Time might have skipped forward then because before Doris knew what was happening, she found herself down on the driveway, pummeling her husband’s body with her fists. Her knuckles were contacting his fleshy face with a force she didn’t know she had in her. As Doug tucked his knees to his chest and tried to grab for her hands, Doris grabbed for the bulbous helmet dangling from his hand. The coarse strap cut into her skin as she wound up, getting ready to swing it at his head.
Doug rolled to the side just in time and with a sharp thwunk! the heavy plastic made contact with his shoulder. He yelped. “Doris!”
“You pansy piece of dog doo-doo,” she screamed, pulling back for another hit.
Doug leaped up and started to run. Doris chased after him, swinging the helmet like a machete. She slipped, falling face first on the ground, the helmet tumbling from her hand.
As Jackie rushed to help her up, Doris cried, “He slept with Katherine Rigney. He slept with Katherine Rigney!”
“Why?” Cheryl said, facing Doug. There were two red indentations from the face mask along her freckled nose. “Oh, I know,” Cheryl said, voice thick and sarcastic. “Because you like to set standards but not live up to them. Isn’t that right, Doug?”
Doug glared back at Cheryl. “Could I have some time alone with my wife?”
“No,” Doris sobbed, desperately stretching her arms out. “Please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me . . .”
Jackie engulfed Doris in her arms. Smoothing her hair with one hand, she patted her back with the other. “It’s okay, honey,” Jackie told her, voice soft and soothing. “It’s going to be okay . . .”
As Doris sobbed, her thoughts were no longer on her bastard of a husband but on her mother. Her mother could have fixed this. Her mother had fixed so many things with Doris’s father; making sure he was comfortable and happy in their little home, cooking his meals and raising their child. That man had loved Doris’s mother with a lifelong devotion. The type of devotion Doris had always assumed she had from Doug.
Opening her eyes, Doris saw that Doug was clutching his helmet, jingling his keys, and looking from the house to his wife back to the house. Just as he looked ready to make a run for the house, Jackie demanded, “What’s with the bike, Doug? Couldn’t pony up for a midlife Corvette? Or a midlife . . .”
“Miata,” Cheryl volunteered.
“He s-s-saw Wild Hogs.” Doris sniffled, remembering what Doug had been saying just before dropping the bomb about his affair. “He wants to go—go f-f-find himself.”
Cheryl whipped her head toward him. “You have got to be kidding me.”
As Doug shifted his weight from one foot to the other, Doris remembered the first time she and Doug had kissed. It was after school, they were only fifteen. There were kittens behind Doug’s parents’ house and he invited her over to see. Together, they walked behind the garage. Doug pointed into an abandoned dog house, where the furry little bundles lay huddled up next to their mama. The cat eyed the two teens, tail batting with protective concentration. When Doris finally turned away from the sweet sight, ever so gently, Doug took her mouth with his.
At the memory, Doris wailed. “I loved you,” she cried, pointing at him. “How could you do this to me?”
Jackie, pressing her hands deep into her pants pockets, stepped protectively in front of Doris. “Doug, you need to leave,” she said.
“I need to get my things.”
“You need to get the fuck out,” Cheryl said.
Doug took a long look at everyone. Realizing he was outnumbered, he shook his head and hopped back on the motorcycle, yanking his helmet back on. The engine roared to life and Doug sped out of the drive, without even a glance behind him. The neighborhood was silent in its wake, its giant houses looming.
“Well, the weather’s not great . . .” Cheryl mused. “At least there’s hope he’ll crash.”
WHEN THE GIRLS were thirteen, the crash had changed their lives. It happened when they were in junior high, on a Tuesday night, the second week into soccer practice. The entire team was crammed into the “kidnapping van,” that white carpool monstrosity that had no windows in the back and worse, no seat belts. The van smelled like Plumeria deodorant, dirty socks, and sweaty teenage girls; their very own locker room on wheels. When the accident happened, the majority of the team had already been dropped off so the only ones left were Peyton Henderson, Cheryl, Doris, and Jackie.
Jackie, with her fluffy blond hair and upturned nose, was the most popular girl in school. The girls in her clique hadn’t joined the soccer team so this gave the girls hoping to break into the incrowd their chance. They swarmed around Jackie on the soccer field and in the van, desperately trying to find a friendship or at least a conversation starter. Jackie enjoyed the attention, but the only girl on the team that really interested her was Dori, the lanky dark-haired girl who always sat across from her in the van, sucking on that bottle of Gatorade.
Dori had nabbed Jackie’s attention because she was outrageous. She was known for performing keg stands with the Gatorade jug in the middle of a game or tearing off her dirty socks in victory, waving them above her head like helicopters and tossing them out to the stands. Dori got away with all this because she was fiercely talented with the ball, able to do outrageous stunts and hit goals that seemed impossible. Everyone expected her to act a little crazy on the field and she didn’t disappoint them. Jackie wanted to ask her for lessons or something but interacting with Dori was impossible because she came prepackaged with (puke) Cheryl.
Cheryl was Dori’s neighbor and apparently, her best friend. They were always together, so it was impossible to get to Dori without bringing that girl into the mix.
Cheryl annoyed Jackie and her friends to no end, with her shrieky, high-pitched laugh designed to get anyone and everyone’s attention. To add insult to injury, Cheryl wasn’t even that pretty. She had a freckly face and plain, strawberry-blond hair, but all the boys were crazy about her. It wasn’t uncommon for Jackie’s friends to “accidentally” spill sodas down Cheryl’s back in the cafeteria or steal her homework and change all the answers. Consequently, every day after practice, Jackie had to feel Cheryl’s dislike for her from across the van.
In all her junior high superiority, Jackie wanted to tell the girl to lighten up; it wasn’t her fault the popular kids picked on Cheryl. But maybe it was. Jackie had the power; she could have told her friends to stop at any time but a little tension kept school much more fun. If the price of that was chatting with Peyton on the last leg of the carpool, so be it.
When the drunk driver T-boned the van at an intersection, the sound was all movie magic and grinding metal and screaming tires. The elbows and arms and feet banging against warm flesh were something not noticed at the time but remembered later in nightmares or therapy. Jackie eventually remembered that Peyton had gotten thrown across her lap, then into the ceiling, just before Jackie was pitched forward onto Cheryl. Cheryl had already been pushed halfway into the console between the front seats and was lying on top of Dori, whose body was pinned to the floor. Everything was moving in slow motion and Jackie felt the van spin three times before halting suddenly, crashing into a tree with a mindnumbing thud.
As cold air spilled in above them, Jackie wondered how windows had appeared in a windowless van before realizing the van had been split in two. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Lewis, their driver. Mrs. Lewis was slumped over the wheel and motionless, a trickle of blood running down her cheek. Cheryl and Doris were moaning, and suddenly Jackie processed the fact that they were lying underneath her. She stopped herself from flexing her limbs, remembering something she’d read once about how to avoid paralysis after a car crash.
“Hold still, okay?” Jackie had said. “We could be seriously hurt and if we move, it’ll be worse, okay? So I won’t move if you don’t.”
“I can’t breathe,” Doris cried, muffled somewhere beneath her.
“Hang on. Just wait, like, five minutes,” Jackie had beg
ged, already hearing sirens in the distance. She could see someone’s hand and gently, she took it and squeezed. “Who is that?”
“Cheryl,” a voice sobbed. “Jackie, I can’t move my leg.”
“It’s just ’cause I’m on you,” Jackie lied, forcing her voice to be perky. She learned later that her statement was true but at the time, she’d made it up to keep Cheryl calm. “Hang in there, okay?” Then she’d called for Peyton, but didn’t get any answer. The only things they could hear were the sirens getting closer and the radio still belting out “Achy Breaky Heart.”
“Why does Mrs. Lewis always have to play country music?” Jackie tried to giggle but she was having a hard time keeping her voice steady. Her heart had started to race and tears were rolling down her cheeks. Suddenly, she felt pressure on her hand. Cheryl.
“You’re okay, Jackie,” Cheryl promised. “We’re all going to be okay.”
“Not if we have to keep listening to this song,” Doris said from below, voice muffled. “Country music sucks,” and the three burst into giggles.
In the hospital, they all sat together on gurneys trying to piece together what had happened. It was hard to believe that they’d gotten out with barely a scratch. Doris was the only one with a long red cut on her leg. The cut wasn’t from being thrown—it was because she’d landed on the soccer equipment. As they’d lain there in a pile, a cleat had dulled its way through her leg. They overheard a doctor say that Mrs. Lewis had broken her arm and needed stitches. Then came the choked, hushed whispers about Peyton—she had been killed.
The next day, back in the junior high cafeteria and after the grief assembly, Jackie’s friends were saying that Peyton should not have died; that it should have been Cheryl. Without a word, Jackie picked up her peanut butter and honey sandwich. She marched over to Cheryl and Doris, squeezing in beside them. From that moment on, she never left their sides. Every year, the three of them held their own memorial service for Peyton, the quiet girl they had barely known.
More than twenty years later, snuggled safely in bed, Jackie was once again grateful that she had made the friendship choice that she had. After all, Doris offered such a cozy guest room. Who knew what type of sheets her former best friends would have picked out?
After Doug’s announcement, Jackie and Cheryl had gone into the house and spent hours consoling Doris. When she was finally calm but wanted to be alone, Jackie had lain down for a quick nap. Stretching luxuriously, she eased her eyes open and glanced at the clock. The red numbers flashed five o’clock.
Screeching, Jackie bolted out of bed and tore into the kitchen. Doris was moping at the kitchen table. She was wearing the blue eye mask and staring glumly into a cup of hot chocolate.
“Sorry I took such a long nap,” Jackie apologized. “It’s the jet lag. Are you okay? Where’s Cheryl?”
Doris pointed toward the living room. Cheryl was lying on the sofa with the rice heater draped over her shoulders. Looking from the rice heater to the blue face mask, Jackie had the urge to laugh but didn’t. The situation was too dire.
“Doris, how are you doing?” Jackie pressed. “Are you feeling any better?”
Doris considered the question, squinting through the slits in the mask with puffy red eyes. Instead of answering, she licked whipped cream off a spoon.
Jackie turned to Cheryl. “What about you?”
“Oh, just fabulous,” Cheryl said, then shook her head. “Congratulations, Jackie. You are the only one left standing.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are the only one who hasn’t completely, utterly, and totally fucked up her life.”
“That’s not true,” Jackie pleaded, searching for the right words to tell them the reason for her return. “My life is not . . .”
“Oh please,” Cheryl half-laughed. “You don’t need to play small for us.”
“I swear,” Doris said, “if you weren’t here to give us hope, I think we’d . . . we’d . . .”
“There would be a mass suicide,” Cheryl finished for her. “No doubt.”
Doris nodded, vehement. The blue face mask jiggled.
Jackie’s heart sank. Pressing her fingers under her eyes, she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Well, then,” she said. “I’ll do what I can to help.”
Jackie walked toward the fridge, thinking. If her friends needed her to play the part of the fabulous friend, she would. There would be time to tell them the truth later. Until then, she would just have to focus on helping them to make it through. Dramatically, Jackie turned toward them and put her hands on her hips.
“Girls!” she cried. “I have an idea . . . Doris, tell Mandy to stay at a friend’s house tonight.”
“Why?” Doris said.
“You’ll see . . .” Jackie sang. Reaching into the fridge, she yanked out a carton of orange juice and a bottle of champagne. As she poured three mimosas, she said, “Cheryl, I want you off that couch in thirty seconds. We’re going to have a toast. Then, off we go.”
Her best friends stared at her blankly. “Where?”
“Chicago,” Jackie sang. “Chi-town, méchant!”
Cheryl buried her face in a couch pillow. “Sounds like a blast,” she grumbled.
“Aargh,” Doris agreed, shifting slightly. She took another sip of hot chocolate.
“We’re leaving in twenty minutes,” Jackie said, handing out the cocktails. “Get it together, ladies. Or so help me, I will go to the spa without you. And Doris, you’ll need to give me your credit card because Doug’s paying for it.”
At that, Doris’s eyes lit up. Fifteen minutes later, the three women were in the car, talking excitedly about how they were going to bankrupt Doug in the Windy City.
Chapter Eleven
IT HAD TAKEN THREE TREATMENTS AT THE SPA, FOUR MARGARITAS, and an intimate Mexican cantina with colored lights and cactus cutouts to make that switch inside Cheryl flip from heartache to rage. One moment she was feeling sad and tipsy, wondering where she’d gone wrong, and then suddenly, that image of Stan looking like some bloated version of Donald Trump in the boardroom would sear through her head. The very thought made her pound her fist on the table.
“This can’t be legal,” Cheryl said. “I’m going to sue him for everything he’s got. I built that company. That has to count for something!”
Brief memories of creative campaigns and client presentations and company meetings flashed through her head, reminding her that everything she once loved was gone—all because of one stupid, sneaky man.
“Are you guys listening to me?” Cheryl demanded.
Doris was hunched over the appetizer tray like the sole survivor of some violent crime. Jackie was fiddling with her straw.
“We’re listening, honey,” Jackie said. “You have every right to be angry.”
“I’m angry,” Doris said, shoveling chips and salsa into her mouth with the rhythm of a salsa dancer. “In fact, I think I’m going to kill Doug.”
“Oh, really?” Jackie covered her mouth to hide her smile. “How are you planning to do that?”
“A circular saw,” Doris said. “Or a nail gun. Something from his tool kit.”
“Mame him or kill him?” Cheryl wondered.
“It’s all the same, isn’t it?” Jackie said, giggling.
“Kill,” Doris insisted, biting down hard on a chip. “He is my husband. How could he do this to me?”
Cheryl knew the answer. In fact, it was pretty obvious. Doug had done it because Doris had let him. The same way Cheryl had let Stan walk all over her.
“Stan didn’t know a good thing even when it was staring him in the face,” Cheryl said. Shaking her head, Cheryl took a long drink of her margarita and once again reflected on her defunct career. It was amazing. She had always thought she was a savvy person, a woman in charge, but look how that had turned out. She should have opened her own firm when she’d had the chance.
“Men suck,” Doris said.
“Yup,” Cheryl had to agree.
“They’re good for sex and that’s about it.”
Jackie grinned. “Isn’t there a male strip club around here?”
Cheryl looked at Jackie in surprise. “I think so. Why?”
“Let’s go,” Jackie said. “We’ll hoot and holler at them. Degrade them, for once. It’ll be fun.” Jackie folded her hands, somehow managing to look like a guest at the Four Seasons instead of someone suggesting a night of debauchery.
Cheryl felt a rush of love for her friend. “I am so glad you’re back. Let’s do it.”
Doris turned gray. “No.” She grabbed for the basket of chips and held on to it like an anchor. “Absolutely not.”
“Let’s vote,” Cheryl said. “Who wants to go?”
Both Cheryl’s and Jackie’s hands shot up. Laughing, they hopped to their feet and grabbed their purses. When Doris didn’t move, Cheryl let out a huge sigh and said, “Please don’t make this difficult.” But of course, she did.
It was a physical battle to drag Doris outside the Mexican cantina. She wouldn’t budge, babbling on about morality and sexually transmitted diseases, and finally, Jackie had to grab Doris’s purse and race out the door. Doris had no choice but to chase her two doors down to the dingy male strip club. Once there, a red-faced Doris panted, “If you ever do that again . . .”
“You’ll call the police?” Jackie said. “Good. I love a man in uniform.”
The doorman pushed open the metal door and Doris was ushered inside. The moment they walked in, a blond Adonis wearing nothing but a Speedo sidled up to them. His muscular form reminded Cheryl of the statue of David. She squeezed Jackie’s arm and whispered, “This is the best idea you’ve had yet.”
“Hi, ladies,” the stripper said, flashing a perfect smile. “Now, who’s this goddess?”
Automatically, Jackie had fluffed her hair and batted her eyelashes, assuming he meant her. Instead, the blonde pushed past both her and Cheryl, grabbing for Doris’s hand. Doris’s eyes went wide like saucers.
“What’s your name?” he asked, smiling at her.
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