To my credit, I did not cause a scene. At least, not there. Not right there, in the bathroom. Instead, I calmly gave Dave a smile and a death stare, and walked away, closing the bathroom door behind me. Then I teetered out into the crowd of revellers in the spacious main room of the uptown mansion, perched myself halfway up the spiral staircase and smiled a gracious smile as I said, “Attention, everyone! Attention! I’d like to make a toast.”

It was just enough time for Dave and the other one to make their way into the room. I smiled even bigger at them as they stood, paralyzed by their own stupidity.

“To our lovely hostess, Nicolette, who has opened her beautiful home so that we could all celebrate and ring in the New Year here.” A round of applause and glass clinking. I beamed graciously and went on, “Who has opened her heart — not to mention her wallet — to start up Toronto’s premier interior design magazine.” More clapping. A few laughs and hoots and whistles. I smiled, nodded in agreement. “And, who — as I just discovered — has opened her mouth and let my fiancée, ad-man David Salyszyn, put his penis in it. That is, indeed, how you get ‘ahead’ at Sweet Home Magazine!” The room got a little quiet after that. Jesus, don’t these people have a sense of humour? “Happy New Year. Don’t drink and drive. And go fuck yourselves! Or each other!” I bellowed. Then I slugged back my champagne, smashed the empty glass on the floor, and walked out the door to hail a cab.

Dave followed me. When he tried to get in the cab with me, I yelled “Get away from me, creep! I don’t know you!” and the cab driver threatened to call the cops. I went back to our condo, gathered up a shitload of Dave’s stuff — books, clothes, his laptop — and hucked it out the eighth-storey window into the alley.

By the time he showed up, I had already packed my bags, booked a hotel room, pissed on the memory foam king-sized mattress, threw up on the white suede couch, and jammed his Italian leather shoes in the garburator. Within days, I’d sold my engagement ring, found my own place, and slammed that chapter of my life shut.

But it must be Mercury retrograde or upside down Uranus or some other cosmic clap going around these days, because even the things I think I’ve slammed shut have a way of creaking back open. On the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, my phone sings Green Day’s “Basket Case.” In the headspace I’m in, I shouldn’t answer it, but I do. Because I’m a glutton for punishment.

“Hey, stranger. It’s me, Dave. It’s so good to hear your voice.”

All I said was hello.

“How’s the Motherland treating you? How are you? Every­one here really misses you.”

It starts off cordial and small talky. A little annoying, but comfortable, which is how I’d characterize our relationship at its finest. Then it veers off into the douchebag ditch, our relationship at its core.