The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  He looks at me with surprise. “I didn’t realize there was so much nuance involved. So much long-range planning and strategizing.”

  “Well, there are those who go for the obvious and prefer to sign players who are already in demand. But I’m not always those players’ first choice.”

  “Because?” He waits, practically daring me to say it.

  “Because I’m a woman. And although I’m at a well-known agency and have handled some very successful athletes, that is a strike against me in many players’ eyes. I have to work harder than most men. Be smarter.”

  I wait for him to laugh or pass it off as my imagination or knee-jerk paranoia, but he nods. “I see it in the legal field all the time. One of the women who mentored me when I was starting out was absolutely brilliant. I learned so much from her. But she had to prove herself over and over again. She had this poster of Ginger Rogers on her wall that I’ve never forgotten, not that I knew who Ginger Rogers was at the time. Had to look her up. It said, ‘Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did. She just did it . . .’”

  “‘. . . backwards and in heels,’” I finish.

  “That’s the one.” His smile is slow and appreciative. “I started watching old musicals after she explained it to me. I don’t admit it to a lot of people, but I kind of liked them. And there’s never been any question in my mind that Ginger had the harder role.”

  Our mimosas arrive, and I cover my surprise at Derrick’s admission by taking a long sip, then another. Derrick is a good listener and an even better interviewer, and by the time our food arrives, we’ve covered a lot of ground.

  “Thea and Jamal told me that your daughter is a gifted tennis player. Like her mother.”

  “Oh.” I meet his gaze. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that they felt they had to tell you every little thing about me.” My cheeks flush with heat. “I gather they covered the accident and . . . everything?”

  He nods, takes a bite of his trout, and chews thoughtfully. “You’ve dealt with a lot. And managed to raise a child and succeed in a male-dominated profession. It is impressive.”

  “We all have to play the hands we’re dealt.”

  His eyes close briefly. “Not everyone manages to deal with their hand. Some people fall apart or abdicate all responsibility.” His voice rings with something deeply personal. “My father fell in love with drugs early on, and he never loved anyone or anything as much, including me and my brother. We were raised by a mother who fought for every single thing she achieved. Somehow, she got a nursing degree. Fed all three of us. Made sure my brother and I took our studies seriously. Stayed out of trouble. Got college scholarships. I have a huge amount of respect for strong, determined women.”

  “That’s good to hear.” I’m getting why Thea and Jamal are so adamantly Team Derrick. “A lot of men don’t see things that way.”

  “A lot of men aren’t as smart as they think they are.”

  “Can’t argue with that.” I finish off my omelet and potatoes. Derrick is not Fred Astaire, and I’m definitely not Ginger Rogers, but I’m enjoying the dance and surprisingly glad that neither of us seems worried about who’s leading.

  “It’s nice to see a woman who isn’t afraid to eat.”

  I laugh. “That’s good news, because we’re going to be ordering dessert.”

  “We are?”

  “Um-hmmm.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because it would be downright criminal to leave here without sharing an order of their profiteroles.”

  “I’ve never ordered them here, but I’ve always had a weak spot for profiteroles.” His grin is infectious.

  “Prepare to be dazzled, then. I’ll try to make sure you get a bite or two.”

  Sara

  When I get home from work on Monday, I find Dorothy in the living room reading, which is still a surprise. The book is The Body: A Guide for Occupants, which we picked up at Between the Covers over the weekend and are planning to share.

  She looks up and considers me for a moment as if she, too, is still surprised to be reading in public. “I’ve never been into nonfiction, but I do love this author’s voice,” she says. “I’m not sure how I feel about knowing so much about all the stuff that’s stuffed inside me.” Her voice carries something unexpected.

  I look up and meet her eyes.

  “I heard from Mitchell today.”

  “Oh?” Something inside me deflates. I’ve been meaning to reach out to Meena, who’s the only happily divorced woman I know, but at the moment just getting through the workday and acting normal takes all my energy. Plus, once I have a referral I’ll have to make an appointment. Tell a total stranger what my husband has done. Admit how completely I’ve been deceived and then discarded. I’ll have to fight for the house. Fight to get back the money he’s already stolen. Just thinking about it is exhausting.

  “Yes. He apologized,” Dorothy says. “He told me that he didn’t mean to do what he did. That he panicked and that everything got away from him and he was very sorry.”

  It takes everything I have to keep my expression neutral. Even though this is almost exactly what he said to me. As if the whole having children with another woman, living a secret life, and stealing from his mother and his wife to keep that life secret was just some sort of accident.

  “He said that if I could just give him some time, he’ll sort everything out and find a way to try to get the house back.” Her chin is up so high that if she were taller, she’d be looking down her nose at me. “And I’m certain that he will keep his word.”

  Our gazes lock, and I clamp down hard on the retort that springs to my lips. I desperately want, make that need, to let loose on someone. But Dorothy is the only person who knows the truth, the only person I don’t have to keep up a front around.

  I know exactly how it feels to want to believe the best about someone you love. How much I’d give to be able to erase what Mitch has done or somehow turn it into something less heinous. But that would require a level of denial that apparently only a person who gave birth to the perpetrator could possibly achieve.

  “And I . . . I realize you have no obligation or reason to allow me to live here any longer.” Dorothy’s face is pinched, the words blunt and unadorned. “But . . . if you’ll let me stay . . . at least for a while, I can . . . My social security, I still have that. I can pay you rent.”

  Her chin stays up, and she does not cry despite her obvious fear that she’s about to be chucked out onto the street. If your own son doesn’t care what happens to you, why should the daughter-in-law you’ve never gotten on with?

  It’s my eyes that blur with tears.

  Dorothy and I have never had a good relationship or seen eye to eye. The only things we have in common now are books and being betrayed by Mitchell. But I grew up virtually homeless, and I’m not going to be putting a seventy-five-year-old woman who’s only just recovered from surgery out on the street no matter who she’s given birth to. Which is, I assume, what Mitchell is counting on. Unless he actually cares as little for his mother as he does for me.

  “I have no idea what’s going to happen next or how long . . . things . . . might take.” I’m not going to discuss my plans, or lack thereof, with someone who could so easily aid and abet the enemy. I’m somewhat shocked when I add, “But as long as I have the house, you can . . . you’re welcome to stay.”

  “Thank you.” The words come out in a rasp, and I know what they cost her. I’m surprised when she cocks her head and continues, “I expect you’ll take this the wrong way, but I went online and put together a list of family law attorneys.” She holds up a two-page document. “They’re listed in order, based on reviews. The top five look very strong.”

  When I hesitate, she pushes the pages toward me.

  “Thank you.” The pages rustle in my hand, which seems to be shaking. “I t
hink I’m going to need a glass of wine before I study this. Maybe two.”

  “I understand. I just . . . if I were in your position, I would already be looking for representation.”

  I stare at her in shock; does this mean she’s on my side? Her tone is brusque. But her face is ravaged by too many emotions to catalog. It looks the way mine feels.

  “Would you like to join me?” I ask quietly. “I don’t think I can face drinking alone tonight.”

  Eighteen

  Erin

  I drive by Walden High School on my way to work like I have every day since I moved in with my parents. What used to be a rambling hodgepodge of added-on wings and buildings has been replaced by a shiny new multistory structure. The sports fields that surround it, including the hill that houses the Badger baseball complex (sometimes referred to as a “mountain” in an attempt to frighten rivals), remain the same.

  I slow down to a crawl as I drive past Badger Mountain. All three of my brothers played baseball here, and I spent most of my childhood in or running around the bleachers. On early March days like this one, I would sit wrapped in layers of wool and my brothers’ outgrown Under Armour, breathing in the cold, crisp air and listening for the crack of the bat, which sounds entirely different at the beginning of the season than it does in the sweaty playoff days of May.

  My parents were always there to cheer on my brothers and their teammates and to support Badger Baseball. I love my brothers, annoying as they can be, and I do love the game. But what I loved most was watching Josh pitch.

  I brace for the pain that follows any thought of Josh. Only this time it’s not the crippling blow I’m used to but more of a . . . small jab. I mentally feel around, prodding and nudging, but while there are bruises and tender spots, I’m not fighting back tears or the urge to turn around and go home so that I can climb back in bed. Maybe you really can grow past the pain. Or maybe it’s just gone on so long I’m finally numb to it.

  Because I’ve left the house so early, traffic is light. When I arrive at the office, Gayle’s not at the front desk yet. I drop my things on my desk and am walking through the half-lit halls toward the break room when I hear voices coming from one of the smaller conference rooms ahead.

  Larry Carpenter and an agency scout are seated at the oval table in the glass-fronted room staring up at a large television screen on the far wall, their backs to the glass. I glance up to see what they’re watching. My step falters when I recognize the windup of the pitcher on the mound. I’ve been watching a progressively more impressive version of it since I was a little girl. I hold my breath when Josh releases the ball, which flies over the plate, dropping at the last second, far too tempting for the batter not to swing at. Strike one.

  Frozen, I watch the next pitch. There’s less movement on the ball this time, more velocity. Another swing and miss. A close-up of Josh’s face shows his concentration. The calm, focused look he gets when he’s in the zone.

  The batter strikes out on a perfectly placed fastball. The truth hits me with all the power of that ninety-eight-mile-per-hour pitch. While I’ve been drowning in a well of self-pity and sadness, Josh has been going about his life, doing what he loves, achieving his dream.

  I wait for the unhappiness to rise up and drown me, but the well is nowhere near as deep as it used to be. Somehow my feet have found the bottom, and I realize that if I push off strongly enough, I will break through the surface and shoot up into the air. Where I can finally breathe again. Where I can be me. I close my eyes briefly as I imagine it, see it. I am not some wussy princess who can’t get up until the prince comes back to kiss her awake. I am one of Disney’s newer kick-ass kind, who can wake up her damned self whenever she wants to.

  “Erin?” I turn and see Rich Hanson striding down the empty hallway toward the conference room. “You’re quite the early bird, aren’t you?” He flashes a smile that I’m far too happy to dissect.

  “Yes.” I smile back. Even though I’m more of a kick-ass princess with an impressive set of wings than a bird. “As soon as I chug some caffeine, I’m going to go catch a whole bunch of worms.”

  He chuckles and reaches for the conference room door as I soar past.

  * * *

  • • •

  I spend most of the morning happily working my way through the list Jazmine has left for me. By eleven, I’m completely caught up, so I check in on the group chat that I’ve barely even opened since everything happened with Josh. Every time I looked at my phone, there seemed to be a million messages, but I couldn’t bring myself to read through all of them—the updates, the invites I never responded to, the gossip. More often than not, I’d just open the chat and close it to rid myself of the annoying notification icon and constant reminder that everyone else’s lives were still moving along and mine, well, wasn’t.

  Now that I’m paying attention, I see just how often and for how long my friends reached out and tried to include me.

  In those early weeks, I was so humiliated, so ashamed at having held on so hard to someone who didn’t love or want me the way I loved and wanted them, that I couldn’t face my friends. I never even considered that they might have needed me for some crisis of their own.

  The person who shows up the most often and held on the longest is Katrina.

  I consider texting her an apology right now, but I don’t know if she’d even open it. After the way I’ve behaved, the way I cut her out, she deserves the chance to reject me in person.

  It’s almost eleven thirty—late enough to take my lunch break. Jazmine isn’t due in until one thirty. Before I can chicken out, I walk out of the office building and across Lenox Road to Phipps Plaza, where I buy a Starbucks Grande Caramel Macchiato—Katrina’s favorite—and walk toward the entrance to Saks Fifth Avenue, where she works.

  I’m in the mall . . . usual spot . . . pls come for just a minute? I text. While I wait for what would have once been an instant response, I offer up a small prayer for forgiveness.

  Seriously??? thought you probably blocked me.

  No. Sorry! We used to text and speak a million times a day, and now I don’t know what to say. Pls come down.

  I wait with the macchiato in my hand for what feels like forever. I’m about to give up when she comes out the glass door and sweeps into the mall wearing a black jumpsuit that shows off her figure. Her makeup is flawless. Her blond hair is pulled back in the perfect messy bun. We are both blondes, but I have always been a miniature Daisy Duke to her Grace Kelly.

  Heart pounding, I hold up the macchiato.

  She ignores it.

  “How are you?” I ask in a wobbly voice, hoping we can maybe work up to the hard part. But she’s not having it.

  “I tried to be there for you, Erin. But you just ignored all of us like we didn’t even exist anymore.”

  “I know. I’m . . . sorry.” Although I came here to apologize, I’m having trouble getting the words out. “I’ve been so stupid.”

  Her stare is long and hard. I have no idea what’s coming next or what I’ll do if she turns her back on me and walks away.

  “Then I tried to let you know that I got that job in New York.”

  “Oh my gosh!” My brain can’t quite pivot the way it needs to. Katrina has wanted to move to New York and work in fashion since we were kids. She majored in Fashion Merchandising while we were at Georgia, studied abroad in London, and did a New York study tour. For the last two years, she’s worked in the designer department at Saks. She was the one who helped me and my mom pick out my wedding dress and got us her employee discount. “That’s . . . oh my God, that’s incredible!”

  “Yeah.” I see the flicker of pride in her eyes, but she is still totally pissed. Forgiveness is not a given. “It would have been even more incredible if you’d bothered to respond. Or congratulated Amber on her promotion. Or Kelsey on her engagement. I mean, Josh was an asshole for waiting till t
he last minute like he did. But if it were me, I’d rather know before I walked down the aisle. You just ghosted all of us like he was the only person on earth who ever mattered.”

  I flush with shame at the truth of it. “I’m so, so sorry.” I have been a needy ball of self-centeredness. “I . . .” I swallow. “I’ve been such an incredibly shitty friend.”

  “The shittiest,” she agrees without hesitation. “You just threw us out like we were nothing to you. Everyone’s been so afraid of upsetting you, but Josh wasn’t the perfect man or anything. If you hadn’t worked at it so hard, you guys would have been done after graduation like most everybody else.” Her voice breaks.

  Tears stream down my face. “You could never be nothing. I just couldn’t think. I was afraid to think. It was like all my brain cells got sucked out and . . .” My voice trails off. “I lost it. I lost my frickin’ mind. And I am really, truly sorry.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t leave, either. Tears slide down my cheeks. I feel people staring, but I don’t even swipe at my cheeks while I wait for her to speak. “Would you . . . could I maybe take you out for a drink after work before you leave town?”

  There’s a huff, and I think she’s going to blow me off completely and there will be nothing I can do about it. I deserve to be kicked to the curb. But I’m not going to be the first to move or leave. I’m still standing there, holding on to the Starbucks cup, when she takes it out of my hand and says, “Let me check and see what’s being planned. There might be a going-away party. If you’re feeling up to it.”

  Relief gushes through me. While I’m not exactly forgiven, she didn’t tell me to f-off, either. “If there is one, I would totally love to come and celebrate with you.”

  Another huff. Softer this time. The road back into Katrina’s good graces can be long and winding. Before I can react, she turns and walks back into Saks.