Your Big Break Read Free Page B

together,” Jason says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “One last date to really say good-bye.”
    â€œI don’t know. . . .”
    Craig McAllister, my boss and the founder of Your Big Break Inc., is always citing one of our cardinal rules to me: Do not get personally involved with a client. I can hear his voice in my head now, warning me. But how do you break someone’s heart—even a stranger’s—without getting personally involved?
    I sigh. “Give me a couple of days. I’ll see what I can do.”
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People always talk about the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But what’s just as common are the Five Stages of Breakup Hell: nervous breakdown, sour grapes, rebounding, backsliding, and letting go.
    It’s not just a cliché: Breaking up is hard to do. And forget about the recovery rule—that the relationship mourning period lasts one month for every year you were together. That’s totally untrue. More often than not, people get it backward, taking one year to recover from a one-month fling. There’s no reliable way to measure when a broken heart will mend. Even at stage five, when the dumpee sadly accepts the inevitable, they never completely get over it. Some part of them will always be connected to the person who broke their heart.
    Since Garrett dumped me, I’ve become a real pro at ending love affairs.

2
    We Need to Talk
    It’s eight o’clock Thursday, and I’m standing in my parents’ large, stucco kitchen, drinking red wine and watching Mom make Cajun food. My family doesn’t have a lot of traditions, but this is one of the few: We get together every other Thursday for a sit-down dinner of spicy food. My brother is usually missing in action until the very last second—he opts to hang out upstairs and watch TV instead of socializing. He rushes down just in time to eat, stuffs his face, and then bolts.
    â€œWe need to talk,” Mom says.
    I cringe because, really, has anything good ever followed that statement?
    â€œWait, let me guess. You burned the jambalaya, and we’re having pizza for dinner,” I joke.
    â€œI’m concerned about you, Dani.”
    â€œConcerned?” I repeat, running my fingers through my shoulder-length blond hair. I study her face as she stirs the rice. It amazes me sometimes how much my mother and I look alike. We’re both short and slim, with good skin, green eyes, and wheat-colored hair. If it’s true what they say—that your mother is a mirror image of what you’ll look like when you’re older—then I’m pretty lucky. My mom has held up very well over the years.
    She stops stirring the rice. “You’re twenty-eight years old, Dani. In two years, you’ll be thirty. Thirty!”
    â€œGee, Mom, thanks for reminding me.”
    â€œWhen I was thirty, I was married with two children, a house, and a successful career. You’re still living in that tiny apartment in Cambridge, fumbling around, trying to get your life in order.”
    â€œMy life’s in order,” I grumble, gulping down my glass of wine and pouring myself a fresh one. The truth is, in a lot of ways I’m lucky. Your Big Break Inc. may not be the most serene place to work, but the pay is really good. And I desperately need the salary—not only did Garrett leave me with a broken heart, he left me with a drained bank account as well. I’m still paying off the debt I incurred while mourning our breakup.
    â€œNo, it isn’t. Dani, you try to pretend like you’re happy, but I can tell you’re not. These are the best years of your life. You’re in your prime!” Mom says. “You’re supposed to be out having a good time, meeting people, living it up. In a few years, you’ll be too old to have fun.”
    Too old to have fun? Where is this coming from?
    â€œYou have the social life of