The Dirty Book Club

by Lisi Harrison

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  M.J. closed the lid on the toilet seat and sat. “I don’t know,” she said, because how could she tell someone whose life just fell apart that she can’t handle her life falling apart. Not yet, anyway. It was too soon for another round of punishing what-ifs. Too soon to search for silver linings. Too soon for heavy-lidded debates about the meaning of life and podcasts about accepting what is. It was just too soon.

  With an exhausted savior’s sigh, Addie switched places with M.J., pulled up her lab coat, and took the test herself. “See? It’s easy.” She tossed the stick on the shower floor. It landed with a nothing-to-it plink.

  “I’m not scared of the test,” M.J. said. “I’m scared of the results.”

  “There are always options.” Addie offered a fresh stick. “Now pee!”

  “Options?” M.J. thought as she pulled down her shorts. She couldn’t imagine having an abortion any more than she could imagine having a baby, so how comforting were these options? The only positive here would be a negative.

  When she was done, M.J. tossed the dripping stick onto the shower floor, hung her head between her legs, and hoped that her sister, April, had enough sense to distract her parents and keep them from looking down.

  “Holy shit,” Addie said, turning on the faucet. “Look.”

  Ears ringing, M.J. said she couldn’t.

  “There’s one negative and one positive.”

  A sudden chill woke the back of M.J.’s neck. “What the—”

  “It’s a cold compress. Try to breathe.”

  “Breathe?”

  “Some of these sticks have expired and could give a false positive. Let’s try a few different ones just to be sure.”

  Legs quaking, M.J. saturated five more. “Tell me when it’s over,” she said, praying to the God she’d stopped believing in.

  “No way,” Addie said.

  “What?”

  “Anorexic Loo is guest DJing at the Blackbird tonight.”

  “Who gives a—”

  “Shit,” Addie said, as if completing M.J.’s thought.

  “Exactly. Who gives a—”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly.”

  “No,” Addie insisted, her wide-eyed disbelief no longer trained on her cell phone but on the shower floor.

  Stomach churning, M.J. peeked through splayed fingers. Then no fingers. “Six negatives and one positive? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Then it did. And the realization shocked them into silence.

  “How poetic,” Addie finally said, as she lowered to sit on the Turkish towel bathmat, hands resting limply by her splayed thighs. “The pregnancy counselor gets pregnant.” She covered her face with her hands. “I hate when characters in TV shows get pregnant, don’t you? It’s my least favorite plotline ever.”

  “Dan’s a doctor; he can help,” M.J. tried, though she failed to find comfort in that fact moments earlier, when the baby was thought to be hers.

  “This is all Leo’s fault!”

  “Leo Golden’s the father?”

  “Ew, no! But if Leo didn’t die, David wouldn’t have come back from Colorado, and I wouldn’t have funeral-fucked him in the bathroom without a condom. I would have funeral-fucked him with a condom. Yes, I still would have been fired, but I wouldn’t have to use my savings to fix the bookstore because it never would have been mine in the first place. I’d be halfway to a yacht in Italy filled with guys named Fabian and Fabrizio, who wear loafers without socks and lick sweat from my cleavage while I drink Negronis and teach them how to swear in English.” She looked up at M.J., green eyes pooling regret. “I knew my boobs were bigger.”

  With a roll of two-ply toilet paper in hand, M.J. set Addie up on the couch, drew the blinds, and ordered a meat-lovers pizza. She massaged her feet with extra-virgin olive oil, then switched to hair conditioner because virgins of any kind were not welcome. She ordered three seasons of Project Runway and paid a Lyft driver to bring them gelato. She did everything except search for silver linings, mention David’s name, or ask Addie how she wanted to handle the “situation.” It was too soon for platitudes, coping strategies, and solutions. Fortune had spun her wheel, and Addie came up short. As someone who understood what that felt like, M.J. insisted they ignore their phones, lie around, and not try to solve a fucking thing.

  CHAPTER

  Eighteen

  Pearl Beach, California

  Saturday, July 23

  Waxing Gibbous Moon

  “DO YOU HEAR that?” Addie mumbled into her pillow.

  “You mean the knocking?” M.J. asked, eyes closed.

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  They settled back into sleep, which was easier now that M.J. had curtains on her bedroom windows. Easier still because their respective bellies were so stuffed with meat-lovers pizza and popcorn from yesterday, that digestion by way of hibernation was the only option.

  But the knocking didn’t stop.

  “You should probably get that,” Addie said.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you want to know who it is?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Then you should get it.”

  “I would,” Addie said, “but I’m pregnant.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” Destiny said when M.J. opened the door. “Chest was gonna give me a ride, but his stepdad got all bent because we kept the car out all night so—” She hitched a thumb at the beach cruiser on the lawn, back wheel still spinning.

  “Late?” M.J. asked, while she considered Destiny’s outfit: labia-grazing cutoffs, a string-bikini top, and a high-glossed smirk that suggested Jules had no idea her daughter was there. “Late for what?”

  “Addie’s taking me surfing.” She removed her blue-mirrored lenses and peered into the charcoal-colored darkness. “No way. Is she still sleeping?”

  “Yes,” Addie called from the bedroom.

  Destiny smiled.

  “How did you know she was here?” M.J. asked.

  “Find My Friends.”

  “You and Addie are friends?”

  Destiny flashed the app on her phone. “Obviously.” Then, she called, “Ready?”

  “I don’t have my boards.”

  “There are a bunch out here by the garage,” Destiny offered.

  “Those belong to my boyfriend,” M.J. said, suddenly protective.

  “Do you think he would mind if we borrowed them?”

  “The problem is Addie’s not feeling so well.”

  Destiny pulled six minibar bottles of Dewar’s from her backpack, then entered the cottage with a purposeful stride. “Thirsty?” she asked the cocoon of blankets on the bed.

  M.J. turned away to open the blinds. If the proverbial line of appropriateness did exist, she did not want to be there when the rebellious teenager and pregnant woman drank their way across it.

  “Wake up,” Destiny cooed, bottles clinking.

  Addie pushed herself up to sit. “You brought Dewar’s?”

  “Three for each of us.”

  Addie took the bottles.

  “Wanna shoot them?” Destiny asked, ribs jutting out from under her bikini top.

  “No, I wanna dump them.”

  Destiny laughed. “Yeah, right.” But she quickly sobered when Addie strode toward the kitchen sink.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’re fifteen.”

  “So? Like you never had a drink in high school?”

  “Of course I did, with other high schoolers, not my mom’s friends.” Addie shot a Help me out glance at M.J. “Where is Jules, anyway?”

  “Who cares?” Destiny leaned against the fridge and crossed her arms with an indignant harrumph. Then, sensing disapproval from the motherless women standing before her, added, “What? My dad can’t stand her, either. Why do you think he never visits?”

  “He’s wrapping things up with his cl
ients,” M.J. tried. “He’ll be here soon.”

  “Please. He’s training rich housewives, not Navy SEALs. If he wanted to be here he would.” She yanked a denim thread from her shorts. “He hooked Mom up with this stupid job to get rid of her, to get rid of us! I mean, Liaison of Love? Really? What is that?”

  “She sweats romance. It’s perfect for her.”

  “Makeup artist was perfect for her. Not weddings. She’s allergic to flowers! But I guess that’s what happens when you don’t wear a condom. Your whole life turns to shit.”

  Addie bristled. “We should probably paddle out before the tide comes in.”

  “Yeah,” M.J. agreed. “Help yourself to Dan’s surfy stuff.”

  From the deck, M.J. watched them fearlessly charge the ocean. Then, with bellies flat against their boards, they duck-dived through the crashing white water until they reached the school of surfers on the endless stretch of corduroy beyond the break. There, with faces trained on the horizon, they bobbed on the undulating ocean and waited for Fortune to spin her wheel. Would they be lifted up and taken for a ride? Slammed against the rocks? Thrown off course by the current? No one knew.

  In that moment, surfing had transcended sport. It became a philosophy or a metaphor for the unpredictable nature of life. To live with grace was to remain fluid, let things roll through us, not get attached. Expect-the-unexpected sort of thing, ride whatever comes along and see where you end up.

  This could be something, M.J. thought. A poem, an article, a revelation for Dr. Cohn or something to share with Dan next time they Skyped. Pencil at the ready, she opened her journal and tried to block out the shore pound, the squealing children, the lifeguard’s whistle, and listened for more deep thoughts.

  “She hasn’t changed a bit,” said a male voice. Not at all what M.J. expected to hear.

  It was David Golden. Elbows resting on the railing of his deck, hands clasped, like Gloria’s had been the day they met. He removed his T-shirt and hung it over the railing, revealing a torso that vouched for his active lifestyle. While his faded jeans, which fell an inch below his butt-crack vouched for his lack of underwear.

  “We used to sit out there for hours,” he mused. Then a nostalgic chuckle. “Addie would do this thing . . . right as a good swell was coming, she’d distract us by lifting up her top and then drop in on the best wave.”

  Sunshine reflected off the ocean, casting a warm glow on the right side of his face. The left was shadowed and dark. He was attractive, but in a different way than Dan. Less textbook handsome and more black-book dangerous: wry half smile, sexy gap tooth, and eyebrows thick enough to hide secrets.

  “You still care about her?” M.J. asked.

  “Of course, Addie Oliver was my first . . . everything.”

  “But not your last?”

  He straightened up, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Like I said, she hasn’t changed a bit. And I love that about her. But I—” He lowered his voice. “I want to grow up.” Then, with a deprecating snicker aimed at his childhood home, the one that his mom just gave him because he couldn’t afford his own, he said, “Trying to, at least.”

  “Actually, Addie has changed a lot. You’d be surprised.”

  David turned away from the ocean, found M.J.’s eyes and held them with his own. “You’re right, I would be surprised if she changed. But she won’t. She can’t. She’s still playing the kid card and it’s bullshit. It’s just Addie needing attention and she’s too old for that.”

  “She told you?” M.J. asked, feeling somewhat betrayed. She and Addie had an agreement: they said no cell phones. Then again, this wasn’t about her. It was about Addie and David and their unborn child. If Addie sent David a text or snuck out in the middle of the night to tell him the news, it was her business. M.J.’s job was to support Addie, not judge her. But David? David she could judge. So she knocked his shirt off the railing and onto the beach.

  “What’d you do that for?”

  “I’d have pushed you if you weren’t so . . . thick.”

  His jaw hovered somewhere between outrage and amusement. “Why push at all?”

  “Because you’re painting Addie to be some shrew who traps men into thinking she’s pregnant and that’s not what’s happening here. She’s telling the truth. She took six tests and they were all positive and you’re the fa—”

  “There you are, Davey,” said a Bambi-eyed twentysomething with a bath towel twisted over her wet hair, a second wrapped around her body, and a Star of David necklace adorning her oiled décolletage. “That sunroom would make a great office, am I right or am I super right?”

  “Super right.” Then, “M.J., this is my girlfriend, Hannah,” David said, clear as a warning.

  “Are you a snowboard instructor, too?” M.J. asked.

  “Me? God, no. I’m a graphic designer.”

  “Cool. What kind of stuff?”

  “You know . . . ,” she said, with a surreptitious side-eyed glance at David. “Graphic stuff.”

  “It’s niche,” he stated.

  A descant of high-pitched shrieks brought their attention to the beach, where Addie and Destiny had collided and were now tumbling ashore.

  “Show me what you’re thinking for the sunroom,” David said, placing his arm around Hannah’s shoulder and steering her into the house.

  Now what? M.J. wondered as she watched Addie and Destiny giggling their way toward the deck. Was she supposed to forget that she saw David? Forget that he has a girlfriend? Forget that he implied Addie was faking her pregnancy?

  Absolutely. At least until her next phone session with Dr. Cohn, maybe he’d know what to do.

  M.J. went inside and started cleaning the tissues, pizza boxes, popcorn kernels, and tabloid magazines. The busy work would keep her occupied, give her a place to divert her lying eyes should Addie ask what M.J. did while they were surfing.

  But Addie never asked. Her curiosity was directed at Destiny, who was scrolling frantically through a chain of text messages, and repeating, “Oh no.”

  “It’s Chest isn’t it,” Addie said, as if bored by the male species’ never-ending ability to disappoint.

  “No,” Destiny lowered her phone. “It’s Mom. She’s in the hospital.”

  CHAPTER

  Nineteen

  Pearl Beach, California

  Saturday, July 23

  Waning Gibbous Moon

  “IMMEDIATE FAMILY ONLY,” Easton said, while pacing the waiting room. “So, of course, Brandon’s in there.”

  “My dad?” Destiny asked. “He came?”

  “All the way from Oceanside. Room 204.”

  Brows arched with I’ll believe it when I see it skepticism, Destiny pushed through the double doors and took to the linoleum with sneaker-squeaking determination, leaving them with a mountain biker (branch sticking out of his calf), a toddler (vomiting), and a teenaged girl shivering sweat and scratching herself bloody (withdrawal).

  M.J.’s legs began to tingle. She tasted pennies. How did Dan do it? The fetid smells, the bodily fluids, the possibility of death at every wrong turn? “I need to sit.”

  Addie glowered at the vomiting toddler. “I’ll stand.”

  “I have a lot of sympathy for the Beatles,” Easton said, unclipping his bowtie. “Choral Fixation made one girl faint and I’m a mess. Imagine taking down thousands.”

  “Choral Fixation?” Addie asked.

  “My men’s chorus. We performed at your birthday, remember?”

  Addie shrugged.

  “One minute Jules is singing along to ‘Saturday in the Park,’ and the next she’s down,” he marked her landing with a clap. “Luckily, our gig was in the children’s ward, so we were already here, but still . . .” He shuddered.

  “Do they know what caused it?” Addie asked.

  “Is she okay?”

  Before Easton could respond the automatic doors yawned open and gave way to Britt, hurriedly unclipping her pink helmet, oblivious to the hair extension swinging from
the strap.

  “You biked here?” M.J. asked.

  “Scootered.” Britt fanned her beading forehead. “How’s Jules?”

  “You leave that to me.” Easton approached the receptionist’s plexiglass wall, wedged his face into the conversation hole, and on behalf of men’s choruses everywhere, threatened to ban all hospital performances if he didn’t get some answers, stat.

  “Did you really scooter here?” M.J. asked, thinking of all the money she’d spent on Lyft. “Are they hard to ride?”

  “Harder than a Mini Cooper,” Britt teased. “Anyway, it’s not like I wanted to. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Why?”

  Britt opened her mouth to answer and then paused. “Over here,” she said, summoning them to the water cooler, the dried-up potted plant. Deciding that the corner wasn’t private enough, she began to jostle the leaves, and in a whisper said, “I was showing the Brazilian a condo with a very open floor plan when—”

  “You still don’t know his name?” Addie asked, somewhat impressed.

  “I don’t know anything. No name, no occupation, no idea if there are dependents on his tax returns, no nothing. He’s as zipless as the day I met him. I was going to check his wallet, but I never got a chance. He got an emergency call and took off mid-blow.”

  “You’re obviously not opening your mouth wide enough,” Addie said. “If your lips are too tight it feels like he’s sticking his dick in a pencil sharpener, in which case, I could see why he answered the phone.”

  Britt opened wide and closed her mouth around her entire fist proving her wrong. “So, I’m thinking it’s a sign,” she continued. “Like, go be with your husband, Britt. You’re not a cheater. This isn’t you. Go home. When I got there Paul was waiting for me in the driveway, all anxious and hand-wringy like he knew. But the only thing he said was, ‘I’m late for a meeting. I need the Prius.’ ” Britt paused so they could absorb the audacity. “Translation? I need to get to my mistress, now, before my pubes grow back.”

  “And the scooter?” M.J. asked, always the editor, tracking the point.

  “Paul took the Prius, so when I got the call about Jules I went for the golf cart, but Mr. Wonderful forgot to charge it, so . . .” Britt lifted the helmet above her head like a winning trophy. The hair extension fell from the strap and landed on her shoulder. She slung it over a branch like tinsel just as Easton announced his victory with a thumbs up.