The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  Her lips clamp shut. Exactly the way her son’s did. Only she doesn’t run.

  We make the trip in silence. I keep my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel, as if being a safe driver will somehow protect me from whatever is about to happen.

  We stop at a grocery store about a mile from Mitch’s apartment, and I call his cell phone one last time while Dorothy downs a bottled water. When he doesn’t answer, I leave another message that doesn’t include the fact that we’re in Birmingham. For all I know, he might flee the building. Or perhaps he already has.

  In the grocery store restroom, I splash water on my face and put Refresh drops in my eyes. Then I apply makeup with a hand that’s almost as shaky as my stomach. I really wish bathroom vending machines included emotional armor along with tampons and sanitary napkins.

  The condominium complex caters to corporate clients, and though it’s not designed for high rollers, it’s well maintained. I helped Mitch move into his fifth-floor apartment, which overlooks the swimming pool, but haven’t been back since.

  “Does Mitch know we’re coming?” Dorothy asks for what I think is the fourth time as we ride up in the elevator.

  “I called and texted saying that we need to talk,” I answer yet again. “He still hasn’t responded.”

  “And if he’s not here?” she asks, her voice hushed as we step off the elevator.

  “We’ll wait. Or I’ll go down and ask the manager for a key. I am on the lease. And as you pointed out, I’m his wife. Worst-case scenario, I ask the manager to text Mitch. Maybe that would get his attention.” My voice sounds less than matter-of-fact.

  Outside his apartment, I raise one fist, but I can’t quite find the strength to knock.

  If Dorothy weren’t standing beside me with her chin up and her eyes laser focused on the door, I might already be sprinting for the elevator. Instead, I knock briskly. I do not give in to the temptation to yell, “Police! Open up!”

  Dorothy and I stare at the door for what feels like an eternity. I don’t think I’m the only one of us willing it to open while praying it stays closed.

  I’m about to give up and find the office when the door opens.

  Mitch stands in the opening. I wasn’t expecting him to throw his arms around me, but I wasn’t expecting the look of horror on his face, either.

  I also wasn’t expecting the adorable little boy who has not only Mitch’s name but his face. And I sure as hell wasn’t expecting the beautiful and hugely pregnant woman standing next to him.

  speech·less

  ˈspēCHləs/

  adjective

  unable to speak, especially as the temporary result of shock or some strong emotion

  Ex: “I am speechless at this proof of my husband’s infidelity.”

  Erin

  You know that thing people say about how when the going gets tough the tough get going? I always thought I was one of the tough ones; the kind of ordinary person who steps up in an emergency. That even though I’m small, I could tap into some sort of superhuman strength if I had to pull a stranger from a burning building or foil a kidnap attempt.

  Now I think I’m way more wuss than Wonder Woman. Because ever since Josh called off our wedding, I’ve been lying in my childhood bed feeling sorry for myself.

  Other than trying to tempt me with food and urging basic hygiene, my parents have mostly left me alone, believing I just need time.

  The group chat that Katrina Hopkins, my best friend and maid of honor, set up the day, practically the minute, Josh and I got engaged pings constantly with validation and encouragement . . . You’re the best . . . he sucks . . . what a dick . . . drinks??? . . . wanna do brunch? . . . here if you need me . . . But I don’t have the energy to respond.

  My brothers Ryan and Travis have offered to maim or kill Josh. Tyler offered to do both, in whichever order I choose. Only I’m too tired to think about revenge. I’ve loved Josh my whole life, and I don’t know how to stop. Pathetic, right?

  I’m lying in bed scrolling mindlessly through Instagram posts of people who have lives when a knock sounds on the door. “Honey?” my dad’s voice calls out. “It’s me.”

  Unlike my mother, who has never let a closed door stop her, my dad usually goes away if I don’t answer. Today he walks in and sits down on the chair next to my bed. He’s way too tall for the chair, which is made to fit me, and his long legs stick way out. Kind of like a male Goldilocks trying to cram himself into Baby Bear’s chair. His calm, concerned presence and the worry lines creased into his forehead make fresh tears leak out of the corners of my eyes.

  “You know I can’t bear to see you cry.”

  “I know. But I’m having a hard time finding the off switch.” My nose starts to run.

  “It’s not good for you to lie here crying.” The pain in his blue eyes is clear.

  “I know,” I say through trembling lips. “But I don’t really know how to stop.”

  He swallows. “You know that frown needs to get turned upside down,” he says in exactly the way he used to when I was little. “Those lips were made for smiling.”

  Josh used to say the same thing. Only he told me they were made for kissing, too.

  I close my eyes against the tears, but some still manage to squeeze out. I think of my wedding dress, perfectly tailored to fit my body alone. The one I’ll never get to wear.

  Then I think about the humiliating visit when Josh came to see me and I’d let myself believe he’d come to say that he’d just been nervous, that he’d come to his senses, that he couldn’t possibly live without me. But he’d only come to apologize and to offer to pay for everything. I told him where he could shove his money and his lame apologies.

  A sob slips out.

  “It’s all right. Hush now. I know you’re upset. Anyone would be.” My father’s on the edge of his seat, his face panicked. As much as he loves me, it’s clear he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  He smooths a large hand over my hair and cups the side of my tearstained cheek. “Your mother didn’t want me to say this, but even though his timing was truly awful, you don’t want to be married to someone who isn’t ready. I always thought you set your heart on Josh way too young.” His smile is crooked. His eyes are filled with love. “You’re only twenty-three, Erin. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

  “Oh, Daaaad . . .” I use what little energy I have left to crawl into his lap, where I lay my head against his chest and grab a fistful of his shirt to, hold on to just like I did when I was a toddler. It’s a wonder I don’t suck my thumb. His heartbeat under my ear is just as strong and steady as it was then. “But I had such a good plan. And I stuck to it. Only everything has turned out so disa . . . disa . . . p . . . pointing.”

  I squall into his shirt like a child while he pets my head and makes soothing noises. “It’s all right, Erin. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  He repeats this until I finally get myself under control.

  “You can’t lie here forever,” he says quietly. “You’re going to have to give some thought to what you’re going to do next.”

  My eyes tear up again.

  “I know how much you enjoyed working for Jazmine. And you do have a degree in sports management,” he says. “Maybe you should give her a call and see if she still needs help.”

  My head goes up. Everybody has to know by now. I don’t see how I could walk into that office and face everyone. “I don’t think I’m ready for that. Not yet.” I might never be ready. Maybe I’ll just lie here, trying not to cry, until I get really, really old. Like until I’m forty.

  “I know you, sweetheart. You’re strong and smart and resilient. I have every confidence that you can do anything you put your mind to.”

  “Except marry Josh,” I say, releasing a fresh flood of tears.

  “Love and marriage aren’t thi
ngs you make happen. And no amount of planning or scheduling can control the universe. In my experience, love most often happens when you’re not looking for it or planning it.”

  He stands up easily with me in his arms, then sets me down gently on the bed. “Good night, honey. Try to get some sleep.”

  “G’night, Dad.”

  I lie there both comforted and alarmed as the door snicks closed. Because if love is something that just “happens,” that means you have no control at all . . . The tears are back, riding on a wave of hopelessness.

  How am I supposed to figure out what to do next when I can’t even figure out how to stop crying?

  Ten

  Jazmine

  It’s the last Tuesday of the month, and the parking lot at Between the Covers is almost full by the time I arrive for our first book club meeting of the year. I considered skipping tonight because I’ve been away so much, but I managed to read Educated by Tara Westover while I was on the road, and I never feel completely “done” with a book until I’ve discussed it here at book club.

  On the bright side, my year is off to a good start: two new clients, one verbal agreement, and opening conversations in my hunt for a new endorsement deal for Tyrone—things I would have once run by Larry but now keep completely to myself for fear that the backstabbing, client-poaching, thunder-stealing Rich Hanson may catch wind of something. When I’m forced to share a conference table with him, I sit as far away as possible and keep my interactions brief. Even a curt nod in the hallway feels too friendly.

  On the somewhat dimmer side, Louise has forced me to waste almost two and a half of her final five weeks interviewing additional candidates instead of hiring Erin like I wanted to the day I marched out of Larry’s office.

  I’ve lost track of the number of times she’s reminded me that just because I can hire someone Larry objects to doesn’t mean I should, but so far none of the applicants come close to Erin in focus, organization, and initiative, the three things I value most in Louise. And, of course, Erin and I have both had our lives ripped apart by the loss of the person we planned to spend that life with. I want to take her under my wing and help her become the badass I think she could be. And, okay, it would be a bit of a “fuck you” to Rich Hanson, who weighed in against her. And to Larry, who brought him into the firm.

  I huddle into my coat as I cross the parking lot, my eyes on the warm, welcoming light that spills out of the store windows. The buzz of conversation and the smell of polished wood and books greet me when I step inside.

  My shoulders relax, and I’m pretty sure my blood pressure goes down even before Annell throws her arms around me. “Happy New Year!” Her hug is followed by a kiss on both cheeks—an official invitation into what has always been a no-stress, no-judgment zone. “Did you and Maya have a good holiday?”

  “We did. You?” Her voice as she fills me in is warm and soothing. I love this store and its full-to-bursting bookshelves, which are broken up by reading nooks and conversation areas defined by brightly patterned rugs and well-placed sofas and chairs. Book posters signed by their authors cover the walls. A hand-lettered sign warns, don’t judge a book by its movie! Charm, who’s worked for Annell as long as I’ve been a customer, smiles her hello from behind the register.

  A children’s section stretches across one side of the room with child-size tables and chairs. The story corner where Annell reads to a gang of children every Saturday used to be Maya’s favorite spot. A spiral staircase winds up to Annell’s home, which takes up the entire second floor.

  Annell leads me back to the refreshments, where most of the regulars and several newcomers are already mingling and munching. “We have veggies and dip and fruit kabobs for the people who are still keeping their New Year’s resolutions.” She motions to the first table. “Judith brought brownies and her world-famous cloud cookies for those who’ve fallen off the wagon. Or never got on.”

  “I had to get them out of the house,” Judith says as I lean in for a hug from her and from Carlotta, formerly known as Carl. “Otherwise I’d eat every one of them myself.”

  “I put the dangerously tempting stuff in the freezer,” Carlotta says as she plucks a grape from the bunch on her plate.

  “People always say that, but I have yet to meet a frozen chocolate thing I couldn’t eat,” Judith replies. “And if it needs a little softening, isn’t that what microwaves are for?”

  “Yes, I believe that’s why they were invented,” I agree as she piles brownies and meringues on my plate. “Thanks, Judith.”

  “You’re welcome.” She watches me pop the first meringue into my mouth. “I’m trying my hardest not to be jealous of your age and your metabolism, but I am so tired of trying to make ‘good choices.’” Her voice goes up oddly on the last words.

  “Sex is a great calorie burner,” Carlotta points out. Carl was a very attractive man when he first started coming to book club, but Carlotta is truly stunning. I assume she’s burning lots of calories whenever she feels like it.

  “And it’s a lot more fun than the gym or even my Peloton,” Judith’s longtime friend, Meena, adds as she joins us. When I first met Judith and Meena, they were stay-at-home moms, raising children, volunteering, and playing on their neighborhood tennis team. When they found out I’d played at Georgia Tech, they began asking for tips and pointers. Every now and then they show up at one of Maya’s local matches. They make a significant two-person cheering section.

  “Of course, calories burned may vary,” Meena says with a wicked smile. “Based on energy expended.” Judith smiles, too, but there’s an edge to her laughter, as if she’s trying just a little too hard to appear lighthearted and happy.

  I sigh with pleasure at my first bite into the fudge center of my brownie. “These are sooo good.” I moan my way through the brownie as Judith fills someone else’s plate. “I know I’ve said this before, but you could totally give Mrs. Fields a run for her money.”

  I’m still savoring the brownie when Angela McBride, tall, blond, and leggy, appears at my side and wraps me in a hug. “Hey, girl. Are you done traveling yet?”

  “Mostly.”

  “You look like you could use some wine.”

  “That’s funny, I was about to say the same thing about you.”

  “Ha!”

  We step up to the drinks table and fill our glasses.

  Angela is the person who first invited me to this book club, for which I’ll always be grateful. Her husband, Perley, and Xavier were friends in college before Xavier went pro. I met them both when I first started dating Xavier, and even though they were a bit older and already married, we’ve been friends ever since. Perley and Angela were rocks that I leaned on when Xavier died. Every year on the anniversary of Xavier’s death we visit his grave together then go chow down at Xavier’s favorite pizza place where we consume an XX Large “Everything But the Kitchen Sink” Pizza in his honor.

  We’re in the middle of catching up when Annell claps her hands together like the middle school teacher she once was. “It’s time to get started. Please bring your food and drink with you and take a seat.” Annell ushers us through the breezeway and into the carriage house.

  The walls of the carriage house are a soft seafoam green. The trim, including the partially vaulted ceiling, is white. There’s a small kitchen in one corner and a bathroom in another, but the rest of the space is bright and open. A second wrought iron staircase winds up to a loft that serves as Annell’s office.

  The original double barn doors have been replaced with sliding glass that opens onto her garden. Opposite is a row of windows with a white wooden window seat covered by paisley velvet cushions. Folding chairs are arranged in a semicircle across from the window seat. Small tables hold our drinks and food.

  Angela and I claim spots on the window seat. Judith is on my other side, with Meena beside her.

  For the first time, I notice t
hat Sara isn’t here. This is highly unusual because Sara Whalen is a bookworm of the first order and rarely misses book club. When Annell can’t make it, Sara leads the discussion. I lean over and ask Judith where she is.

  “I’m not sure,” Judith replies. “Annell said Sara hasn’t been able to work the last few weekends. I think something happened with her mother-in-law.”

  Once everyone’s situated, Annell raises her hand and the crowd falls silent.

  “As most of you know, I’m Annell Barrett. I own Between the Covers, and I’m very glad you could join us tonight to discuss Tara Westover’s Educated.

  “Now.” She flashes a smile. “How many of you have read the book?”

  “Wonderful,” she says when all hands go up. “One of our main rules is that you’re always welcome even if you haven’t. But we will not tiptoe around the details of any book. There will be spoilers.”

  She looks around the circle. “Since we have some new faces here tonight, let’s run around the circle so that we can all introduce ourselves.”

  Twins Wesley and Phoebe pop up in unison. On the verge of forty, they share the same wiry build, even features, and dark wavy hair. They also share an apartment and, on occasion, clothes. “This is my brother, Wesley,” Phoebe says. “He was a computer geek before there was such a thing. And he’s a really awesome graphic designer.”

  “And this is my sister, Phoebe,” Wesley says. “She knows her way around a computer pretty well herself, but she works part-time as an activities director at the Sandy Springs Senior Center, so if you’re looking for a game of Monopoly or balloon volleyball or Name That Tune . . . ”

  “. . . I’m your girl. We read everything . . .”

  “. . . including cereal boxes,” Wesley continues. “But my favorite genre is urban fantasy.”

  “I like romance, especially historical with time travel,” Phoebe adds. “Especially . . .”