The Dirty Book Club

by Lisi Harrison

  * * *

  JULES RODE THE adjustable mattress from flat to forty-five degrees, an angle more suitable for entertaining. “Nothing like extra-strength Claritin and chardonnay to remind a girl she’s human,” she said, with the satisfied snap of her compact mirror. Her makeup was prom-queen perfect. She did not look like a woman who fainted from mixing antihistamines with alcohol. Not that M.J. knew what that woman looked like. Jules had to be the first.

  “She was at a flower expo all morning,” Destiny added, as if that explained everything.

  “It wasn’t the flowers,” Jules insisted. “It was that second shot of wine.”

  Britt winced. “You shot wine?”

  “It’s an old Choral Fixation tradition,” Easton said. “We do it before every show. You know—wet whistles, calm jitters . . .” He placed a hand on Jules’s shoulder. “Anyway, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressured you.” Easton handed her a cup of ice chips.

  Jules smiled her appreciation.

  “As you wish,” he said.

  Jules’s breath hitched at the sound of those words. And while her mouth was open, Easton gently fed her an ice chip. “I guess Brandon had to take off, huh?” he said, while she sucked.

  Jules pointed her lavender toenails toward the bathroom by the foot of her bed. “He’s in the little boys’ room.” Then, with an adoring sigh, “I don’t know how he got here from Oceanside so quickly. My prince’s steed must have grown wings.”

  The toilet flushed.

  M.J. listened for the squeaking faucet, a pumping soap dispenser, the stiff rip of paper towel. But none of the conventional indicators of handwashing were there. All she heard was the pop of the lock, a swiftly twisted handle, and Britt’s audible gasp.

  * * *

  THE MARKER WAS a watering hole for people whose troubles had troubles. Dimly lit and a stent’s throw from the hospital, it had become what locals referred to as the devil’s conference room. A urinal cake-scented, red-bulbed hideaway where beer bottles clanged like old bones and the ice machine hummed a zombie’s dirge. It’s where puffy-eyed family members made funeral arrangements, defeated surgeons recovered after imparting bad news, and sinners on scooters baptized their souls in cheap house white.

  “At least you know his name,” Addie said.

  Britt released her forehead to the sticky bar, pinched the stem of her wineglass, and dragged it toward her ear. “Did you see the color of his face?”

  “From hardboiled egg to eggplant,” M.J. said.

  “Do you think Jules picked up on it?”

  “No way,” M.J. said. “Her heart-shaped pupils were too focused on Brandon to notice anything. Including that he doesn’t wash his hands after he uses the bathroom.”

  Britt knocked her head against the bar. “I can’t believe the Brazilian is married . . . to Jules!” Another knock. “As soon as the wine shots wear off she’ll realize that he was already up here. I mean, not even a magic steed could get from Oceanside to Pearl Beach on a Saturday in under two hours. Then she’ll start digging around and—” Britt’s gaze wandered to the lineup of dusty liquor bottles behind the bar. “Jules’s husband’s hands were on my naked ass.”

  Addie finger-stirred her Virgin Mary. “His unwashed hands.”

  “What a piece of shit!” Britt said.

  “Why was he at Marrow that night?” M.J. asked. “Did Jules even know he was in town?”

  “No idea,” Britt said, then she smacked herself on the forehead. “Oh my God, Rooftop! I thought he was there to watch me, like I was the hottest thing ever. But he was with Jules.”

  “The Brazilian was at my party?”

  “He was,” Britt said. “Until he realized I knew Jules.”

  “Hence the stomachache,” M.J. said.

  Britt covered her face with her hands. “I can’t believe I had sex with Jules’s husband.”

  “And Destiny’s father,” Addie added.

  “It’s not funny! What if Jules finds out? What if they get divorced because of me? What if she tells Paul?”

  “Paul?” Addie said. “I thought you two were done.”

  “Done? He’s my husband.”

  “But you’re fucking Jules’s husband.”

  “Don’t say it like that!”

  “Sorry,” Addie said. “I meant to say Destiny’s dad.”

  “This isn’t funny,” Britt said. “It’s like when I found out fat-free cookies were loaded with sugar. I had one thing that made me feel good, one thing to look forward to, and that thing turned out to be—”

  “Destiny’s dad.”

  Britt finally laughed. “I know what I did was awful and there’s no excuse but—”

  “Here comes the excuse,” Addie said.

  “But Paul treats me like an underdeveloped Polaroid—like I’m not fully there, you know? Then the Brazilian came along and suddenly I felt all colorful and seen. And as long as I had that, Paul could ignore me and get stoned as much as he wanted. I wouldn’t die from neglect, and our family would stay together. But now my fat-free cookies belong to Jules, Paul’s hairless balls are slapping against someone else’s ass, and I’ve got nothing.”

  “You could keep seeing him,” M.J. said, because that’s what Dr. Cohn would have done. Offer up the unthinkable so it could be rejected. Then they could move on.

  “Never!” Britt said, much to M.J.’s relief. “I have to tell her. I mean, I can’t not say anything.” She took a swig of wine. “Can I?”

  “Sometimes people are better off not knowing.” Addie rested a hand on her belly. “Does anyone else smell that?”

  “Don’t worry,” M.J. assured her. “It happens when you’re pregnant. My coworker’s farts were so toxic we moved her desk to the stairwell.”

  “No, it’s those nachos,” Addie pointed at a passing waiter’s tray.

  “Wait, you’re pregnant?” Britt asked.

  “And unemployed and homeless and—” Addie lurched forward, cupped a hand over her mouth, and bolted for the bathroom.

  “Is she serious?”

  “Found out yesterday,” M.J. told her. “After she got fired for handing out vibrators.”

  “And the baby?”

  “David Golden’s.”

  “And the bookstore?”

  “Still trashed.”

  Had it not been for a recent Botox injection, Britt’s eyebrows would have shot straight past her scalp. “Does David know?”

  “He said something today that made me think she told him. Anyway, she doesn’t know what she’s going to do, or maybe she does and she doesn’t want to talk about it. I don’t know.”

  Addie returned—lips freshly glossed—and downed some water that may or may not have been hers. She lowered the glass like a guillotine. “Get this baby out of me,” she said. Then to M.J., “You’re annoying.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Nothing,” Addie told her. “You’re a decent person and right now I find that annoying.”

  Britt nodded in agreement. “It’s true. You would never have an affair or get—” She tilted her head in the general direction of Addie’s uterus. “You’re just solid.”

  The way they said it made it sound like an insult. As if a criminal record was required to ride with their girl gang.

  “I may be good from afar, but I am far from good,” M.J. said, because she had just as many reasons to be annoyed by good people as they did. But to air Dan’s pesky little obsession with saving lives and expect the kind of sympathy one might get from, say, an unwanted pregnancy or a doomed marriage, was a fool’s game. No one liked the skinny girl with the hot doctor boyfriend whose biggest fault is “he cares too much.” But she did sign Gayle’s contract behind Dan’s back and there was nothing “good” about that.

  “Want to know how indecent I am?”

  They absolutely did.

  “I took my old job back in New York and didn’t tell Dan.”

  Addie cocked her head. “You’re going back to New York?”

>   Britt’s dimple pulsed. “When?”

  “September,” M.J. said.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I’m scared he’ll never talk to me again.”

  “No,” Britt said. “Why didn’t you say anything to us?”

  “I didn’t think you’d care.”

  Silence pulled up a stool and sat between them until Britt smacked the bar.

  “Damn it,” she said. “I was supposed to be an age-defying stay-at-home mom with overachieving kids, a house that smelled like organic cleaning products, and a successful husband who found my aging body sexy. And what did I get? Destiny’s dad, a living room that reeks of skunk, twins who won’t kiss me in public, a career pimping houses, and a trash can full of pubes. This is it, folks. This is my life.” She pointed at the three women seated directly across from them. “See those sad hags over there? That’s going to be us in ten years, and then what?”

  M.J. placed her hand on Britt’s shoulder. “That’s a mirror.”

  “Huh?”

  “That is us,” Addie said.

  Britt leaned forward and squinted. “Fuck.”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty

  Pearl Beach, California

  Monday, July 25

  Last Quarter Moon

  “GO AHEAD, JUDGE,” M.J. said, imagining her parents glaring down at her, tsk-tsking what she considered to be a legitimate form of cardio. Because every time she clicked on an article about her ex-boss or trolled social media for answers, her heart would speed.

  Would she find pictures of Gayle at one of those corporate retreats? Read about a terrible accident or maybe a scandal that forced her to resign? Each tap of the mouse was a step closer to closure—anything that might explain why it had been four days and she still hadn’t acknowledged M.J.’s signed contract.

  Sometime around her third cup of coffee, the Web connection had become dial-up slow. “How passive-aggressive,” M.J. told her meddling parents. “If you really want me to stop, have Gayle give me a call.” She shut off her modem and began counting to thirty.

  Instead, the call, which was more of a yell, came from the Goldens’ house.

  “Are you okay?” M.J. asked David’s girlfriend, Hannah, when she opened the door. She was dressed this time: white jeans, a navy tee, leather sandals. There was an Upper East Side of Manhattan look about her now: flat-ironed hair, J. Crew pretty, never going to swallow. In a game of “Kill, Fuck, Marry,” she’d be altar-bound every time.

  “I was okay until the Wi-Fi went down,” she said. “Do you think you could reboot?”

  M.J. didn’t understand.

  “The cable guy doesn’t come until tomorrow, so I’ve been using yours,” Hannah explained with a neighborly smile. “Sorry, I have a deadline and you don’t have a password, so . . .”

  “You’re a graphic designer, right?”

  Hannah nodded, maybe even blushed.

  “What kind of stuff do you do?”

  “Children’s books.”

  “Really?”

  “No.” Hannah snickered. “You’re not religious are you?”

  “Atheist, why?”

  Hannah invited her inside.

  The white tufted furniture and dated accents remained exactly as Gloria had had them, though they were now catch-alls for the gutted suitcases and Xbox games.

  “Moving sucks, am I right or am I super right?” Hannah asked.

  “Super right.”

  “Anyway, this is my office,” she announced, as she opened the door to the sunroom, which looked nothing like it had the day of Leo’s shiva. The table that had once been filled with lasagna, casseroles, and M.J.’s plagiarized garlic bread, had been replaced by ergonomic office equipment and a panic-room style display of computer monitors. The natural light that once bled through the glass panes was now clotted by cartoon renderings of naked Asian women with jagged Crayola-colored haircuts, colossal breasts, tiny waists, and impossibly round asses. Many of them were being vigorously manhandled, some held a lover’s face between their legs, and others enjoyed the company of two men at once, men with oozing penises and pendulous balls.

  “Wow, when you said graphic—”

  “Yeah, I meant graphic,” Hannah said. “It’s Japanese anime porn. Best. Gig. Ever.” She indicated the kitchen. “Tea?”

  They sat at the kitchen island the way M.J. and Gloria had weeks earlier, swapping particulars while the kettle boiled. Hannah talked about growing up in San Diego, meeting David at Comic-Con, staying in touch while he was in Colorado, and how she quit her job as a graphic designer for the San Diego Union-Tribune to move in with him. “Live in the same zip code, you know?”

  “Do you ever worry that you made a mistake? I mean, you had such a stable job and—”

  The kettle whistled. Hannah removed it from the burner with the effortless swoop of someone who stayed calm in a crisis. “Now, where are my tea bags?” She began shifting canisters of protein powders and vitamin jars until she found them. “Peppermint okay?”

  M.J. nodded, even though it wasn’t. The smell conjured her father’s futile attempts to conceal his pipe breath with Altoids; how she hated it then, and missed it now. “What if things with David don’t work out?”

  “I’ll leave.” She made an O with her lips, blew steam off her mug. “I’d rather regret something I did than something I didn’t do, you know? And I’d regret not trying this commitment thing with Davey.”

  “Trying?”

  “We had an open relationship because of the distance, but now that I’m here we’re exclusive. Effective the day I moved in.”

  Relief warmed M.J. in ways that Hannah’s peppermint tea could not—David Golden wasn’t a cheat. While it didn’t change the fact that Addie was pregnant, or that Hannah’s boyfriend might be a father, it did mean that David wasn’t a self-serving asshole. And that maybe he’d do the right thing, whatever that was.

  “What about you?” Hannah asked. “What’s your deal?”

  “Mine?” M.J. took a thin sip of tea. Then, a window in one of the bedrooms slid open. Footsteps followed, soft and scuttling. A bedspring creaked. “Is he home?”

  “No,” Hannah whispered. “I think someone’s breaking in.”

  M.J. grabbed an egg-yolk crusted spatula from the sink, while Hannah searched for her phone.

  “I’m calling the police,” she shouted.

  “Who the hell are you?” the intruder called, her voice disturbingly familiar.

  “Stand down,” M.J. told Hannah. “I know her.”

  M.J. followed the sounds to David’s bedroom, where sports trophies lined the cherrywood shelves, a collage of newspaper articles and photographs featuring the star athlete papered the walls. And a dress, too red to be Hannah’s, had been draped over the lampshade.

  “Addie, it’s me,” M.J. said to the lump under David’s blue comforter.

  “That’s Addie?” Hannah mouthed. Then with a playful poke, “You’re Davey’s wild sister, am I right or am I super right? He told me all about you.”

  The lump stirred and then gave way to Addie, who had the sour expression of a woman who drank spoiled milk. “Davey?” She snapped a look to M.J., as if this was her fault.

  Oblivious, Hannah offered her right hand and introduced herself. “I moved in on Friday.”

  “Oh, sorry about sneaking in then,” Addie said, her features softening with relief. “I thought David lived here.”

  “He does,” Hannah said. “He gets off work at four.”

  Addie scooted up on her elbows, the blue comforter now a sagging bridge that hung off her bent knees and sloped toward her black bra straps. “David got a job? Already?”

  “He’s the new coach of the high school water polo team.” Then to M.J., “Apparently it’s a big deal. They’re talking Olympics.”

  “Are you his roommate?”

  Hannah smiled. “I mean, we live together, so yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  Addie’s eyes
narrowed, as if trying to place a distant sound. “David has a girlfriend?” Then to M.J., “And you know her?”

  M.J. wanted to say that it all happened so fast. That she wasn’t trying to hide anything from Addie, and would have told her as soon as she knew the full story, which she just got, by the way. But Addie kicked off the blankets in a huff.

  “Sick curves!” Hannah blurted. “Sexy, voluptuous, and perfectly proportioned. Shit, I’d love to sketch you.”

  “Sketch this!” Addie spread her legs to reveal the words WELCOME HOME, DAVID written on her inner thighs in fuchsia lipstick. An arrow pointing north indicated “home” should there be any confusion.

  “You’re not Davey’s sister, are you?”

  “Davey doesn’t have any sisters . . .” Addie scooped up her belongings. “And I just lost a friend.” With an angry toss, she whipped her dress through the open window and crawled out, leaving a fuchsia smear behind on the ledge.

  * * *

  THE SEARCH FOR Addie began immediately and ended minutes later with the sound of Dan honking his horn and yelling, “Surprise!” He didn’t bother pulling all the way up to the garage or parking as he usually did, with equal amounts of driveway on either side. He abandoned his car, left his luggage and the bag of See’s butterscotch lollypops for another time, and kissed M.J. with the kind of unbridled desire that melts teeth.

  Their passion was primal and inspired. A movable feast that stumbled hungrily around the cottage, colliding with surfaces both hard and soft. Consuming enough to keep M.J. from asking why Dan came home from Boston a day early, and yet, incapable of keeping her concern for Addie at bay. A concern so distracting, she lost her orgasm.

  It was more than Addie’s heartbreaking discovery or the guilt M.J. felt for not mentioning Hannah sooner. It was that Addie called M.J. a friend; that their relationship mattered enough to hurt.