The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  “I think that’s true for all of us, Dorothy. But you, my friend, are a formidable woman.”

  “So are you,” she says.

  We smile the whole rest of the way home, completely in accord.

  Some of the joy dissipates when we arrive and see Mitchell’s car in the driveway. I’d hoped he and his things would be gone before we got home. Now I have no choice but to face him. Hopefully, for the last time.

  We come in from the garage and find him standing at the kitchen window looking out at the yard.

  His presence dredges up the memories that I’ve buried under my hurt and anger. I loved him. In some ways, I always will. He was the first person who loved me back. Not out of pity or duty—which I’ve learned the hard way are not his strong suits. But because he saw things in me that no one else ever had.

  It was with him that I first felt and recognized desire. He was my first and only.

  Dorothy’s eyes narrow. She nods at her son. To me she says, “I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

  I watch Mitch’s face as her footsteps recede.

  “Do you remember how small the magnolia was when we got it?” He points to the now towering tree that we planted the day we moved in. My very first tree in my very first house.

  His eyes meet mine. For the first time in a long time, I see the man I married, and I believe he sees me.

  “I really fucked things up, didn’t I?” he says.

  “You did.”

  “I’m sorry. Honestly. I don’t know what got into me. I just . . . If I could go back and undo what I’ve done, I would.”

  I study his face. Try to read what’s in his eyes. I see love and sorrow and regret, all the things that have churned inside me. My heart aches for who we were, for what I thought we’d always have. I wish that everything that’s happened—Mitch’s secret life, the divorce, all of it—was just a bad dream, something conjured out of my own fear and insecurity.

  He moves toward me, reaches out as if to cup my cheek.

  “No. You no longer have the right to touch me.” I step back and shrug away from him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Dorothy materializes in the doorway and walks toward us. “What are you doing, Mitchell? I certainly hope you’re not trying to get her into bed.”

  “This is none of your business.” He scowls at his mother. “Leave us alone. We’re just . . . saying goodbye.”

  “Your attorney did warn you not to sleep with him before the divorce goes through, didn’t she, Sara?” Dorothy’s tone holds a clear warning.

  “Yes.” I think about that first appointment. “She said that it could . . . derail things. But I assumed that was for emotional reasons.” I stare at my husband. “I promise you I have absolutely no intention of sleeping with him.”

  “Good.” She steps up beside me just as I stepped up beside her when we faced Frank Anderson in the carriage house. “Because my son, as usual, appears to have his own motives.”

  “What motive could there be?” I ask.

  “Do you want to tell her, Mitchell, or shall I?” Dorothy asks.

  “Go right ahead, Mother,” Mitchell exhales angrily. “You seem to have it all figured out. I didn’t realize you’d taken the bar exam.”

  Dorothy’s eyes remain on me. She’s still in prizefighting mode. But this time she’s fighting for me.

  “If you were to have sex with each other and either attorney found out, they’d be legally bound to tell the judge that you were not living in ‘bona fide separation.’ It would cause your divorce to be dismissed.”

  “Dismissed?” Fear wraps itself around me like a heavy blanket. “You mean the divorce wouldn’t go through?”

  Mitchell exhales sharply. He closes his eyes.

  “Ultimately, you could file again,” Dorothy says. “But it could take an additional nine months and more money that I know you don’t have.”

  “So, you hung around until we got home, thinking you’d somehow lure me back into bed one last time so that you could get the divorce dismissed?” I ask, trying to work it through.

  His jaw is tight.

  “But it makes no sense. We’ve agreed on everything. The paperwork’s been filed. You’re the one who chose someone else and built a family with her. Why would you want a dismissal?”

  His gaze drops.

  For the span of a heartbeat, I think he’s going to tell me that it’s me he loves and that if I’ll only forgive him and take him back, we can start fresh and live happily ever after. I let myself forget that there are children involved. Another woman.

  But what he says is, “I’m just not ready. Margot’s changed. She’s so anxious about everything. All the fun is gone.”

  If I had access to a weapon, he would already be dead. If I weren’t so shocked and horrified, I could probably do exactly what Dorothy threatened at the bookstore and rip him apart with my bare hands.

  “What is wrong with you?” I demand. “How can you care so little for the people in your life?” I look him directly in the eye. “I wasn’t interesting enough, so you cheated on me with Margot. Margot, the woman who is carrying your second child, isn’t fun anymore so you think maybe you can have sex with me so that you can put off marrying her and accepting responsibility for your children? And if that keeps me from getting the divorce I deserve, too bad for me?”

  Dorothy places an arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, Sara. I can hardly believe I raised such a monumentally selfish and conscienceless human being.”

  “No. This is not on you. Mitchell’s failings are not your fault. He is who he is. And I know you well enough now to know that you tried your best.” I look at Mitchell. “You need to get out of here right now. And don’t ever come back.”

  “We don’t actually have to sleep together, you know,” he taunts. “I just have to tell my lawyer that we did.”

  Mitchell’s face is flush with triumph and satisfaction. He believes he’s “won” again.

  “You’d do that just to buy yourself some time? Knock yourself out. I’ll just file again.” I refuse to shed a single tear in his presence.

  “Mitchell isn’t going to say anything to his attorney or anyone else,” Dorothy says evenly.

  “This has nothing to do with you,” Mitch says dismissively. He turns toward the door.

  But I hear the determination in Dorothy’s voice; I can see it on her face. She’s not one to make idle promises or threats.

  She smiles at me, then takes Mitchell’s shoulder and turns him back around. “If you attempt to use this lie to stop the divorce, I will sue you for elder abuse. Then I’ll call your employer and tell them just how untrustworthy you are and that you’re a thief who stole from his elderly mother and left her homeless.”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” he chides her. “Not to me.”

  “Unfortunately, you have a tendency to underestimate others while overestimating yourself,” Dorothy replies evenly. “This ends now. You will finalize your divorce, marry Margot, and raise your children. I’d like to know my grandchildren and their mother. But I’m grateful to Sara, and I’m glad I’ve finally come to know her. I consider her a friend and the daughter I never had.” Dorothy smiles and takes my hand. My heart is fuller than I’ve ever felt it.

  “You’re bluffing,” Mitch huffs. “You’d never sue me. You’d just be making yourself look ridiculous.”

  “Ah, darling,” Dorothy says. “I’d rather not have to. But don’t fool yourself.” She slings an arm around my waist. “Sara and I both have better characters and bigger balls than you do.”

  His shock is almost comical, but ultimately, Mitchell Whalen does what he does best. He cuts and runs.

  Through the kitchen window we watch him climb into his car, fire it up, then back down the driveway.

  When the sound fades into the distance, Dorothy and I
turn and face each other.

  “I think I might need a glass of wine,” she says.

  “Me, too.”

  I go to the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of prosecco that I’ve been saving for a special occasion while she lowers herself into a kitchen chair and folds trembling hands on the table.

  I feel awful inside but wonderful, too. I’ve lost a husband but gained a formidable friend who’s beginning to feel like family. I fill two champagne flutes and carry them to the table. “We have foiled two nefarious plots in one day. I think that might be a record.”

  I raise my glass. We toast like the bookworms we are. “To the end of a chapter.”

  “To turning the page,” Dorothy adds. “And starting a new one.”

  for·mi·da·ble

  /ˈfôrmədəb(ə)l, fərˈmidəb(ə)l/

  adjective

  inspiring fear or respect through being impressively large, powerful, intense, or capable

  Ex: “I hope to one day be as formidable as my mother-in-law.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Jazmine

  I’m not sure where May has gone, but as of today I am now officially thirty-six years old. Maya serves me a cup of coffee and a cupcake with a candle in it for breakfast in bed, then grabs my phone to FaceTime Thea so they can sing “Happy Birthday” to me together, with Jamal chiming in. After I blow out the candle, Maya races off to get dressed. Jamal departs for work. Thea gives me grief about dumping Derrick Warren.

  “I didn’t dump him. I just told him that I didn’t think we were a good fit.”

  “A good fit? The man is not a pair of jeans. I cannot believe you are not interested in him.”

  “I told you, Thee. He’s a great guy, and I’m sure he’ll make some woman very happy. It’s just not going to be me. You can’t manufacture chemistry.”

  “Monsanto does. You could if you wanted to.”

  I take a bite of my cupcake and chew carefully. Then I take a sip of coffee.

  “I see you rolling your eyes at me,” Thea says. “I do not understand how you can not feel some serious movement of the earth with a kind, gentle, and fine-looking black man like that. She cocks her head. “It’s that Rich Handsome, isn’t it?”

  “It’s Hanson, and no, it doesn’t have anything to do with him.” Because I will not let it. Because one great night does not make a relationship. And because even if it did, having a relationship with a person you work with on a daily basis cannot be a good idea.

  Thea has quite a lot to say about the size of the mistake I’m making. When she finally pauses to draw breath, I slap a smile on my face, wave merrily, and say, “Gotta run! See you at Mama and Daddy’s on Sunday!”

  “Wait, I’m not . . .”

  I’m sure I’ll hear the rest of this on Sunday, but I can’t listen to it right now. Tonight, I’ll get to celebrate my birthday at book club, where we’ll eat cake and discuss my favorite book of all time. All I have to do is get through this day without crossing paths with Rich. I have always prided myself on being clear and straightforward. Pretending that I didn’t and never again want to sleep with him feels inherently dishonest.

  At the office, another cupcake waits on my desk. “Thanks for everything, boss,” Erin says after she sings “Happy Birthday” to me. “Working with you is a great adventure. Oh, and, uh, Rich said he needs to see you.”

  “No. That’s not going to happen today,” I say as a knock sounds on my office door.

  Erin and I look up.

  “Sorry,” she whispers, even though she doesn’t sound sorry at all.

  “No,” I smile and whisper, trying not to move my lips. “Go tell him I’m busy. Don’t make me call Louise and beg her to come back.”

  I give her my steeliest look, but it doesn’t seem to be working. I blame it on the icing I’m licking off my lips.

  “He just wants to wish you a happy birthday.” She smiles brightly.

  “Fine.” I raise my hand and wave him in. “But if you ever get confused about who you work for again, you won’t have a job.”

  “Right, boss.” She turns, nodding, and possibly winking, at Rich as they pass.

  “Happy birthday.” He smiles, places a tiny bakery box on my desk, then takes a seat. “It’s a cupcake. But I see you’re already wearing one.” He points to the other corner of my mouth. Then he pulls a tissue out of the box on my desk and hands it to me.

  “Thank you.” I dab where he’s pointing. Exposing my tongue while he’s nearby seems foolhardy. “How can I help you?”

  “Actually, there are a few things I’d like to clear up.” His tone turns serious as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

  “O . . . kay.” His discomfort just adds to mine. I make myself wait while he gathers himself.

  “You seem to think that I’m some sort of party guy. That I sleep around and date indiscriminately.” He looks me in the eye. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for.

  “Um-hmmm.”

  “Well, I wanted to make sure that you know that’s not true.” His eyes do that thing where they turn kind of amber. It’s almost as if he’s willing me to see something, only I don’t know what.

  “Listen, I know you’re just trying to make our sleeping together seem less . . . awkward,” I say. “Which is really kind of awkward in itself.”

  His eyes are pinned to mine, but he doesn’t interrupt. I can’t seem to look away.

  “But it doesn’t matter because it won’t be happening again. And we did agree to pretend like it never happened. So, I’m not sure talking about it is going to be helpful.”

  He’s still watching. Waiting. I’m just not sure for what.

  “So, I’m thinking that since we’re doing what we agreed, we’re good. Right?”

  “Right,” he says. “I mean . . . we are good . . . together. Better than good. So, I’ve decided I just need to be honest here. About myself. And my marriage.”

  Between the looks he’s giving me and the discomfort I feel, I can’t think of a single thing to say.

  “When I told you about my daughter and you asked if I was married, I . . . I left a few things out.”

  My stomach drops. “Oh?”

  “I pretty much never talk about my wife because . . .”

  I brace for some ugly divorce story. Complaints about how she didn’t understand him. How she “took him to the cleaners” or tried to poison his daughter against him.

  But what he says is, “It’s my fault she’s dead.” He stops and closes his eyes, opens them.

  When I don’t speak, mostly because I have no idea what to say, he continues, “We were on our way home from picking out baby furniture for the nursery. She’d chosen this beautiful crib that cost what felt like a fortune at the time, but she’d just fallen completely in love with it, you know?” He swallows. His smile is a painful thing. “I remember she couldn’t wait to be a mother. I was kind of freaked about the responsibility, the cost, the way our life was going to change, but Amelia was over the moon about it. She had this incredible glow, practically from the moment she found out she was pregnant.”

  I brace again because it’s clear that whatever’s coming is going to be hard to hear.

  “I had leaned over to kiss her. I only took my eyes off the road for like a second, but when I looked up, this car was coming straight at us going the wrong way. It hit us almost head-on.”

  His eyes cloud with memory. “I barely had a scratch. Amelia didn’t make it. But they managed to save Amy.”

  “Oh.” I stare at him, trying to absorb the tragedy and pain that plays out on his face. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard even a hint of this.”

  “That’s because I don’t talk about it. I was twenty-four when it happened. And not the most mature twenty-four. I was just starting out in a field that required lots of travel and crazy hours, an
d . . . it took a long time to even start to get over it. Fortunately, Amy’s grandparents on both sides stayed involved.”

  My eyes blur with tears. I know exactly what that kind of loss feels like.

  “As you know, even with family nearby, being a single parent of a newborn is totally overwhelming. Add in the grief and the guilt, and . . . all I could think about was making it up to my daughter. That’s what drove me to sign the biggest names, climb the ladder as fast as I could, and make the most money. Sometimes I’ve cut corners and been more ruthless than I should have been. I have poached other agents’ clients. As if money and success would somehow fill the void of the mother I took from her.” He hesitates. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because all this time I had no idea who you were or what you’d been through.” I blink back tears.

  “It’s not the sort of thing you just bring up in conversation or mention at a meeting or during happy hour. I’ve always respected the way you handle yourself and your clients. And given your own loss and your . . . Maya . . . I knew you’d understand how huge a part of my life my daughter is.”

  I stare into Rich’s eyes. I’ve judged him so harshly, having no idea we’d walked in each other’s shoes.

  “My point is, I’m about as far from a notcher/player as it’s possible to get.” He pauses once again. “I haven’t felt this kind of connection since . . . since Amelia died. And I’m fairly certain you feel it, too.”

  I continue to stare into Rich’s eyes, shocked at the honest emotion I am only now recognizing in them. Moved by the courage he’s just shown when I, who have always prided myself on telling the truth and doing the right thing, have worked so hard to hide my feelings even from myself.

  He leans across the desk. “So, here’s the thing. If you really want to pretend there’s nothing between us, I’ll do my best. But it won’t be easy. Because that’s the total opposite of what I want.”

  I lean forward and meld my lips to his. It’s a long, thorough kiss meant to convey all the things I can’t bring myself to say. When it finally ends, both of us are smiling.