The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  My original goal for tonight was to look so incredible that (a) Josh would be forced to see exactly what he walked away from and (b) no one would feel sorry for me. But even now, tired, hungover, dry mouthed, and dehydrated, trying not to look pathetic seems like a pretty pathetic goal. A kick-ass princess would aim higher.

  I stare up into the ceiling reliving last night’s game. Josh on the mound. In command. Impressive. Everything I always knew he could be. Such an incredible relief to be able to finally let go of my own unhappiness and be genuinely happy for him.

  Afterward at Superica, I discovered that everyone (including my boss, who always seems so totally together) is carrying stuff around, and a lot of that stuff is way heavier than mine. I think about Judith and Sara and Annell and Meena and the rest of the group, so there for me even though I’ve known them for such a short time. I need and want to be there for them.

  I breathe in and out, slowly and with intention. Pillowing my head in my hands, I stare upward, listening to the murmur of my parents’ voices, a soothing soundtrack that I’ve taken for granted my whole life. For the first time, I wonder if they ever considered divorce. Or even briefly contemplated murder. The idea seems ridiculous, but then I’ve never given their relationship any thought at all. I’ve always thought of them in terms of me. A kind of disturbingly juvenile perspective and not particularly kick-ass.

  I drink another glass of water, then doze for a while. I wake rested, clearheaded, and hungry. So I go to the kitchen and wolf down the leftover fried chicken my mother left wrapped in the fridge with a note reading For Erin ONLY folded around it to protect it from looting siblings. Who have been known to come here to graze or “shop” instead of the nearby grocery stores.

  After two more glasses of water and a really small piece of apple pie, I head back to my bedroom where I shower, wash and dry my hair, then apply makeup.

  Tonight is Katrina’s night. The only thing I need to do is to show up and celebrate her, her new job, and the adventure she’s beginning. It’s time to move on. To look ahead, not back.

  What anyone else, including Josh, thinks of me is beside the point.

  But that doesn’t mean I have to fade into the woodwork. After all, we are talking the St. Regis on a Saturday night.

  I spend the entire drive pumping up my courage and arrive at the St. Regis with a smile on my deep-red lips—which exactly match my dress—and a trip-hammering heart. I accept the valet’s hand and use it to rise carefully out of my car, because the Honda CR-V isn’t really designed for tight cocktail dresses with discrete slits down one thigh and low, square necks that prohibit bending over.

  I balance on stack-heeled snakeskin-embossed sandals that make my legs look longer, then throw in a head toss and a friendly yet mysterious smile. In my head I’m wearing a tiara that would make Cinderella and all her sister Disney princesses proud.

  When I walk into the cocktail lounge and into Katrina’s hug, I feel every eye on me. With the possible exception of those of my brother Tyler, who’s too busy munching on the hors d’oeuvres and unsuccessfully trying to chat up the cocktail waitress.

  “Whoever talked you into buying that dress is an absolute fashion genius.”

  “Yes, you are.” Katrina and I hug and sway. “I am so proud of you. You better make sure there’s room for me to visit in that New York City apartment you’ll be rocking.”

  “Good thing you’re small,” she replies. “I won’t exactly be living in a penthouse. At least not at first.”

  We laugh. “I’ll miss you. I’m sorry I lost these last months with you.” All that time wasted lying in bed feeling sorry for myself. Convinced I had a broken heart when maybe what I couldn’t bear to give up was my plan.

  I think of all the confessions last night at Superica. Every one of them a plan ripped away. By death. Divorce. Betrayal. Theft. Was it the loss of my plan that shook my world to its core more than my loss of Josh?

  “You’re not allowed to disappear like that ever again,” Katrina says sternly. “But I’m proud of you, too. You look beautiful. And I’m sensing some new big-girl vibes coming off you.”

  “Very astute of you,” I say, realizing she’s absolutely right. “I guess it’s about time, huh?” I say, because we have always called a spade a spade.

  “Totally.”

  Someone calls her away, and I head over to the bar. Where a very elegant and very flirty waiter makes me a cosmopolitan.

  Unlike last night, I nurse my drink, carrying it around and stopping to chat with friends I’ve known forever and haven’t seen in way too long. Most of us went through school and puberty and crushes and pretty much everything else together. I can’t remember why I was so embarrassed or why I thought they’d be judging me for Josh’s change of heart.

  I’m sipping my drink and waiting, while pretending not to, when there’s a stir at the entrance. I turn and see Josh hugging Katrina. Slapping old friends on the back. Butting foreheads with Ty. His dark hair is short and spiky. Just the right amount of stubble edges his face. He’s wearing jeans with a plain white T-shirt under a really great-looking black blazer. That I didn’t help him pick out. Another reminder that he’s living his own life and seems more than able to fend for himself.

  I don’t make a move toward him, but I don’t move away, either. I become aware that everyone’s watching us, waiting to see what will happen. I don’t care.

  He looks me up and down as he approaches. His smile creases the dimple that cuts into his left cheek. When he stops in front of me, he gives a slow shake of his head and a low whistle. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” In the past I would have been talking a mile a minute, smiling my happiness to see him, easing us into conversation. I just smile and mentally adjust my tiara.

  “You wore that dress to our engagement party.”

  “Yes, I did.” I tip my head back so that I can look into his whiskey-brown eyes, like I have a million times. I see the confusion in their depths. He came prepared for anger or hurt or, worst-case scenario, tears. It never occurred to him that I might be okay.

  “You were a force last night,” I say honestly. “I couldn’t believe you struck out their whole side.”

  The dimple flashes. “I couldn’t believe it myself. It was like an out-of-body experience.” He drops his voice so that only I can hear. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be there or not, but I hoped you would.”

  “I don’t think I could have missed it. Not after all those years that we dreamed about you one day pitching for the Braves.”

  “I’m not sure I would have even had that dream if it weren’t for you. You always believed in me more than I did. I was along for the ride.” He shoves his hands in his jean pockets. His eyes search mine.

  “Are you sorry you took the trip?” I meet his gaze, but my knees are kind of weak. There’s an old flutter in my stomach.

  “God, no. It’s an unbelievable rush. Of course it’s not as much fun when you give up runs and hits. I discovered that in Houston and Boston.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.” I smile.

  “You always acted like I was.”

  “Couldn’t help it.” I shrug.

  “I’m not, you know.” There’s regret and a whole lot of other things packed into those four words.

  “Yeah, I figured that out when you called off the wedding.”

  He winces. A totally attractive crinkling of his brown eyes that’s hard to look away from. “That wasn’t about you. I was lucky to have you. To be loved that completely. I’m sorry that I hurt you. I just wasn’t ready. And it seemed wrong to marry you under false pretenses.”

  I nod. Because really, what can you say to that?

  “But you know, last night after the game, you were the person I wanted to tell what it felt like.” He barely hesitates before he adds, “The person I wanted to make love to.”

&nb
sp; His eyes hold mine. I feel a way too familiar pull of what I’m pretty sure is lust. My emotions are less clear.

  “After the drinking and celebrating, you mean,” I say, trying for a teasing tone I can’t quite pull off.

  “Well, yeah,” he admits. “But you were in my head the whole time. And you’ll always be in my heart.” He moves closer, close enough to whisper. Everybody else disappears. “Sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake. Calling things off. Giving you up.”

  My body sways toward his. I inhale his scent. For an agonizing moment, all I want is to bury my head in his chest and feel his arms go around me.

  Then I actually register his words, their meaning. They’re all about him. What he did. What he wants. What he lost.

  I step back. With trembling hands, I smooth down the sides of my dress and look up into his eyes. “No, Josh. You were right. I set my heart on you way too early and held on too tight to something that . . . well, what kind of decision-making can you expect from a six-year-old?”

  Surprise is evident on his face. I don’t know what shows on mine. Relief? Regret? A newfound confidence? I feel and am no doubt telegraphing all of those things at once.

  If this were a movie, the music would swell. We’d give each other one last lingering smoldering look. I’d turn and walk away. The screen would fade to black.

  But this is real life. So what actually happens is my brother Tyler walks over, throws an arm around Josh’s shoulders, and says, “Come on, man. There are drinks lined up and waiting for you.”

  Then this brother, who only months ago offered to maim Josh on my behalf, turns to me and asks, “You got a couple extra dollars I can borrow for liar’s poker?”

  “I got you, man,” Josh says as I shake my head at Ty.

  “Brothers,” I tease. “It’s a miracle you don’t go out without your head.”

  I look up and see Katrina standing in the midst of an absolute gaggle of my friends. She waves me over. I turn and walk—it’s possible I even strut just a little bit—toward a great big group of my very best girlfriends.

  Judith

  The front doorbell rings bright and early Monday morning, not long after Ansley’s daily text dings in.

  I press my face to the front door peephole and see Susan Mandell, Realtor and head of the River Forge Bereavement Committee. Coincidence? I think not. Especially because she’s delivered numerous casseroles since Nate died and every one of them had her business card taped to the foil.

  She’s not the only Realtor who appears to rely on obituaries in search of possible listings. My voice mail is full of calls apologizing for bothering me in my time of sorrow while offering to help take the worry of selling my home off my hands.

  Of course, Susan does have the home court advantage, since she lives three doors down and I am the only person currently living in River Forge who has a house that’s obviously too big for her and no husband to help with upkeep or to argue against listing it.

  I open the door a crack and poke my head out.

  “Good morning. How are you?” she asks perkily.

  “I’m all right, thank you.” This has become my stock reply because I’ve learned that this is all anyone who isn’t Meena or a long-standing member of my book club really wants to hear.

  We stare at each other. I’m greatly relieved that she hasn’t brought another casserole, because Rosaria won’t touch them anymore and because the lack of casserole relieves me of the obligation to invite her in. “What’s up?”

  “I know you’ve suffered a terrible loss, and I hate to intrude on that. But I’ve had several clients inquire about homes for sale in the neighborhood.”

  I wait. Because while I appreciate the casseroles and her concern and all, I’m not remotely ready to even think about selling my house.

  “And it occurred to me that you might be considering downsizing in view of . . .” Her voice trails off. “In view of Nate’s death. And the fact that your children live in other cities.”

  She flashes me a comforting yet hopeful smile. “I wondered if you’d consider allowing an out-of-state client of mine to take a look even though it’s not listed. Yet.”

  My hand closes on the knob. It takes everything I have not to tell her just how tasteless her casseroles were and how much her timing sucks.

  Instead I put on a “bless your heart” smile, which Southern women are born knowing and those of us who are transplants take years to master. Then I say, “Why, that is so considerate of you to think of me. But I’m afraid I’m just not ready to have strangers in my home. I’ll be sure to let you know if that ever changes.” I hold on to the smile until the door is closed.

  Then I stomp around the house in righteous indignation, which leaves some footprints in the carpet that will no doubt thrill Rosaria. After that I call Meena.

  “Oh my gosh, Jude. It was absolutely heavenly,” she says when I finish griping about my Realtor-neighbor and ask for more nitty-gritty about her vacation than we were able to get to at the Braves game.

  “And Frank? What was it like being together for a whole week?”

  “It was amazing. Honestly, we had the most fun. He talks to everyone, only not because he’s trying to sell something but because he’s interested. And he wants to explore and do things. We went on excursions and tours and . . . he actually likes to dance.” Her voice lowers. “And I’m just going to come out and say it—the man is really good in bed.”

  I try and fail to imagine myself naked in front of . . . anyone. But I feel the oddest twinge of what might be jealousy. That Meena is putting herself out there. At how she’s bounced back from her divorce and created a whole new life for herself.

  “One night he even brought up the idea of being exclusive.”

  Exclusive. Just one of a whole new set of dating vocabulary.

  “Does that mean you’re not going to do online dating anymore?”

  “I don’t think people automatically take their profile down because they’re seeing someone. I’m not looking to get married or anything. I don’t see why I shouldn’t just enjoy his company and see where it leads.”

  “Goodness. How adult of you.” I say it teasingly, but I am impressed.

  She laughs. “It’s a whole new ball game, that’s for sure. But I’m putting myself first for the first time in my life, and I’m having such a good time. I can’t see where there’s any harm in that. You hear about all these online dating scams and everything, but I think that’s just people who don’t do their homework or pay close enough attention.”

  I’ve always admired Meena’s self-confidence. I wish I had even a tenth of her certainty about anything right now.

  “Anyway, Annell has offered the use of the carriage house Saturday afternoon for what I’m calling Online Dating 101. I just sent out an email to the whole book club. A young photographer I found has offered to shoot profile pictures for anyone who’s interested. I hope you’ll come.”

  “I’m not ready to think about putting the house on the market. I’m even less ready to think about dating. Nate hasn’t been gone that long.” I shudder. “It’s not just disrespectful, but as angry as I was at him . . .” Damned tears blur my vision. “I’ve started dreaming about him, Meena. And remembering the good parts of him. And our life together. And . . .”

  “Aww, sweetie,” she says quietly. “There was a lot of good in Nate. And your life was so much more than the way it ended. That’s your subconscious working on it for you. You’re going to be all right. I know you are. And there’s no rush for you to do or change one more thing until you’re ready.

  “But I think you should come on Saturday. Just to hear what it’s all about and maybe to cheer on whoever decides to give online dating a try. It should be fun. And really,” she says in true Meena fashion, “what have you got to lose?”

  Twenty-Seven

  Sara

&n
bsp; The appointment with my attorney on Friday afternoon is not the day brightener I’m hoping for. When it’s over, I drive home in a noxious fog of gloom. In the garage, I turn off the engine and lay my forehead on the steering wheel, gathering my thoughts, looking for something positive enough to lift that fog.

  When I finally enter the kitchen, I’m hit by the unexpected scent of food. Specifically, my nose tells me, Thai food. Dorothy is standing by the kitchen table smiling, which seems to be happening with increasing frequency.

  “Is that . . .” I sniff again. “That’s not pad thai I smell, is it?”

  She nods. “We’ve got panang chicken, too.”

  The fact that she pronounces both dishes properly is almost as surprising as the fact that those dishes are here. Ethnic food is not Dorothy’s thing. I didn’t even know whether she’d eat Thai food or not until I ordered in from my favorite place the other night.

  “I used the Uber Eats app you set up on my phone,” she says proudly. “You were right. It did come in handy. And it wasn’t as intimidating as I thought it would be.”

  I’m not sure what stuns me most. Her acknowledgment that I was right. Or the fact that she actually used the app that she professed to see no need for. But as she steps aside, I see the takeout cartons on the kitchen table along with plates and silverware. And even more importantly, given the day I’ve had, an open bottle of wine.

  “That’s so great. Thank you. I’m starving and I . . . I really appreciate you organizing dinner.”

  “Can’t have you getting hangry.” She smiles again as I wash my hands at the sink. “I think that’s actually quite a clever portmanteau,” she says, using the French word for combining two very different words. “Don’t you?”

  “Absolutely. And I’m glad to be sharing a meal with one of the few people I’ve met who not only knows the word ‘portmanteau’ but how to pronounce it.”