“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
MILLS & BOON
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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.
“Like an armpit,” I replied, not thinking.
This was exactly the kind of blunt little vulgarity Jade had warned me against time and again. “There are some things you just can’t say to a guy if you ever hope to have sex with him.”
Derrick did look at me rather oddly, then gave a half laugh and proceeded to move on to introduce himself, “I’m Derrick, by the way.”
“Emma,” I blurted, as the subway car pulled up, rescuing us from our awkward dialogue.
In fact, the thing I loved about Derrick immediately was that he was so “unsmooth”—so unprepared to seduce me that I was immediately seduced. “Heading out of town for the weekend?” he asked, eyeing my oversize pocketbook.
“No,” was my less-than-scintillating rejoinder.
“Oh.” He studied my bag with a frown. “I am. Jersey shore.” And he held up a bag which, to me, looked like it would barely hold a bottle of suntan lotion and a change of underwear. But then, I was talking to an attractive man—this was not the time to mince words.
When the train pulled into Penn Station—his stop—just moments after I had explained that I was headed up to 85th Street to check out the Guggenheim exhibit on “Phallic Inevitability and the Surrealist School”—a conversational gambit that earned me an eyebrow raised in admiration—I made my first tactical error. Although Jade had advised me endlessly never to make the first move, I jumped off the train right after Derrick. What could I do? Seeing him on the platform fumbling for a pen to take my number as the doors stood temptingly open but in serious danger of swinging shut at any moment—destroying my every hope for happiness—I panicked.
“Oh, I thought you