Rachel Resnick - Love Junkie

Rachel Resnick is the author of the Los Angeles Times bestseller Go West Young F*cked-Up Chick . She has published articles, essays, and celebrity profile cover stories nationally in the Los Angeles Times , Marie Claire , Womens Health , and BlackBook . She is a contributing editor at Tin House magazine. Her essays and stories have appeared in What Was I Thinking? , Stricken , The Time of My Life , Damage Control , The Dictionary of Failed Relationships , The Best American Erotica 2004 , Women on the Edge , L.A. Shorts , and Absolute Disaster . She is also the founder and CEO of Writers On Fire, provider of luxury writing retreats both in the United States and abroad. Visit her Web site at www.rachelresnick.com.

Chapter One

Problems with Rachel

2006

On Observation Drive, the narrow street where I have lived for eight years, I back the cherry red metallic pickup truck down the steep driveway toward my home, navigate past a startled raccoon, which drops a discarded can of refried beans its pried from the garbage. Just then Jim Morrison starts singing The End. I sing along the way I never do in front of anyone. Theres always a Doors song on a radio station somewhere on the dial in Los Angeles. After its over I cut the engine, listen to the ticking, pause before gaining the comfort of my tiny one-bedroom hideaway. My sanctuary. Since I took a little break from dating men a year ago, Ive grown to relish the solitude and the peace.

I always feel lucky when I get home.

But as soon as I set foot in the door, I know somethings wrong. Ajax, the homicidal scarlet macaw I rescued four years before, is uncharacteristically quiet.

Ajax, you okay?

Ajax stalks the fancy stainless steel animal environment that serves as his cage, ruffles up his neck feathers, glares. His pupils are flaring, like hes pissed. Thats not something you like to see in your scarlet macaw. He has the power to snap your finger in two, or bite through phone cords, which he likes to do for fun when hes out of the cage.

I walk into my bedroom. At first I cant locate the source of my unease. The bookcases are fine, the yellow tulips are still neatly arranged in a vase on the desk. There is the dashboard Hula Man from Hawaii, my desk mascot, next to the miniature Ganesh. On the wall, the painting by the Sandman, the Alabama outsider artist, and next to it the framed black-and-white snapshot of my mother, who died when I was fourteen, looking eternally young and bright-eyed in her high school photo. Nothings out of place.

Then I notice the darkened computer. Inside are years of e-mailsincluding the thousands I exchanged with Spencer, my most recent boyfriend and quasi-fianc, over the ten months we were togetheralong with all the stories Ive written, my second novel, the new novel, all the teaching exchanges, everything. The computers green eye is not blinking. The computer, from which I generate my very living, is dead.

For a moment, I stop breathing. Blink. This cant be happening.

Ajax, I call out softly, disoriented. I hear him stretch his wings in response.

Then my brain starts racing. Maybe there was a power outage. Those things happen in the canyon. I drop to my knees, edge close. Startled, I pull back my hand from the carpet where the hard drive sits. Its completely soaked.

Was there a sudden rainstorm? Canyon weather can be unpredictable. I move my hands closer to the wall, check for drips from the window. Nothing. Maybe something leaked from my landlords home upstairs? Its happened before. No sign of that either. Besides, the computer hard drive sits under a sturdy desk fashioned from a door set on two filing cabinets. The only water anywhere is concentrated in a thick wet pool right beneath the hard drive. It makes no sense.

Then I see a bead of water leak from the interior of the drive, squeeze through the disk portal, and drip slowly down the plastic.

The computer was a gift from Spencer.

And tonight is the night before Valentines Day.

And it hits me suddenly: Spencer did this. Drowning my computer is the perfect fuck-you Valentine. I cup my hand over my mouth, muzzle the horror. It might as well be blood leaking from the hard drive. Water poured directly into a computer instantly short-circuits the whole system, erasing all data.

Let me translate what this means to me at this moment in my life.

After decades of chasing love and ignoring the reality of my own life, I am worn to a nub. My nerves are raw. My body and heart ache. My bank account is emptywait, thats not quite right. Its actually overdrawn. On top of which, I owe Spencer money. Everything is so fragile and tenuous that this violation could send me over the edge. The memory of this period fills me with shame, because I created the calamitous circumstances.

I cant afford any physical accidents or technical mishaps.

Nor can I afford to lose the data the computer holds. What it means to me.

Let me try to explain.

The computer is a living extension of my brain, an expression of my soul, a museum of my fragmented life. It is how I connect with my friends, how I process my thoughts, where I stash memories, where I recount dreams and stories, in a matrix of files. Its also the only place where an overdue decent-paying magazine article exists, not to mention the nearly finished book manuscript I was planning to sell.

To attack it is to attack me. To destroy it is to destroy me.

I know this sounds extreme. Unfortunately, at this point in my life, its the truth.

My gaze jerks to the window. The blinds are bunched up, like someone took them in the palm of their hand and crushed them. I can feel my heart pounding, beating against the cage of ribs. On the carpet, boot marks. A mans size. The bird remains unusually silent. Normally hes laughing his avian head off, or saying repeatedly, Hello! Hello? in various tones, to which I parry with a call and response that somehow I never get tired of doing. Maybe its shame that holds his black piston of a tongue, shame because he failed to protect his domain. Because clearly, judging from the crumpled blinds and the boot marks, someone has come through the window.

I run to the cage, panicking. Spencer always hated Ajax.

Its okay, Ajax, its okay. I love you. Are you okay? Did he try to poison you? Do you need to go to the vet? Tell me, handsome.

Ajaxs feathers smooth out. He cocks his head, studying me. He seems fine now. But is he in danger? Spencer could come back. Next time ... unlessa nerve-prickling thought comes to me. Unless hes still here.

Without thinking, I look for a weapon. Pick up a kitchen knife. Listen for movement. I force myself to check behind each door, in each hiding place, but the apartment is small, only two rooms and a bathroomthree, if you count the little walk-in dressing area. The kitchen morphs into a living space; the bedroom also serves as the office and library. Actually, there are books and bookcases in every room, even the bathroom. Theres really nowhere to hide, unless youre a book or a squirrel.

Hes not here.

Still shaking, I pick up the phone.

Stasia, call me back. I know its late. Im sorry to call so late. I hope I didnt wake you and the kids. But its an emergency. Spencer broke into my house and wrecked my computer. Youve got to call me back.

Anastasia and I have been friends since right after college, when we were both living in Rome. For years we were hellions together, plowing through men, running around townuntil she got married and had two kids. Now I barely see her. Shes busy, lives on the other side of town, but we still talk every day. Shes family.

Then I call Samantha, my friend who lives up the road in Topanga Canyon in a trailer, the Cowgirl Palace. More family. The women who never let you down. Sam picks up right away. I dont even remember what I say.