised.

"I don't know what's going on here, but I'll tell you this. I did not like that man from the moment I met him. I had a terrible vibe from him. You have 10 minutes once we check in to figure out what's happening and meet back in the lobby for dinner with the other surgeons and the PR reps. Try and figure it out and we'll talk about it on the way to dinner."

I was already dialing Sam's number on the way up to my room. When he answered, I didn't even say hello. "What in HELL is going on here?"

He explained to me that, at 3:30 am the night before, he'd received a phone call from the (very large) bouncer at the club who said he'd been hired to break Sam's legs because "my client thinks you're screwing around with his wife." Thankfully, Sam and Bouncer have a mutual friend, whom Bouncer had called first. The friend said he'd known Sam for years and that he certainly wasn't the type to screw with someone's wife, so he'd better get his story straight.

I was listening to this with my jaw hanging to my knees, while simultaneously trying to get out of my flight clothes and into something presentable for dinner, hopping on one foot, thinking, "OK, dress on, crap, backwards. Can this really be happening? Ouch! Shoe on wrong foot. Holy sh*t, he really paid someone to break this guy's legs?"

I had to wrap up the conversation because I was due downstairs, but I asked Sam if he was OK.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I was freaked out at first, but eventually, I found it so absurd that it's now kind of funny. Bouncer and I talked for about a half hour and I explained that I'm not interested in you like that and that it's purely platonic. But you needed to know. Ex asked him to make sure I never walk again, and if he'd hire someone to do that to me, I'm worried for your safety."

I told him I'd call him later and ran downstairs to meet Shawn and PS. We had a 2 block walk to the restaurant, at which time I realized that my hasty dressing resulted in Olsen-twin homeless chic without the chic part. On the way, PS said to me, "We have about 3 minutes. Tell me and tell me quickly."

I told her and asked, "What should I do?"

"Almost, I need you firing on all cylinders tomorrow, so please don't deal with any of this until we return home. Don't call, don't text, nothing. Put it out of your head. And by the way, honey, what are you wearing?" That was enough to make me laugh and forget about this mob movie in which I was caught, so I was actually focused during dinner.

And I did put my own personal Godfather: Almost Edition out of my head for our time in New York. Well, sort of, since I filled Shawn in on the details of the debacle over an after dinner drink at the top of our hotel. Since this was our first meeting, I was surprised she didn't throw herself off of the balcony to get away from me or yell, "Check please," and run like FloJo. And aside from returning the two phone calls I'd received earlier in the day to confirm the events (which they'd both overheard at the bar), I put the situation aside.

We did our media interviews the next day and, thanks to the marvels of spackled-on makeup I don't think I looked as if I'd come from a night of hooking, and headed back to our city. PS walked back to my seat during the flight back and asked, "Are you going to be OK, honey?" I answered in the affirmative. "Well, just let me know if there's anything at all I can do for you. And make sure you stay in touch with me on the phone to let me know you're safe."

I agreed. After landing and saying our goodbyes, I headed to my car. It was the moment that I actually began to feel something about the situation, and it was a rage that supersedes words. My jaw was clenching and unclenching as I paid my ticket to get out of the garage, already dialing Ex.

When he picked up the phone, I took a deep breath and said, "Is there something you want to tell me about Saturday night?"

"No, what do you mean?"

"I mean, is there something that happened that maybe you woke up the next day and regretted? Or weren't that proud of?" I prodded.

His voice began to shake and I could tell his mouth was dry. "N-n-no. I don't know what you're talking about." He sounded like he was about to cry.

I tried every trick in the book to get him to just tell me, but to no avail. And then it hit me. I lost it. Blacked out. I don't even remember the trip back downtown because I was screaming so loudly. And I'm not one to raise my voice in a confrontation, so this shocked even me. I recall a few things I shouted.... "Who died and left you f*cking Tony Soprano?" "What, do you think you're Johnny Goombah now?" "I have 3 separate people who don't even know each other who confirmed this story!" "Are you out of your f*cking mind?! The ONE PERSON WHO COULD HAVE PUT THIS COMPANY ON THE MAP AND YOU WANT TO BREAK HIS LEGS SO HE NEVER WALKS AGAIN?!?!" "Drinking is not a f*cking excuse! I laugh when I drink, I don't hire thugs to go out and break people's legs!"

The entire time he was crying, denying, saying, "I was drunk, but I would never do something like that." "Almost, it's not even possible for me to do anything like that." "I don't remember, I was wasted." "It's just not in my nature."

Though I don't remember the drive downtown, the moment that he said this, I remember with crystal clarity that I was just about to drive into the parking garage at my condo. The automatic arm was just lifting to let me in when he said, "But I didn't mean it." And then he admitted the whole thing. "B.B. told me that he saw you at The Doc's party while I was overseas and that Sam was there. She saw him kiss you on the cheek. She said she was sure you were screwing." Ah, so that explained the text saying, "Just so you know, I know more than you think I know."

(As a little side note here, B.B. had once again sold me out because I had sent her a few texts on the Saturday night in question, asking her to please make Ex get a hotel room and not to overserve him. She told me she'd take care of him. She took care of him alright, and almost had Sam "taken care of.")

At that moment, I was like one of those sad, deflated helium balloons. The rage that had me so furiously high just moments before drained with amazing rapidity and I sagged back in the car seat, feeling like someone had just pricked me with an industrial sized pin. I shut down.

I told him I couldn't talk anymore and had to go. Ex disappeared for 6 days over the Thanksgiving holiday. I found out in court that he had gone to Vegas and lost $30K. When he returned, we agreed to meet. I knew already that the final, rusty nail - the one that had been waiting atop the coffin for me to swing the hammer that was just out of my reach - was now ready to be driven into place.

We met at the house where we'd lived together. I didn't even have to say a word to him. I sat down on the couch and looked at him.

He said, "How do you want to do this? Should we get lawyers involved or do you want to try and divorce amicably?"