Part 2

The Blonde Theory: A Novel
by Kristin Harmel

(Page 2 of 2)

Finally, Peter turned to look at me. Not out of respect for me, but because I was standing between him and the doorway. And he was on his way out.

"Listen, Harper," he said, the overstuffed suitcase he held in his right hand weighing down the right side of his body almost comically. "I care about you. But I'm a man. And men like to be providers. I should be the one who makes partner first. Besides," he added archly, "I thought we had agreed that you'd quit after a while and stay home so we could have kids."

"I...I never agreed to that," I said shakily, staring at him in shock. Besides, I was only thirty-two. What, I was supposed to have quit by thirty-two so I could bear his children? Was he delusional? I had another good ten years or so of childbearing ability left, and I couldn't exactly impress the other partners with my legal aplomb with a nursing newborn hanging from my breast, now, could I? It wasn't that I didn't want kids someday. It was just that I wasn't ready for them yet. And Peter sure as hell had never indicated that he was.

"I just thought we were on the same page, Harper," Peter said sadly, shaking his head at me as if I were a child and he was disappointed in my behavior. "But you just had to be better than me at everything, didn't you?"

I was aghast. I couldn't think of another thing to say as he walked past me toward the door. I followed him mutely out of the apartment and watched him as he made his way down the stairway to the ground floor.

He didn't look back.

AFTER EVERY BREAKUP, there's a period of mourning. Sometimes it comes in the form of a rebound fling or two. Sometimes it comes in form of a lingering semi-depression. Sometimes it comes in the form of a Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey carton. Or two. Or thirty-seven.

I mourned Peter. As angry as I should have been with him for leaving me just like that, with no warning, no real explanation, I was filled instead entirely with sadness and hurt. I didn't get out of bed for the next three days. My three best friends, Meg, Emmie, and Jill, sat with me in shifts. My secretary dropped by all the patent paperwork I had to do that week and canceled all my appointments and court appearances. I told her I was sick, but I think the Reese's wrappers, Pringles canisters, Bacardi Limón bottles, cigarette butts, and empty ice cream cartons scattered all over my room gave me away. As did the fact that I had Courtney Jaye's girl-power "Can't Behave" playing on repeat and was angrily singing along with the words time after time after time, inserting Peter's name in unflattering locations throughout the song.

On the fourth day, I sucked it up and went back to work, telling myself that I was better off without him. I was, obviously. Who needed a guy who walked away the moment he felt overshadowed? Certainly not me. Who wanted a guy who felt so emasculated if his girlfriend made a little more money than he did? I sure didn't.

But knowing those things didn't help much. Logic is no match for heartbreak.

It took me awhile to want to date again. I'm not the rebound type. And I just knew that Peter would change his mind and come back. But four months later, I hadn't heard one word from him. He had sent his friends Carlos and David to pick up the rest of his belongings-including the beautiful Italian leather sofa we'd bought two months before he left that he'd insisted on putting on his credit card-and then he had seemingly disappeared off the face of the planet while I moped around in a living room with no furniture.

But when I was finally ready to get out there again, to dive back into the dating pool, I found I was swimming alone.

Sure, I had dates here and there. I wasn't unattractive; at five foot six with shoulder-length light blonde hair, green eyes, a tiny nose, girlishly freckled pink cheeks, and a body that would be considered average for a woman in the vicinity of thirty, I still turned my share of heads.

But the problem wasn't in attracting the guys. The problem was that the moment they found out I was an attorney-and even worse, a partner in one of Manhattan's most prestigious firms-they ran. Far and fast. They couldn't get away from me quickly enough. A few of the braver ones hung in until date three or four, but they always jumped ship eventually.

And it wasn't that I didn't get asked on dates. I did. Men were intrigued by me. They knew they were supposed to like the trifecta of beauty, charm, and brains (okay, in my case, moderately average attractiveness, a sarcastic sense of humor, and brains). But apparently, in reality the total package-so to speak-was totally horrifying. Who knew?

I'd been so sure I'd find someone. It wasn't because I needed a man by my side; I wasn't that kind of girl. I was perfectly content being by myself. It was just that I had known that after Peter, I'd eventually find someone else, someone who would love me and whom I would love, someone who was a stronger man than Peter and who appreciated what I did for a living without feeling threatened by me, someone who understood that my job didn't define who I was.

I was thirty-two then, when Peter left. Young enough to be hopefully optimistic. Foolish enough to believe in love.

Now I was thirty-five. I hadn't had more than four dates with the same man-other than Peter-since my twenties. And my twenties were a long time ago.

Tomorrow was the third anniversary of Peter leaving me, the third anniversary of me being alone, the third anniversary of the day that I began to realize that being successful and being desirable are evidently mutually exclusive.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that as long as I kept climbing the corporate ladder, I was destined to be alone.

Copyright © 2007 by Kristin Harmel

About the Author

Kristin Harmel is a contributor for People magazine where she has interviewed numerous celebrities. She has been an adjunct journalism instructor at the University of Florida and has lived in Paris, New York, Boston, Tampa Bay, and Miami. She currently lives in Orlando and is working on her second novel.