The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  The color leeches from Mitch’s face. His eyes close in what looks like pain. Any shred of hope that I’ve misheard, that this is a prank or, please God, a surprisingly serendipitous wrong number, is ripped away. When his eyes open, they’re pinned to mine.

  “You have a cell phone I didn’t even know existed.” Disbelief is etched in every word. “And unless this is some bizarre, tasteless joke or we’re on the reimagined version of Punk’d, you also have a child.”

  I wait for him to deny it. To reassure me that this couldn’t possibly be true. Instead, he turns and walks calmly into the closet. I follow him far less calmly, dogging his heels. “After all these years of refusing to even consider getting pregnant, even though you know why it matters so much to me, how could you have a son?”

  Mitch’s eyes flit around the closet as if considering avenues of escape. He drops the towel and steps into underwear and jeans, then pulls on a long-sleeved T-shirt as if getting dressed is the only thing on his mind. As if the phone call never happened. As if I haven’t asked him the most important question of our married life. As if that marriage isn’t suddenly and inexplicably on the line.

  I follow him into the bedroom and plant myself in front of him as he shoves the phone in his pocket. “Answer me, damn it! Answer me or . . . or get out!” I point toward the bedroom door.

  He sets his jaw, pulls his suitcase out from under the bed, then begins to stuff clothes into it. He stalks into the bathroom and comes out zipping his Dopp kit in harsh, jerky movements.

  “You’re going to leave without answering?”

  “You told me to get out.” His reasonable tone is even more incendiary than his silence.

  “No, I asked you to explain what’s going on. You owe me an answer!” I cry. Even though we both know that not denying this monstrous possibility is its own answer.

  “There would be absolutely no point in trying to explain anything given the state you’re in.”

  “The state I’m in?” My “state” could incinerate an entire city.

  He yanks his suitcase off the bed.

  “You’re not really going to turn and run?” I ask even as he strides out of the bedroom and through the house.

  The front door slams. His car roars to life. He is gone.

  Rooted to the floor, I sway, trying to absorb what’s happened. When I finally make my way into the kitchen, Dorothy pounces. “He didn’t even say goodbye to me. What did you do? Why did you run him off?”

  “Did you know that Mitch has a child?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she scoffs.

  “A little boy called on Mitch’s phone and asked to speak to his ‘daddy.’”

  “That’s ridiculous. It must have been a wrong number and you’ve jumped to the worst possible conclusion.” Her arms fold across her chest. Her eyes narrow.

  “No, it wasn’t. It was a phone I’ve never seen before. He said his name is Mitchell, too. He sounded about three, maybe four.”

  “Rubbish.” The word is a curse and an indictment.

  “Mitch didn’t deny it.”

  “Of course he didn’t deny it. He must have been crushed that you could accuse him of such a thing. I can’t imagine what you were thinking!” She turns and marches out of the kitchen.

  My heart aches so badly I think it might actually be broken. With a sob I run into the bedroom, slam the door, and throw myself on the bed that still smells of champagne and sex and the already broken promise of a sparkly new year.

  Jazmine

  I’ve been on the road the entire first week of January. Today I’m popping into the office to plot out the rest of the month and check on Louise, who’s decided to move to Memphis to take care of her mother full-time.

  “Happy New Year!” Louise says as I approach. “I almost forgot what you looked like.”

  “Ha!” I say as we hug. “What was your name again?”

  She follows me into my office and drops into the chair in front of my desk on which mail and messages are neatly arranged in Louise’s signature “from urgent to when you have time” order.

  “Ah, bless you.” I sit down behind my desk. “Are you absolutely sure you have to move to Memphis?”

  “I am. My sister’s with Mom now, but she’s using up all her vacation days and every bit of sick leave to give me time to help you find and train my replacement and get my house on the market. I’ve got exactly five weeks. I’ve already put together a list of possible replacements.”

  She hands me a stack of résumés with her comments affixed on sticky notes. I know without asking that they’re arranged in order from “would not hesitate” to “definitely good enough.”

  I leaf through them. “These look interesting, but I’ve pretty much decided to offer the job to Erin. She did a great job under difficult circumstances. She’s a quick study. And she’s not as ornery as you are. I’d like you to reach out and see how soon she can start after she gets back from her honeymoon.”

  Louise shoots me a look of surprise. “That girl didn’t go on a honeymoon.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She didn’t go on a honeymoon because they didn’t get married,” Louise states with certainty. “I just found out this morning, but I . . . well, I assumed you already knew.”

  “What happened?”

  She lowers her voice. “He called off the wedding.”

  “Oh no!” I remember Erin’s excitement. Her certainty, since childhood, that she and Josh were destined to be together. And although the circumstances are different, I know exactly how it feels to have a longtime love snatched away just when your real future together is about to begin. “I didn’t see so much as a peep in the press or a post on social media.”

  “Apparently, Josh didn’t want Erin embarrassed. And Larry didn’t want Josh to look bad,” Louise says. “Especially not over the holidays, when things are slow and something like this could blow up.”

  I can imagine how many favors were called in to keep this quiet. “Let me guess. A release is going out today stating that it was a mutual decision. That they’ll always be the best of friends. Yada, yada . . .”

  Louise nods. “And we have all been reminded that is the only acceptable comment.”

  I close my eyes in memory. If it hadn’t been for the baby growing inside me, I might not have survived the loss of the man and the sport that I loved. If I hadn’t had the need to support our child, I doubt I would have found the strength to pursue a law degree, which allowed me to help the unsigned Mo Morgan, which led me to become a sports agent. Without a purpose, something to hold on to, it’s too easy to spiral into the pit of grief and never find your way back out.

  “Please get Erin on the phone for me, so I can offer her the job.”

  Louise sighs.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because this is probably the last place that girl wants to work right now. And I doubt Larry’s going to think she should.”

  “I am contractually able to hire anyone I choose. That’s the advantage of being an attorney and drawing up your own employment contract. I don’t need Larry’s permission.”

  “You may not need his permission, but it couldn’t hurt to have his blessing.” Louise gives me her most persuasive smile. The one that bends lesser mortals to her will.

  “Fine. Will you . . .”

  “. . . I’ll check and see if he’s in.”

  Louise goes to her desk. Two minutes later, she buzzes me. “He can see you now. Oh, I almost forgot. There’s something else you need to know . . .” she begins.

  I’m already on my feet and headed toward her desk. “I’ll be right back. We can catch up then, and you can get the paperwork started. The more time she has to train under you, the better.”

  “But . . . I need to tell you that . . .”

  “B
ack in a few.” I stride past her and move quickly down the corridor. After a nod to Larry’s assistant, I rap on his open door.

  “Jazz. Happy New Year!” Larry beams.

  “You, too!” I drop into the chair across from his desk and beam back.

  “And congrats on signing Kade Sizemore and locking up that running back from South Carolina. What a great start to the new year.”

  “Thanks. I have some thoughts about that shortstop I told you about. I’ve made plans to head down to spring training in February. And I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that shit that Rich Hanson pulled with Tyrone Browning’s endorsement deal.”

  “Yeah, there’s something we have to clear up about that,” Larry says. “I . . .”

  “Before we get to that, I wanted to tell you that I’m planning to hire Erin Richmond to replace Louise. I’d like to bring her on as quickly as possible so that Louise can help get her up to speed.”

  “You must not have heard about her and Josh,” Larry says.

  “Oh, I heard. The boy changed his mind. He’s entitled. But I’d say this would make Erin all the more eager to lock up a full-time job in her chosen field. She’s smart. And she catches on fast.”

  “That boy is an important client,” Larry replies. “With a hundred-plus fastball and a huge future in front of him. I wouldn’t want him to be uncomfortable at the agency he’s chosen to represent him.”

  “Uncomfortable?”

  “Think about it, Jazmine. That girl has to be upset with him for calling off their wedding. We don’t want him to feel he has to avoid coming by the office or interfacing with me or anyone else here.”

  “So, you’re suggesting that she can’t work at StarSports Advisors in any capacity because he decided not to marry her?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s like being put in the penalty box for the opposing team’s penalty.”

  “Josh Stevens is our client. Our goal, our job, really, is to keep his career and his life running smoothly.”

  I try to clamp down on my anger. There’s nothing to be gained by calling out the founder of the firm on his antiquated thinking. But passing up the candidate I’ve chosen because a twenty-five-year-old athlete might suffer a minute or two of embarrassment feels wrong on every level. I want to hire Erin because of her abilities. And because this job will give her something to hold on to, a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

  I’m about to enumerate Erin’s qualities when a knock sounds on the office door. Before Larry calls out for the person to enter, Rich Hanson strolls in.

  Larry doesn’t look at all surprised to see him. I, on the other hand, am stunned. I meet the hazel eyes that are an odd mix of brown and gold and framed by dark lashes. He’s just over six feet with a loose-limbed, lightly muscled body. A winter tan has deepened his pale skin and gives his angular features a healthy glow. His blond hair is sun-streaked and just shy of shaggy.

  “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you,” Larry says. “Rich has joined the firm. Brought quite a lot of major-league talent with him.” He stands and claps Rich on the back. “He’s going to head up our football division and help look for new opportunities.”

  This is a nightmare. Only I’m wide awake. “He’s a snake. He can’t be trusted.”

  “Maybe as a competitor. But he’s our snake now,” Larry replies, unperturbed. “You two are going to have to find a way to work together. As in, I expect you both to play nice.”

  “I’ve never understood what you have against me.” Rich smiles.

  “You mean besides your overweening aggressiveness? The need to win at all costs? Your glee at poaching from other agents?”

  “Goodness, but I seem to have made a strong impression.” Hanson is still smiling. He even flashes a dimple.

  “Yes. Kind of like cholera. The plague. A knitting needle in the eye.”

  Hanson just laughs. As if we are engaging in banter and not opening hostilities.

  “Rich brings a lot of years of experience to the table,” Larry says. “Say, Rich, what do you think of Jazmine hiring Josh Stevens’s former fiancée to work for her?”

  “The one he dumped a week before the wedding?” Hanson shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’d advise against it. We wouldn’t want Josh feeling uncomfortable.”

  The two men smile at each other, completely at ease with their draconian view of the world.

  “Well, then.” I get to my feet as casually as I can. “I guess it’s a good thing that I don’t need anyone’s approval or permission to offer the job to whomever I choose.”

  I nod politely at Larry. I don’t even glance at Rich Hanson. Because if there’s still a smile on his face, I will have no choice but to wipe it off.

  Nine

  Sara

  It’s been just over a week since Mitch fled. I am going through the motions of my life, but nothing really penetrates the heavy fog that has settled around me.

  My calls and texts to Mitch’s cell phone have gone unanswered, so I still have no idea what’s going on in Birmingham or how my husband could possibly have a child old enough to make a phone call without me having known of his existence.

  I tell myself this child is the result of some meaningless one-night stand, a single transgression that has suddenly popped up to haunt us. That it’s only Mitch’s shame preventing him from talking to me. But that doesn’t quite explain the secret cell phone. Or how this child, who claims his name is also Mitchell, had access to it.

  School’s back in, and I can’t imagine making it through another day trying to pretend that nothing’s wrong. Despite all my years attempting to appear happy and well-adjusted and “no trouble at all” in front of foster parents, I’m just not that good an actress. I need to sit down with Mitchell face-to-face and make him tell me what the hell is going on.

  On Saturday morning, I get out of bed early after a sleepless night and begin to dress for the drive to Birmingham.

  I’m not a religious person, but I’ve spent the last four days praying that I’m not going to discover that the woman Mitch impregnated has also resurfaced. Or that he’s taken advantage of living in another city to sleep with a string of women who are young and beautiful, or outgoing and entertaining; in short, all the things I’m not.

  Because when you’re tall and thin and plain, with a mop of stick-straight red hair that conjures comparisons to Anne of Green Gables and Pippi Longstocking (or a very tall version of Raggedy Ann), you live in fear that the person you love will discover they can do better. Or maybe you fear that they’ve always known that and have nonetheless unaccountably opted for available and grateful.

  Dorothy’s at the kitchen table, clutching a cup of coffee and staring morosely out the window. She’s become even quieter since Mitch’s New Year’s Day declaration if you don’t count the condemning looks and tragic sighs. She also looks older and frailer, but then so do I.

  “I’m driving to Birmingham to see Mitch. Do you want to come?”

  “But it’s Saturday. I thought maybe he’d be coming home. Like he always does.” Her gaze turns accusing. “You know, once he’d had time to get over the unfortunate ruckus you started.”

  “That I started?” Dorothy is clearly in denial. But then Mitch and I have almost never argued because I do not make waves. Or “start” things. I excel at giving in and smoothing things over. But a heretofore unknown child? Even the most careful, nonconfrontational person would have trouble staying calm after that kind of revelation. “He hasn’t returned any of my calls. We haven’t discussed what happened in any way.” This in itself is almost as alarming as the “ruckus” Dorothy alluded to. I have no idea what state of mind he’s in. Or how he might be dealing with this mess. “I don’t see how he could just show up as if nothing has happened.”

  She sighs another beleaguered
sigh. “Does he know you’re coming?”

  “No.”

  My mother-in-law stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Which is entirely possible.

  I’d planned to be on the road long before Dorothy got up, but I’ve been dragging my feet because I have no idea what’s going to happen when I get there. And it occurs to me that she has as much right as I do to find out what her son is up to.

  “You’re joking.”

  “No.” I seriously doubt I have a scintilla of a sense of humor left.

  “And your plan is?”

  I shrug even though my stomach twists. A plan would be good. But so far all I’ve come up with is showing up at his apartment and forcing him to tell me what’s going on.

  “You must have a plan of some kind. Something you hope to gain from showing up unannounced.” Her tone manages to be both disapproving and matter-of-fact. As if she’s still the efficiency expert demanding a clear and concise accounting of what each move is meant to accomplish.

  I doubt there’s anything to be gained. I’m not even sure there’s anything to salvage. All I know is that my husband needs to explain himself and his actions. “He has a child, Dorothy.”

  “He didn’t say that,” she replies stubbornly.

  “But he didn’t deny it. I need to know what’s really happened and what it means.”

  “It can’t mean anything,” she snaps.

  “How can you say that?”

  Her chin juts. “Because for better or worse, you’re the one he’s married to. You’re his wife. Although you haven’t been acting like it, staying in another city like you have, not knowing what’s going on.”

  The blow lands way beneath the belt. If we were in a ring, I’d be staggering to the mat. “Did you know what was going on?”

  Her face reveals her fury, her disappointment, frustration at her impotence. All the things I feel. “No. No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, then. I’d think we’d both want to understand what’s going on. And if you do have a grandson”—my lips tremble on the word—“I’d think you’d want to meet him.”