Page 29 of Sunny Side Up

twelve

A few years ago, right before Zack and I got engaged, I was addicted to Rumble, a boxing-based workout class frequented by models.

When I was around Zack’s girlfriends, who were all size four and below, I’d started to notice myself sucking in my belly more and more.

Rumble was a solution, so I leaned all the way in.

Little did I know a free class promotion email would be my doom.

I’d received a listserve announcement introducing a new Rumble location in SoHo and offering a free class for existing members.

As I was walking into that shiny Grand Opening class, ducking past red balloons that had fallen from the welcoming arch, I heard something that made me want to pass out (and class hadn’t even started yet).

“I still can’t get over that Ryan Johnson interview everyone’s talking about,” one of the receptionists said to the girl sitting next to her.

“I don’t even care about basketball, but damnnnnn .

” She was practically singing. I perked up at the mention of Zack’s recent, and famous, article in the Post about the just-signed Knicks player who’d divulged to Zack more than the, uh, industry-standard amount of his love life and dating history.

They’re talking about my boyfriend , I remember thinking with pride. I felt famous by association, and prepared myself to interrupt, to join their conversation with the words That’s my…! already on my lips.

But I didn’t get the chance. The other receptionist responded before I could beat her to the punch. “Okay, yes, because Rachel, how wild is this: My roommate’s best friend is hooking up with the reporter, Zack. Wait, you know Jess, right? They were at the Knicks game together a couple of days ago.”

“Ohmigod stop ,” the other receptionist was full-on squealing now. “We have to all go out one night. That would be craay-ay-ay-zee. I feel like Zack Peterson is everywhere these days. He hangs out with a lot of pro athletes. Wait ohmigod Jaclyn: Let’s become basketball wives.”

“Wait yes, can you imagine .”

And as they danced together down their jersey-lined fantasy, I stood there, frozen. What the fuck?!

One of them finally realized I was standing there. “Hey girl! Welcome to Rumble! Do you need boxing gloves, or do you have your own set?”

“I, uh, forgot them—I’ll be right back.” I walked out of the studio like a zombie.

That receptionist had to be confused. Last night?

Zack said he had been out celebrating the Post cover at his friend Craig’s house.

He’d brought me home a pair of Knicks socks!

And I thought it was so sweet that he had thought of me.

Could Zack really be hooking up with someone else?

Walking back to our apartment, I knew this called for some Homeland -esque sleuthing.

I looked up the new Rumble location’s Instagram account, where luckily the receptionist had been tagged in a Boomerang video.

Clicking on her name, I scrolled and scrolled until I found a roommate, a photo of the two girls at SantaCon, then one of them hosting a Christmas-sweater-clad pregame in their Murray Hill apartment.

The roommate was a girl named Jessica Rose Baker, early twenties, skinny brunette.

I said a silent prayer: Please God, don’t let this girl’s social media page have anything to do with Zack and I promise I will never do anything remotely selfish again! and opened Jessica’s page.

For a moment I forgot that I was standing on Crosby and Spring Street, city traffic and happy shoppers buzzing around me.

It was all I could do to suppress a scream at the most recent post on @JessRose_AllDay’s profile: a couch covered in Knicks gear.

It appeared to be child-sized clothing, but I could tell from the pink accessories and narrow, slim-cut jerseys that, essentially, the entire women’s section of the Knicks store had been transported to this chick’s couch.

What did this mean? Was Zack really cheating? Did his other girlfriend wear a size extra small? And out of all that glitzy merch on the couch… he gave me socks?!

And I’d been excited about that ?!

I stormed the rest of the way home with my phone outstretched, circumstantial evidence like ammunition at my fingertips.

I found Zack in our kitchen, laptop open and chatting loudly on the phone.

Piecing together his half of the phone call, I could tell he was gabbing with his new manager.

I stood there, staring at him, until he noticed and ended the call.

“What’s up, baby?” Zack asked, standing and walking over to me. “Are you okay?” He even reached out to hug me. Hug me! The liar.

I swatted him away instead, shoving my screen in his face. “Who the fuck is Jessica Rose Baker?!”

I could’ve sworn Zack’s eyes widened for a brief moment, before he rolled them to the back of his head and let out a groan.

“She’s an intern at ESPN.”

“I heard her friend saying that you and her—”

“Sunny, she’s obsessed with me. Whatever you heard, it’s not true.”

Of course it was true. He’d been pulling away for a while now. Making up weird excuses, coming home late. He never wanted to have sex, let alone kiss me, hold me, or touch me. A fire started burning in my chest, anger coursing through my veins as vignettes of Zack’s rejections flashed in my head.

“Is this why we never have sex anymore?” I said through a clenched jaw, my eyes looking past him. “Because you’re sleeping with someone else?” I felt humiliated, furious. Hot in the face, nauseated in my gut. Like I might scream, or be sick, or flip over a table, Real Housewives style.

Tears stung my eyes as Zack tried to calm me down.

“What? Sunny. This is insane . Listen to yourself. You’re not making any sense. That girl is a whack job. She’s in love with me but I always ignore her. I swear.”

“I am listening to myself; I am making sense. I had a feeling. I knew it. Why and how would that girl make that shit up?”

“Jesus Christ , Sunny,” Zack said, dragging his hand over his face in exasperation. “Are you really doing this right now?”

I stared at him, mouth open. I couldn’t believe he was making this… my fault, somehow?

“I’ll call my producer! My manager! They’ll tell you the truth: There is nothing . Going on. With Jess.”

Jess. Oh. Okay. Is that what all her “friends” call her?

I couldn’t even speak, I was so furious.

I didn’t believe him one bit, but my heart ached, pleading with him to make this better, to explain himself, to prove that I was being insane ; that jealousy had clouded my brain, that he still loved me, and only me.

I could even maybe handle him having an innocent office crush , I told myself, full of shame at this admission, so long as I was the one he chose to come home to every day .

I crumpled onto the couch and let my tears escape.

They came on fast, a downpour, the kind of cry where you lose control of your breath and start hyperventilating.

I knew that I’d made him angry and defensive by accusing him with guns blazing, but my outpouring of tears—and probably how pathetic I looked, with my nose running—softened him a bit.

He sat down next to me and began rubbing my back.

“It’s just not true, Sunny, okay? It’s just not true.

I’m sorry you had to overhear some girls gossiping, but they don’t know what they’re talking about. Do we have any tissues?”

“Just toilet paper,” I sniffed, then began to cry again. It felt like everything I’d been holding in for so long with him was coming out of me.

He got up, went to the bathroom, and came out with a giant wad of the awful, scratchy, eco-friendly TP that I had insisted on buying and that he hated. He sat back down and kept rubbing my back.

I took it from him without looking him in the eye. Then I blew my nose for about three minutes straight.

“Sun,” he said, his voice calm. “Please, look at me.”

I couldn’t.

He pulled me into him despite my resistance and gently gathered my hair that had fallen in front of my face, around my neck, twisting it gently, then lightly raking his fingers through it, down my back.

Ugh. I hated when he did that shit. He knew I loved having my hair played with and my back tickled.

He used to do it all the time—absentmindedly while we watched TV, or when I was anxious and he was helping me to calm down.

I turned toward him, still resolved to be mad.

Maybe if I showed him how unloved and unwanted he’d been making me feel, he’d realize how he’d been acting, and change.

I angled my shoulders toward his and looked down at my hands.

“Sunny, I mean this: If I were going to cheat on you, it wouldn’t be with that basic girl.”

Despite myself, I sniffed out a laugh. I still can’t believe I let myself feel reassured by that misogynistic bullshit excuse.

I mean, in retrospect, what a fucked-up power dynamic.

People get fired for that shit now. But back then, according to Zack, anyone who didn’t march right along behind him, under his spell, was a psycho, a loser, basic.

I just didn’t see it yet. I still had my blindfold on.

He left the room while I dried my eyes and wiped my nose. In my head I repeated over and over, It will be okay. We will be okay.

When Zack came in again, he said my full name:

“Sunny Greene—”

I sniffled and looked up.

He bent down before me on one knee…

With a small red-leather box in his hand.

“It appears that you don’t know just how much I love you,” Zack said, eyes shining, looking at me the way he had when we first met.

Did that red-leather box say… Cartier?

“I want to be with you for the rest of my life.” He opened the top, revealing an emerald-cut diamond set in a yellow-gold band. “Will you marry me?”

I froze. I legitimately couldn’t tell if I was making this up, some sort of dissociative daydream running parallel to the real-life nightmare I’d been experiencing a few moments earlier. A million thoughts ran through my head:

He’s had the ring in our room this whole time! How did I not notice??

Wait, fuck him. I’m still furious.

That means he’s been planning this.

That means…

He wouldn’t have been planning to propose if he were cheating on me with some girl.

There’s no way.

He certainly wouldn’t have gone to Cartier .

Maybe I did just let insecurity and imagination run away with me. I’ve been so stressed with work, not really sleeping. I haven’t felt like myself in a while, if I’m being honest… I must be about to get my period.

Because look at him. Look at that face, those eyes, that bent knee. That red-leather Cartier box. That ring .

“Yes,” I cried, diving straight into his arms. The tears had picked up again, but I didn’t care. We were engaged! I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid. Zack loved me. There was no one else. It was just him, and me.

It’s amazing how, when I think back to this moment, I can literally watch myself decide between two pills, just like in the lyrics of Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit”:

One pill makes you larger

And one pill makes you small

I knew what I was doing in that moment. I wasn’t an idiot. I was deeply in love and still hurting, and I chose the option that would stanch the bleeding.

I chose the pill that would make me feel small for months to come.

But you know what they say: Denial is one hell of a drug.

Now, from the vantage of my postdivorce window, I remembered that afternoon with a shudder, and so much empathy for that version of myself.

Because that girl in Zack’s most recent photo?

That was Jessica Rose Baker.

Which meant I’d been right all along. I closed out of Instagram before I could let it haunt me anymore.