I awoke the next morning with eight missed calls from Alex, a pounding headache, and a vague feeling of impending doom.  Curling into a ball and pulling up my covers, I brought back the events of last night.  Dinner and drinks turned into dancing and shots, shots led to karaoke and then...nothing.  I coaxed myself back to sleep, but the gaping hole in my memory would not allow it.  I dragged myself out of bed and into my bathroom.  Taking in my reflection, I groaned. 

Huge black mascara rings smeared below my eyes.  My skin was splotchy and a frightening color of green.  On my forehead, written in what appeared to be blood red lipstick, were the words--Fag Hag.  Memories from last night slowly seeped into my foggy brain. 

Oh God, what did I do?

​I ran as fast as my aching body allowed into my living room to find Lulu passed out on my couch.  Her long white blonde hair fell to the floor, and her perfectly pink lips made a small pout.  Her skin was not splotchy, nor did she have mascara rings.  I would hate her, if I didn't view her as an extension of myself.   "Wake up asshole. I need you to fill in my missing memories," I nudged her a bit too hard. 

​"Ugh.  What time is it?" Lulu wiped the sleep from her ice blue eyes. 

"Time for you to wake up and explain this," I pointed to the smudged writing on my head. 

She erupted in peals of sleepy laughter.  "I can't believe we called all those Jaime's." She giggled hysterically in her early morning daze. 

"What?" 

Harriett made her way from my spare bedroom onto the couch.  "Happy birthday, Annie!  How do you feel?  Did the mantra work?" 

​It all came back to me.  Julian met us last night, bringing endless rounds of shots and a pocket full of Valiums.  After performing a rousing rendition of, Air Supply's, 'All Out of Love' we'd left the karaoke bar and hailed a cab for my apartment.   Upon arrival, Lulu came up with what seemed like a brilliant plan.

Why don't we call all the Jaime Knoxs listed in Dallas?  That way you can track him down and find out once and for all if he's gay!"

So, that's exactly what we did.  At three o'clock in the morning, we drunk-dialed thirteen men with the unfortunate moniker of Jaime Knox, and asked if they were gay. 

​ "None of them were my Jaime, were they?" 

"I don't think so," Harriett told me, her voice tinged with disappointment. "Most of them hung up." 

"Thank God! Now, one of y'all fill me in.  What's going on with my forehead?"  I felt a bit better knowing I hadn't destroyed things with Jaime—now a notch below mania. 

"You don't remember?"  Lulu asked incredulously.  "Last night we came up with a mantra to help rid your psyche of Jaime forever."

And then I did remember. 

I remembered a jubilant Julian scribbling on my head, me standing in front of my mirror, looking in my eyes, and saying the most painful words imaginable.  "Annie," I told my reflection, "Jaime Knox does not love you and he never will." 

Over and over I repeated these words.  "He doesn't love you, he never will, doesn't love you, never will, doesn't love you, never will."   I remembered feeling my heart accept these words and the tears that followed. 

​Harriett, sensing my distress wrapped me in her arms, attempting to pull me out of the emotional wormhole.  "I hate Jaime Knox," she said, her voice dripping venom.  I curled into her body, as fifteen years of Jaime memories swirled in the pit of my stomach.

​"Even ultimate Fag Hag, Scarlett O'Hara, struggled to accept the fact that Ashley Wilkes was gay.  Let her tragedy act as a cautionary tale.  You need to let Jaime go before it's too late," Lulu reasoned, using the ever effective Gone with the Wind reference. 

It was time to let him go.  I closed my eyes, hoping childishly to hide my pain and fought against the bile rising in my throat.  "It's time for me to face reality," I said, with more confidence than I felt.  "Jamie doesn't love me, and I don't love Alex."

"Good riddance to Alex the Yawn Fitz and Jaime Knoxy-fag," Lulu exclaimed, disproportionately enthusiastic from her spot on the couch. "Annie, I'm sorry this sucks so badly for you, I truly am.  But you've got to let them go.  You haven't even seen Jamie in years.  He's probably settled down with some charming lad and adopted a baby from Ethiopia.  And Alex may be hot, but he's bone-numbingly dull.  He can't possibly be your match."

"Think of last night as closure with Jamie," suggested Harriett, using what she considers her comforting voice.  "Have the talk with Alex over dinner tonight?  A fresh start to your twenty-fifth year?"

Her question hung in the air, unanswered.  Breaking up with a perfect-on-paper boyfriend is hard to do.  Excruciatingly hard.  Practically impossible, I thought.

"I'm scared," I said, a bit too loud. "It feels so strange.  I lived my entire adult life under the delusion that Jamie was the right one, even if he didn't know it yet.  I thought one day he'd come around.  It felt safe in my delusion," I rambled, feeling lost and empty.  "And now to give up Alex, too?  He gives me comfort, makes me feel safe--" 

"But Annie, he offers a false sense of safety," Harriett sighed.  "You're not happy with Alex." 

She was right, but it didn't stop me from feeling as if pieces of DNA were being ripped from my body.  My Jamie memories acted as a tumor, corroding my relationship with Alex.  We were terminal and I knew it.  "I'll end it tonight." 

"Okay ladies," Lulu began. "While this is mildly entertaining, I'm bored with the whole Jaime-palooza thing, so you two get your shit together because we're going shopping."  She stamped her foot for effect.  Some might find Lulu's abruptness off-putting, but her passionate nature is contagious.  My mouth formed a smile for the first time all morning.

As my friends and I got ready, I silently vowed that I was letting Jamie Knox go.  And this time I meant it.  But even as the self-loving intelligent me promised to forget, recklessly defiant, foolish romantic thoughts lurked in the secret recesses of my mind.

Three showers and a strong pot of coffee later, we were enroute to North Park mall.  "That empty feeling you have can easily be filled with new clothes from Neimans," Lulu promised, as she squealed her bright-red Mercedes into a too-small parking spot. 

"You're right, every time I'm here it's like my mothership called me home." I felt my mood lift slightly at the familiar cursive scroll of Neiman Marcus.  Once inside we went into autopilot, expertly scanning the artfully displayed shoes and designer clothes. 

"I need a new swimsuit, one that makes mountains out of molehills," Lulu declared, eyeballing the colorful Juicy Couture suits.  The moment the words escaped her perfectly plumped lips, a sales rep was at her side, fawning over her beauty and guiding her toward the suits. 

Neiman's girls were trained in the art of smelling old money.   Apparently the scent caused them to frantically asshole lick. And this Neiman's girl did her job well.  Harriett and I followed behind, rolling our eyes and pretending to not be jealous. 

​It's been seven years since I first laid eyes on Lulu, and at times her smile can still leave me feeling stunned, and a bit anxious.  How does one person get so lucky?  I thought for the millionth time. 

"Swimwear's on me, ladies," she called over her bony shoulder, using her best aren't-I-generous tone.  "Oh and, Annie, pick out any birthday dress you want, my treat!"  Although being best friends with Lulu often took its toll on my ego, without her, life would be vomit. 

​Thirty minutes later we'd each compiled a dressing room's worth of Prada, Theory, Vitamin A, Gucci, and other jaw droppingly expensive labels. 

Harriett came out blushing, in a blood-red, two-piece that highlighted her enviable curves. 

"Fuck you, Harriett," Lulu said.  Harriett's unbelievably perfect boobs have been known to cause Lulu panic attacks. 

​The boobs are how we came to be friends with Lulu in the first place.  Our freshmen year of undergrad, Harriett and I were lounging by the university pool, sucking in our non-existent stomachs and discussing how I might meet the hot swim team boys, aggressively swimming laps before our hungry eyes. 

We become distracted from our abs induced trance, when an impossibly gorgeous, mermaid of girl poked her blonde head out of the water.  Pulling her long body onto dry land she'd plopped herself down on the edge of my plastic lounge chair and pointing at Harriett's chest asked, "Wher'dya buy those?" 

Harriett, becoming a mute, blushed and stared. 

"They're real!" I remember squealing, defensively speaking-up on behalf of Harriett's chest.

"Wow!" As Lulu had spoken she'd leaned in and squeezed Harriett's left boob. 

Nine years later, and we were so entrenched in one another's lives it bore a scary resemblance to a co-dependency issue. 
​
Back in the dressing room, Lulu and I continued to stare, mouths agog, at Harriett's prize-winning chest.  No matter how many times I had seen her naked (or nearly so) her body never failed to send a jealousy jolt coursing through my veins.

"You could be Jessica Rabbit's body double," I said, with unabashed envy.

"Oh, you have to have that swimsuit!" Lulu agreed, reaching over and slapping Harriett on her peach of an ass. 

​ I finished adjusting the ties on a white, Betsy Johnson, string bikini and turned to face my friends. 

"Fuck you too, Annie!"  Lulu exclaimed forcefully.   "Jesus, I'm totally screwed with you two around.  How the hell will I reach my maximum male attention quota?"

"Seriously, Annie, you look like Kate Beckinsale's younger, hotter sister.  Smokin'!"  Harriett gushed. 

I smiled, trying to believe more in my friend's affirmation than my body dismorphic brain.  An hour and twenty swimsuits later, Lulu chose four for herself.  She pulled out her heavy, black, American Express card, casually tossing it to the Neiman's girl.  

"You know," Lulu said, arching her perfectly groomed eyebrows, "this makes y'all my bitches." 

After promising to call them after my looming birthday dinner with Alex, we parted ways.  Three angst-filled hours later, I was seated in a booth across from Alex, praying for the night to end.

Our wordless bubble felt frighteningly normal.  As usual we ate in dead air.  My brain clung to the safety of staying with Alex, being his wife, enjoying the perks that came along with his semi-celebrity quarterback status.  I pictured our unborn children, and the enviable lives they would lead. 

A slurping noise interrupted my vision, as Alex sucked the lone noodle remaining from his once proud pile of pasta.  Alex loved pasta.  In fact, it's pretty much all he ever ate.  Well, that and Snickers bars, and any sort of meat.  He also loved the band Weezer.  No matter how many Led Zepplin CD's I played, he remained obnoxiously loyal to his favorite group.  He loved sports, the Rangers, Mavericks, and Texas Longhorns to be specific.  When not discussing work, or the wonders of Jager Blasters, he was immersed in the man-land of fantasy football and ESPN.  His list of passions was completed by God, and his mamma, like any good Catholic Southern boy. 

Alex was a creature of habit and his repetitious nature felt stifling in our tiny booth.   The distance separating us across our table insurmountable.  Red sauce went unnoticed on his upper lip.  This is love?  I accidently sneered.   Anxiety bubbled and spewed deep inside my belly.  A seed of discontent was planted years ago by Jamie Knox.  I knew there was something more, something bigger, than Alex and I. 
As I prepped to deliver the kill shot to our relationship, Alex produced an impeccably wrapped birthday gift.

"You shouldn't have," I said, ripping the paper from its box. A box, thank God, too large to be a ring.  Gingerly, I lifted a David Yurman necklace.  It was beautiful, perfect in fact, as if it were made for me.

The mermaids reasoning felt shaky, at best. 

I don't want to be alone. Panic bells rang in my head.  If I fastened the necklace around my neck, I'd never say the words.  I placed the entrapping jewelry slowly on the table and swigged my oversized margarita.

Alex looked pleased with himself as he shoveled chocolate birthday cake into his mouth.  "Mom picked it out.  She said you'd love it."

"Alex, this isn't working."

He looked confused, then deeply concerned.  He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.  "What?"

"You and I.  We're not working, Alex.  I can't keep doing this."

Somewhere my mother screamed.

He spat a moist clump of chewed-up cake onto our table and met my gaze with bewildered eyes.   I hadn't expected tears, but they came.  I sat in my new Chloe birthday dress watching him cry, wondering if I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life.  A part of me wanted to press rewind, take back my words, attend a Weezer concert, and relish family dinners. 

Loneliness and fear enveloped my being the second I turned single, and as it happened twenty-five.  I cried with Alex.  Together, in two separate worlds. 

That evening I placed my head on my own pillow, inside my own apartment, alone in bed for the first time in years.  All I'd believed was not so and my brain struggled, spinning to reassemble the wreckage of my future.  I tossed and turned for hours, a sweaty anxious wreck.  Before I fell asleep, I reasoned that if I wanted big love, crazy love, rock my face off kind of love, then I had to take risks.  And I was someone who believed in true love.

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