After starting my online stalk-fest, I started working the phones. I called every girlfriend imaginable so we could analyze his facial expression in each shot. Did he have bags under his eyes? He clearly did, which could only mean two things: He was either on a four-day Hollywood bender (Lindsay Lohan-style), or he hadn't slept because of the agony he was feeling since I left him. This latter theory would prove that he knew he was wrong for not manning up and being more than the douchy-yet-loveable character he plays in every romantic comedy imaginable. My friends and I (we had conferenced in two others at this point) discussed the likelihood of both options with me secretly manipulating the conversation (i.e. "he's heartbroken without me"). There was no chatter from him on Twitter or any notable mentions, which left me feeling good about the prospect that the only activity he could muster was to take an Ambien and watch reruns of Roswell.
That's all before "it" happened — "it" being someone calling on the other line. I put my friends on hold, only to be confronted with more truth than I could handle. Cue my manager's voice: "He was out last night with her. He went back to her!"
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"Her" was his ex, the hottest thing ever. The girl I had thought about during the course of our relationship (including, sometimes, during intercourse), and had hoped, wished, and prayed had never existed. He was back with her. I wanted to vomit my brains out. I thought he was better than that. I thought he was over wanting a girl with a six-pack and preferred a girl with a brain and a touch of beauty. I guess I thought wrong.
While the horror of my worst nightmare was coming true, I dragged myself to get a pedicure so I could scour all the tabloid magazines for free. I read every Star, OK!, Us Weekly and In Touch magazine that had been published in the past two weeks so I could finally get the inside story on our relationship. At this point, I knew it was over. But I was looking for closure, and there was no way I was giving him the satisfaction of knowing he got to me, that he got to my heart in such a profound, stay-up-all-night-and-write-in-my-journal kind of way. I would much rather read about what went down between us from some writers who knew absolutely nothing concrete about me... or so I thought. The All-Time Best Breakup Advice From Celebs
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Turning the page and seeing my favorite paparazzi shot of the two of us was jarring enough, but what was even weirder was reading an article about my relationship that was 100 percent accurate. I mean, how did they get all that? How did they know how many times he met my parents and what we were saying to our friends behind each other's back? I mean, it's not like I'm as gossip-worthy as he is. I'm barely famous, so it's not the lure of a payday that got someone to squeal.