The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  “No,” I reply truthfully. The cookies are incredibly detailed, but while I did read the book, I have no idea whether they’re exact reproductions or have been placed in their correct locations within the outlined body. I appreciate a theme as much as the next person, but the brains and kidneys are more than a little unsettling. So are what I think are supposed to be intestines.

  Still chatting effusively, Erin adds a cupcake to her plate, helps Dorothy choose an assortment of cookies, then pours herself a glass of wine, falling silent only long enough to take the first bites and sips. I remind myself that she’s not a child and that we all react to stress and unhappiness differently. I’d rather be around upbeat and chatty than Maya’s surly and silent any day.

  “Wow. These are awesome.” Chaz circles the body outline before reaching out and picking up a brain. “Did you really make these, Judith?”

  Judith nods and smiles. “I saw a decorated cake online that was made for a medical school graduation, and it got me thinking. I made the cookies. But Charm came up with the chalk outline.”

  “They look pretty anatomically correct to me,” he says, taking a large bite.

  I don’t think I’m the only one trying not to gag as he pops the rest of the brain into his mouth. But then I guess you can’t have a delicate stomach when you spend your days in an ambulance racing from one emergency to another.

  There are no anatomically detailed hearts, and I wonder if Judith’s loss made her shy away from reproducing the organ that failed her husband. Did she think of him while she baked? Or were these cookies an attempt to escape what must be constant thoughts of Nate and the life they built together?

  Dorothy’s also studying the body, though her gaze has dropped lower. “Am I allowed to say I’m relieved there are no reproductive organs to nibble on?”

  Sara, normally so quiet and self-effacing, emits a snort of laughter.

  Angela and I exchange a glance. Without a word, we reach for cupcakes.

  “I’m kind of hoping the catering at the StarSports suite at the Braves opener will be a little less body-centric,” Angela says as we move to the drinks table and fill our wineglasses.

  “I’m counting on it. Chicken wings are about as close as I plan to get,” I agree, holding up my glass in toast.

  “I’m pretty excited to have a whole weekend to myself,” Angela says.

  “I hear you. I really appreciate Perley taking Maya along on the Destin trip.” At the moment, this is an understatement.

  “Well, Lyllie’s not happy that her father and both of her sisters are going to be in the same state let alone the same town, but it was the only way he’d agree to let her go there for spring break with her friends.” Angela smiles somewhat wickedly. “He’s promised to be invisible, but you know Perley. He’s not really built for shrinking into the background.”

  “No. Neither of them ever were.” I can’t help smiling at the memory of Xavier and Perley when we double-dated. “They always looked like bouncers no matter what they wore.”

  We share another smile as Phoebe and Wesley come through the front door in matching skeleton costumes that make it even more difficult to tell them apart. Carlotta struts in behind them in a flesh-colored dress that not only hugs her curves but outlines them in stitches of white thread. Nancy Flaherty brings up the rear, still clinging to her own personal theme. Tonight’s sweater is a grassy green and reads queen of swing. A golf club topped by a crown is bedazzled beneath the letters.

  We mingle. Food is piled on plates, and drinks are poured. Judith accepts compliments on the refreshments with a smile we haven’t seen from her for a while. The hum of conversation grows until Annell leads us to the carriage house, where we formally—and loudly—applaud Judith’s efforts, then dive into a discussion that becomes a bit of a free-for-all, possibly because we already know one another. Or perhaps it’s the result of having confronted, and in some cases ingested, sugar cookies masquerading as organs.

  We all agree that the book was fascinating and that while we enjoyed the author’s deft touch and occasionally droll tone, most of us, with the exception of EMT Chaz, are shocked and somewhat horrified by all the things medical science doesn’t understand about how and why our bodies work the way they do.

  When the book conversation begins to wind down, Wesley says, “Phoebe and I are ushering at the Braves game Friday night. Anybody else going?”

  Beside me, Erin goes still in her seat.

  “The press has been going crazy over Josh Stevens,” Phoebe adds. “They’re saying he’ll probably get at least an inning because of the way he’s been performing on the road.”

  “Yeah,” Annell nods. “It’ll be cool to see a hometown boy get a chance in an opener.”

  I put a hand on Erin’s arm and give it a soft squeeze. I don’t think either of us is breathing as we silently will the topic to change.

  “Gosh, I hate to miss it,” Nancy says. “But I’m going to be at a tournament out in LA that Tiger’s hosting.”

  Erin and I begin what feels like a joint sigh of relief that the topic is actually changing when Dorothy cocks her head and asks, “Isn’t Josh Stevens the boy you were engaged to?”

  Erin manages a smile, but I can tell how much effort it takes. “Yes, he is.”

  “Are you going to the game?” Carlotta asks the question I haven’t yet raised, partly out of respect for her privacy and partly because I haven’t wanted to undermine her vow not to cry at the office.

  “Well.” Erin clears her throat. “Josh offered tickets to my whole family. Including me.”

  “Are you going to take him up on that offer?” Annell asks carefully.

  There’s a part of me, the mother part of me, that wants to change the subject and spare Erin from the attention now focused on her. But I’ve known since the first time Angela dragged me here, still raw from the loss of not only the man I loved but the sport I’d devoted myself to, just how much this group, disparate as it is, cares about the individuals who make it up. There is warmth at its core and concern for even its newest members. Kindness, and unconditional support, are unwritten bylaws that we all somehow know and follow. I believe that anyone who comes more than once comes not just for the book conversation but because they can feel it.

  Erin hesitates just long enough for me to wonder if she’ll take the leap of faith required to answer truthfully. “My family assumes I don’t want to go. But this is the thing Josh and I always dreamed for him. There’s no way I’m missing it.” She swallows, and the last of the false cheeriness disappears. “But I don’t want to sit with my family. Or with my oldest friends. They know the gory details, and they’d all be sitting there feeling sorry for me instead of being happy for Josh.” She looks down at the hands clasped in her lap. “I’ve been thinking I might just go on my own. You know, buy a ticket and sit around strangers who don’t know anything about me or my connection to Josh.” There’s a slight quiver in her voice, but so far no sign of tears. She is so much stronger than she knows.

  “Watching him pitch could be the most painful thing ever. Or maybe it will prove I’m ready to move on. I don’t know. It could go either way.” She shrugs, and I have the oddest desire to stand up and applaud.

  There’s a silence then, and just when I’m thinking it needs to be filled, Annell says, “Well, I have an extra ticket if you’d like to come with me.”

  I’ve always known that Annell’s a Braves fan, but we’ve never really talked about how often she attends games. I’ve never run into her at Truist Park.

  “So do I.” Judith sits up in surprise. “Nate has . . .” She swallows. “I have season tickets. Four of them. Nate used to take key employees and potential franchisees. But we went as a family, too, when the kids were still at home. I’m sure the tickets are in . . . Nate’s office somewhere.” She stumbles a bit on the last mention of her husband. “You could come with me if
you like. And I bet Meena would join us—she’ll be back from Mexico on Thursday. And someone else from book club could sit with us. That way you wouldn’t be with people who know you too well. But we wouldn’t be complete strangers, either.”

  “Hey, if I can get someone to cover for me Friday night, I’d love to go,” Chaz says.

  “So would I,” Sara chimes in. “I don’t want to speak for Dorothy, but . . .”

  I see the surprise on Dorothy’s face but also a flicker of interest.

  “I’m sure I could round up some extra tickets for anyone else who’d like to go,” I offer, feeling small for not thinking of any of this. “Angela’s going to come to the agency suite with me, and it’s pretty full because Josh is our client. But maybe we could all meet up for a drink after the game. The Battery’s fun, and it’s a good way to wait for the traffic to clear.”

  Erin looks up. This time her smile is not forced or overlarge. It carries traces of gratitude and relief. “That would be great. Thank you. You guys kind of rock.”

  We decide to make All the Ways We Said Goodbye: A Novel of the Ritz Paris our April read. It’s written by three authors who have come to Between the Covers on a book tour, and it’s been a huge hit with historical fiction fans.

  We’re draining the last of our wine and getting ready to disband when Dorothy raises her hand. “Are you going to share the book club name suggestions?”

  Sara blinks in surprise.

  “Gosh, I’m glad you reminded me.” Annell laughs, opens the folder in her lap, and pulls out a stack of creased pieces of paper. “Okay, let’s see.” She unfolds and leafs through them. “Hmmm. They are a little less alcohol related than last month’s. This time out we have the Biblio Files, the Happy Bookers, Book Enders, Page Turners, and Not Your Mama’s Book Club.” She lifts another handful, her expression bemused. “We also seem to have quite a few blanks.”

  “Entirely blank pieces of paper?” Phoebe asks in surprise. “Do you think someone dropped them in by mistake?”

  “It seems hard to imagine why anyone would put them in on purpose,” I say.

  “Yes.” Sara spears her mother-in-law with a look. “Why, it’s almost as if someone was trying to psych someone else out or something.”

  Dorothy looks innocent. Sara continues to look suspicious. When neither of them speaks, Annell, who doesn’t really try to hide her smile, moves on. “All right, then; any feedback?”

  “I like all of them—but especially Not Your Mama’s Book Club,” Erin says. “Because we so aren’t.”

  “Yeah. It’s got some attitude going for it,” Carlotta says, crossing one long curvy leg over the other. “Definitely sets a tone.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Judith raises her glass. “Even though some of us could actually belong to your mama’s book club.”

  Annell laughs. “It’s all a state of mind.”

  “Page Turners is clear and practical,” Phoebe says. “So is Biblio Files.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be a Happy Booker,” Wesley says.

  “Have to agree, man.” Chaz pops a final cookie into his mouth. “People might get the wrong idea.”

  Annell grins. “So, what do you think? Have we heard one we want to go with? Or do we want to give it another month?”

  “I say we take another month . . .” Phoebe begins.

  “. . . because it deserves more thought,” Wesley finishes.

  “I agree.” A small smile plays on Sara’s lips. “After all these years of namelessness, there’s no need to rush. We want to pick something really special.”

  “Sounds right,” Dorothy agrees. “I’m still eager to hear what the prize for coming up with the winning name is. You know, just to help with inspiration.”

  “Good point,” Annell concedes. “Let me think about that and get back to you. Now that we’re doing this, I’d love to have lots of entries to choose from.

  “Oh, and before you go, let’s get a count of how many available tickets we have for the Braves game and how many people want to go.”

  I steal a last look at Erin as a count is taken. I’m proud of how well she appears to be handling it all, but I’m glad that she’ll have us holding her hand, both figuratively and literally, on Friday night.

  Twenty-Five

  Erin

  It’s Wednesday night, and my brothers, who have no doubt already consumed the casseroles and potpies my mother regularly stuffs into the freezer of the rental house they share, which looks and smells like a frat house, are here for a midweek home-cooked meal.

  We’re devouring my mother’s justifiably famous buttermilk fried chicken when I mention that I’ve decided to go to the Braves game after all.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful news. I know Penny and John will be thrilled to see you. We have seats right behind home plate.”

  For a minute, I think the chicken I’ve just swallowed is going to come back up. Penny and John are Josh’s parents. Whom I once thought of as second parents.

  “Actually, I’m planning to go with some people from book club.”

  “You joined a book club?” My mother looks as if I’ve just admitted I joined a cult. “You never said.”

  “I only went the first time because Jazmine invited me, and I couldn’t really say no.” I don’t mention that it was a pity invite to pry me out of the ladies’ room. “I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure that I would keep going. But I . . . I kind of like it.”

  “You’d rather go to the game with strangers than with us?” my father asks, unable to hide his surprise.

  “No, not strangers. Just new friends that you don’t know. Yet.” I consider telling them exactly what I admitted last night at Between the Covers, but to them I’ll always be the baby of the family. Their little girl who needs protecting. They don’t know that I’m working on becoming a genuine kick-ass Disney version of myself.

  “I’ll be fine. I already said I’d go. I’ll . . . I’ll let you know where I’m sitting. After the game, we’re meeting up for drinks at the Battery. But maybe I’ll see you all before then.” I take another bite of chicken and chew really slowly so that I don’t have to say anything else.

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather be with us?” my mother asks. “In case you find it . . . challenging?”

  There’s no seat that’s going to make this easier, but watching the game with people who expect me to fall apart feels wrong on every level. “I’ll be fine,” I say in a totally kick-ass kind of way. “Really. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  My mother frowns and looks worried. My father looks doubtful and worried. My brothers look ready to do battle over the last piece of chicken.

  * * *

  • • •

  Sounding kick-ass and being kick-ass are not exactly the same thing. I’ve spent the last two days grinning like a goon while the excitement over Josh’s addition to the pitching roster and how that might impact the team’s season builds in the press and at the office. On Friday night, I make sure my smile is in place and pull on what little emotional armor I have left, but when I climb out of the Uber at Truist Park and make my way to where Meena, who’s tan and glowing from her beach vacation, Judith, and Chaz are already waiting, I’m feeling kind of shaky.

  “Hey! It’s a great night for baseball, isn’t it?” The three of them are wearing Braves hats and T-shirts and great big smiles that appear way more real than mine. On the bright side, they’re not looking at me as if I’m someone who needs to be pitied, babied, or handled. They just look glad to be here, and suddenly, I am, too.

  Judith’s seats are on the first base line directly behind the dugout at Terrace Level, which means we’ve got a great view of the field but aren’t right on top of it. We get peanuts and popcorn from the vendors, and I tell myself that everything’s going to be okay. I’m just another person here to watch the game. There’s
nothing I have to do or prove. But I’m careful not to watch who comes in and out of the dugout too closely. And I definitely don’t use Chaz’s binoculars to see who’s warming up in the bullpen out behind right center field.

  I do see my family and Josh’s parents take their seats overlooking home plate, but I’m careful not to be caught looking. I think we’re far enough up and behind them to keep them from spotting me. Especially since I’m sitting just beyond Chaz, who’s way bigger than me. It takes me a couple minutes to realize that he’s noticed what’s going on and is giving me a pretty large shoulder to duck behind.

  Just after the national anthem, Meena, who’s on my other side, hands me her popcorn to hold and gets up. She returns with a cardboard tray of cocktails just as the first batter strolls out of the dugout. “We’ve got you covered.” She winks as we all take a Braves Bramble. “Just sit back and relax as best you can. No one’s going to notice you unless you want them to.”

  I don’t want to sound like an alcoholic or anything, but the drink does help. So do the people around me. Chaz seems relaxed, but he’s super aware of his surroundings in a way I guess people who are always ready for an emergency are. If a foul tip came this way, he’d catch it or protect us with his body. If I pass out from nerves or hyperventilate while Josh is pitching, at least there’ll be someone who can resuscitate me.

  Meena and Judith do their part, too. Meena makes sure I’m included as she goes on about the glories of her romantic getaway and how eager she is to schedule our online dating intro. Judith occasionally rolls her eyes at Meena, but she’s listening intently.

  Judith kind of reminds me of my mother but maybe a couple years older and with an extra layer of sadness underneath her smile. It must be even worse to lose a husband you’ve had so long than to lose a fiancé. It’s another reminder that people deal with all kinds of stuff every day. For about two seconds I try to picture my mom without my dad, but I just can’t go there.

  Judith’s neighborhood is only a couple of miles from the one I grew up in. Sure enough, when I ask, she tells me that both her kids went to Walden. One of them lives and works in New York, and the other one’s in Denver.