I’m crying hysterically in the Taco Bell drive-thru, ready to shovel twelve Crunchwrap Supremes down my gullet, trying to frantically dry my running tear tracks as fast as they’re reappearing. I just left the shop mid-tattoo because my lying girlfriend committed the ultimate betrayal, just two days before I was going to propose.
The kid working the drive-thru is dazed by the sight of me. He’s seventeen, tops. Nothing in his life has prepared him for this. I get that no one wants to see a grown man sobbing in a drive-thru, but he’s acting like this is traumatic for him and is disgusted by my vulnerability. The secondhand embarrassment is palpable. He starts to hand me my multiple bags of food and I snatch them with urgency. He holds the last one hostage, asks if I want sauce.
I gesture and nod and breathe raggedly at him like yes, sure, okay.
“Hot…mild…or…”
“Just whatever,” I choke out, hating him for making me endure this interaction when he could have the basic human decency to let this end.
He is slowly collecting a variety of sauces, too slowly.
“Just throw any sauce in there, shit!” I bark at him, which I instantly regret. It’s not this kid’s fault my girlfriend is evil. He tosses random sauce packets in and hands the last bag to me with true pity, a look that might be even worse than what’s happened tonight aka the worst night of my life. It hasn’t fully hit me yet, but I know when I walk into my empty apartment and see all of her shit gone, I’m going to hyperventilate into these Taco Bell bags and no amount of chalupas will fill the void she’s left.
Like I said, I came here straight from the tattoo shop. Flashback to twenty minutes ago, I’m in the middle of getting my girlfriend’s name tattooed on my chest, a heart surrounding it and everything, when Bryan calls me up. I’m happy to see my best friend appear on my phone because I’m in a great mood, telling the tattoo artist how I’m proposing to my girl Melissa this weekend. That she’s my everything. That we’re made for each other. That she’s a 10/10. Hell, 100/10. That he should just see her, he’d understand.
“I mean she’s so beautiful, dude. Smart too,” I say. “She’s really the whole package.”
The guy tattooing me doesn’t even give a polite mhmmm or any facial expression in response, but I can tell he’s listening. The call interrupts me gloating about her very expensive ring and I pull out my phone to answer it mid-sentence which is rude, but this tatooer is cool, he doesn’t give a shit.
Like I said it’s my best friend Bryan calling, soon to be best man once I tell him. I haven’t told anyone besides this artist, can’t risk her finding out. Probably why I’m spilling my guts to a stranger, I’ve been holding this secret in for months.
“Bryan!” I shout into my phone, beaming, happy to hear from him. Happy with everything, with earning my woman’s name on my skin, thinking about the ass I’ll get tonight when she sees it.
“What’s good, man?” I say to Bryan.
This artist is still drilling away at my flesh, unfazed. I could be a corpse or pig skin or a mannequin, this place could be getting shot up, and I bet he’d still be the exact same, hunched over, un-fucking-fazed. I think he just went through a breakup or something because he’s a little bitter about my good news. But it’s okay, like I said, I’m on top of the world right now and I love this guy. He’s giving me Melissa on my body forever. Any man would kill for that.
“Hey, bro. Look, I don’t know how to tell you this,” Bryan says to me through the phone. He sounds so serious. I’ve never heard him this serious. He also never calls me bro. Something is off.
“So I’m just going to come out and say it,” he says. “You should know that I’ve been hooking up with Melissa. It’s been going on for a while now. Truth is, her and I, we’re soulmates. Shit happens, you know?”
At first I think he’s lying, like this is some hilarious joke. Then I hear her shout in the background calling him baby, asking him to help her load a box in her car, and suddenly I know it’s real. He starts rushing me off the phone.
“I never intended for this to happen. Honestly, I tried to fight it. But she’s mine now, she’s moving in with me. I just helped her get her stuff from your place. Thought you should hear it from me.”
Bryan, that coward, hangs up on me after delivering this life shattering blow and my eyes instantly fall to the Meliss—with the A not yet there, permanently etched on my chest. I don’t know if it’s my rage filled heartbeat furiously pumping, or the drill-drill-drilling of tiny needles across my skin, or the sight of her unfinished, cheater name, but suddenly I can barely breathe.
The volume is turned up loud on my phone so I’m pretty sure this artist whose head is a foot away from mine heard the whole fucking thing. But he’s stone faced, still not giving a shit, still tattooing.
“Hey man,” I say, stunned into near silence, my voice a quaver. I’m dead of embarrassment, fearing if I acknowledge what just occurred, I’ll cry. To this man tattooing me, I’ll cry. Nothing says pussyboy like crying while getting some measly lettering that also happens to be of your almost-fiancé-turned-ex-girlfriend’s name, same girlfriend who’s leaving you for your best friend.
“I, uh, need a smoke break,” I manage, not allowing emotions to flood just yet. “Can we…” I shift in the seat.
He nods at me, lifts the tattoo machine from my skin. I already pre-paid him for the tattoo but I get up and leave $50 on his chair for his tip.
I walk out the front door, get into my car, peel out of the shop’s parking lot. Aside from the initial cloud of devastation, I’m livid. I’m going to kill him, I think. I’m going to drive over to Bryan’s place and put his head through a window. Then the rage dissolves into a complete annihilation of my soul. Nah, I think. He’s not worth it. I decide to do the only reasonable thing in this situation, which is to head straight to Taco Bell and eat as many Chalupa Supremes as I can in one sitting. Leadfooting 65 in a 45, I squeal into the Taco Bell parking lot, where I now sit, sobbing and eating.
I continue to live like this. This is my new ritual. Taco Bell every night, more tacos and chalupas and Mexican Pizzas to drown my sorrows in. Graciously, the same drive thru kid hasn’t been working. Other faces here start to look familiar, though, like they’ve all got my same ritual too. Sometimes when I’m semi-presentable, I eat inside. There’s a lot of people in this place who look like they’re suffering, like me. It gives me this brilliant idea to start a support group, something for us to do while we eat. I call it the Taco Lovers Society for Broken Hearts. That way we can share our pain instead of just wandering into this place like it’s some sanctuary, magically waiting for chalupas to fix it. The only rule for membership is: must be single and have a broken heart.
People love it, it’s a hit. It’s such a good idea that some girl even copies me and starts her own group at the pizza place across the street, calls it Pizza Sluts. It’s supposedly a sexual liberation thing, some women’s empowerment bullshit. Mine is better though. We max out our membership in three days, only it’s a rotating door because people start dating and leave. Even the people I’ve met only once have been amazing. I’m so proud of all of us, of the entire group.
Two months in, I think I’m healing a little. Feeling almost the tiniest bit improved. I’m not ready to cover up her unfinished name or anything, or to stop wishing Bryan will get hit by a car, or to stop jacking off to pictures of Melissa while crying, but I start to think that maybe one day I’m going to be okay.
Then one night my progress reverses when she walks in, turns out she’s joined the Taco Lovers Society for Broken Hearts support group. Says it didn’t work out with her and Bryan, that he left her for his ex, but that she’s doing fine. She’s trying to heal now, hopes I’m well.
“Uh huh,” I say, daggers in my eyes. “Me? I’m doing great,” I add, as convincingly as possible, no clue what else to say. Too afraid it’ll be obvious if I lie further.
Suddenly I’m back to that moment of devastation, getting her evil name tattooed, my heart shriveling to an empty hole in my chest. I google the tattoo shop and click the artist bios, find the guy who tattooed me. Matt is his name. I still need to figure out what to do with this unfinished tattoo situation but I suddenly get another brilliant idea. So I call up this tattooer, Matt, tell him I’ll pay him what he makes in a month for what should only take him a couple hours, tops.
He’s down.
He shows up at Taco Bell thirty minutes later. He’s now a covert member of the group, my pawn I’ve placed in this once haven turned battleground. I decide to do this plan instead of kicking her out, since I’m the boss of this group and can do whatever the fuck I want.
Matt joins us the next few days, does his duty. He’s masterful, stealing her heart with ease. I feed him lines, tell him to really sell it, so we can crush her. He gives me no indication of how he feels about this and doesn’t even rehearse his persona, but he’s doing surprisingly well. Right now, Melissa is sitting next to him in a booth, playing footsie with him, all cozied up. I’m at a table close by, able to see their faces perfectly. I can still signal him if needed. She doesn’t see me, or if she does, she doesn’t care.
She’s being chatty and annoying, clearly obsessed with him already. He finally gets her to stop talking when he lifts her chin like he’s about to kiss her, then begins feeding her his bean and cheese burrito. She opens wide, gingerly takes a bite, swallows it.
He pulls her mouth open again with his thumb against her bottom lip, sliding the burrito in a second time, and that’s when things get weird. Suddenly he’s doing more than just feeding her. He’s pushed it in way past a bite, and she’s taking it, she might as well be deepthroating that thing. It’s difficult to tell with him but he looks like he’s maybe enjoying this, and a jealous monster wells up inside me. He’s getting a little too invested.
Watching him utterly silence her with his burrito is almost making me hard. I’m not the only one catching this display, people are staring. Now he’s got a fistful of her ponytail in one hand, and he’s still giving it to her, I mean he’s really shoving it in her mouth, getting sauce on her face. I can’t tell if he’s just publicly degrading her or if he’s into this. I’m marveling in shock for a minute because like everyone else, I can’t look away. Somehow, I force myself to snap out. I sternly shake my head no at him and he casually glances over to me, understanding. Thankfully, Matt’s a good guy. He tones it down. She looks a little disappointed and wipes her face. This crushes me, seeing that kitten eyed look she’s giving him, realizing that she actually wants this.
I am sickened by her, by myself, by how much I still love-hate her, by how jealous this made me and how tempted I am to get on my knees and beg for her back right now solely so that I can drag her to the car and fuck her in this Taco Bell parking lot because what the fuck was that? She never did any of that dirty girl shit for me, not even once. Granted, Matt is way cooler than me and is the type of guy who gets pussy without trying; but wait, focus, stop spiraling, I tell myself. I take a breath. I inhale, let out the exhale slowly. Okay, exactly, I remind myself. She never did that for you, she betrayed you, so let this play out and get over it.
As painful as it is to witness, my plan is working. People couple up often in the group so it’s not suspicious. The vulnerability, the tenderness, it gets to you. She’s the type who’s apparently easy to get to. A dumpster could sweep her off her feet. It’s a difficult realization, and admitting this makes me feel bad about myself, but if the support group has taught me anything, it’s that when times are hard you must fill your heart with chalupas and self-compassion.
Over the next few group meals, armed with the information I give him, the right lines, the bands, her favorite movies, his fictional sob story, she’s a sucker for him—hook, line, and sinker. The time has come. I give him the Marry Me sauce packet I’ve been saving for his final task. He’s about to do it. My favorite thing about this guy is he’s so deadpan, he literally gives no fucks. He’s fake proposing to the most beautiful woman on Earth and his face is concrete. He has no nerves. He is so cool-headed; this dude is cold. He is a freezer.
She’s teary eyed with joy, looking at him on his knee, waiting for him to produce a ring for her like a total moron. I shove him to the side, and this thrilled reaction washes over her like she thinks I’m about to fight him in a fit of unhinged jealousy, or maybe profess my love for her in some pathetic show of groveling humiliation.
Then when I don’t, her smile slackens. She’s annoyed, waiting for whatever the hell I’m doing, pissed that I’m interrupting this. I dig in my pocket. Now she’s smiling again, like she thinks I’m going to propose to her too, that maybe she can get an option of two rings to pick from. Fucking bitch.
It is in this moment that I finally accept her true character, seeing how she would easily betray Matt given the chance. This ignites a disgust in me I didn’t think possible. It is the kick in the balls I needed.
Her glee melts off her face when I do not produce a jewelry box and instead I pull out my wallet and hand Matt the fat stack of Benjamins I promised him for doing this job. The same stack I earned from selling her ring back, that I am now giving directly to him, slowly counting out the bills, so she can see how much I’m willing to spend on her. I’d told him this will be easier than any tattoo he could ever do. I didn’t lie. He nods in approval, fist bumps me. It’s more than he was expecting.
She’s confused at first, now she’s crying sad tears, realizing her budding love affair with Matt was staged, and I hate that I love to see it. “Shit happens,” I say, offering the same line that Bryan gave me when revealing their betrayal, turning away from her one final time to leave her there in Taco Bell, not looking back.
Matt doesn’t turn around either. I love this guy. Matt says the first complete sentence I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth unprompted, that he’s got a surprise for me at the shop. We get there and he tattoos a chalupa on me to cover up her name. It’s badass and colorful, real crispy lines, looks amazing.
And I don’t know, I think it might be true when people say the worst thing that ever happens to you can actually turn out to be the best. Maybe starting a Taco Lovers Society for Broken Hearts and getting a chalupa tattoo and making a new friend aren’t exactly huge life changes to someone else, but compared to how low I was, this all feels pretty great.
I’m even reminded of that original high I felt, the one I never thought I could feel again, from the first time I walked in here and met Matt, him letting me ramble about my happiness, giving me a shitty tattoo without judging me. Now he’s gifted me this sweet coverup and I make another appointment to see him for something else cool, and I don’t even care if she’s there tomorrow when I go to Taco Bell again for dinner. Hell, maybe I’ll skip Taco Bell for a while, pull in across the street, introduce myself to the Pizza Sluts. Because for the first time in a long time, I’m in a really good mood.