The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  One strong arm encircles my waist. I wait for the prick of goose bumps, a shudder of longing, a tingle as he pulls me close.

  It’s been so long that I’m actually afraid I’ll incinerate on contact. To put it in symphonic terms, I want the clash of cymbals. A timpani roll that reverberates like thunder.

  When his lips find mine, I brace for Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. What I get is a Brahms lullaby.

  When he pulls away, I open my eyes, surprised that it’s over.

  “Thanks for the lovely evening,” he says with a smile. “I had a really nice time.”

  Twenty-Three

  Erin

  Everywhere I go, people are talking about Josh.

  The name that was virtually never spoken or even hinted at in my presence is now on everybody’s lips. And there’s nothing I can do about it but pretend it doesn’t bother me. Kick-ass Disney princesses don’t run around with their hands pressed over their ears trying not to listen.

  I’m at the office the day the Braves play their season opener in Houston. I know Larry’s at the game. So is Rich Hanson. If Josh and I had gotten married, I would have been there, too.

  StarSports Advisors represents four key Braves players and several who are in the Braves minor-league system, so every office television I pass is tuned to the game.

  I take my time pouring my coffee so that I can watch the break room television out of the corner of my eye. I’m punished with a camera shot of the dugout that zooms in and lingers on Josh while the analysts discuss the contribution he’s expected to make to the team, which has several of its starters on the disabled list. I edge closer just in time for an even tighter close-up on the face that used to be as familiar as my own. My heart pounds as I study him. He’s still clean-shaven, and his hair is still cropped short, but now I see subtle differences in the way he holds his head, his awareness of the cameras, the weight of expectation.

  The camera pulls out, and I see the leg jiggle that I know signals anticipation, not fear. He’s sitting next to Tyler Flowers, a catcher who’s almost a decade older but also grew up in Atlanta.

  I lean even closer so that I can hear as the TV commentators point out that Braves fans haven’t been this excited since hometown boys Brian McCann and Jeff Francoeur were drafted. Then they debate whether Josh is as good as people think. Whether he’ll prove his potential or be a disappointment. Brian McCann had a long and successful career. Francoeur not so much.

  I feel eyes on me, no doubt both curious and pitying. I know I should act as if this means nothing to me, only I can’t stop watching the screen. Can’t stop imagining how much Josh must love being compared to McCann, who was always his idol.

  They speculate about how many innings Josh might get. Whether they’ll give him innings on the road or save his major-league pitching debut for the first home game on April 2, which is just a little over a week away.

  I have to keep reminding myself that this has nothing to do with me. That his life and mine are no longer connected. I am moving on, but how are you supposed to push someone entirely out of your mind when you can’t even skim through the sports section without seeing his name? Will I ever be able to watch a Braves game and see him as just another player?

  At Sunday dinner, my entire family is practically oozing with excitement about the upcoming home opener while trying not to show it. All three of my brothers stayed away from Josh that first month or so after he called off the wedding, and they did offer to punch him out on my behalf. But now that the season is starting, hostilities have apparently ceased.

  “Josh texted to say he’s leaving tickets at will call for the Friday night home opener,” Tyler says with a grin that only fades when everyone else’s eyes land on me. My oldest brother, Travis, cuffs the back of Tyler’s head.

  “Oh. Sorry.” Tyler shoves Travis’s hand away. “I figured now that she’s not lying around in bed all day looking like a bag lady it was okay to talk about him.”

  “Yeah. Isn’t it time to bury the hatchet?” My middle brother, Ryan, lifts one arm. He and Tyler break into the Braves tomahawk chop and hum the wordless chant that has been a part of Braves games since before I was born. (And which, despite its recognized and much discussed insensitivity to Native Americans, has not yet been banned. Don’t even get me started on Chief Noc-A-Homa . . .)

  Travis huffs his disgust. “You two are such cretins. You should know it takes girls way longer to get over shit than it takes guys. You don’t want to send her back to bed, do you?”

  “Oh my God!” I shout. “I’m sitting right here. Do I look like I’m headed back to bed?”

  The Three Stooges consider one another, uncertain.

  “How would I know?” Tyler finally counters. “I have no clue what makes girls do what they do.” (His recent break-up with his very first girlfriend has soured him on love.)

  “Guys, that’s enough,” our father says. “I’m sure Erin is fine with you going to the game. But there’s no reason to rub her nose in it.”

  “He’s leaving tickets for you and Mom, too,” Tyler says.

  “Oh.” Dad’s smile is automatic and squashed as soon as Mom gives him the eye.

  “He, um, said he was going to leave one for Erin, too. In case she wants it.” Tyler adds this more quietly.

  All eyes rivet on me. Silence falls. The last time this happened, Ryan was trying to stab the last piece of steak on the platter and Travis’s hand got in the way.

  “You can all relax,” I say as clearly and calmly as I can. “No one needs to miss the home opener on my account.” I smile as best I can and excuse myself. I don’t mention the extra ticket because while I’d love to say that I have no issue with going to the game, I’m not at all sure that’s true. And I definitely don’t see how I could sit and watch Josh pitch while surrounded by my family, watching me like I might fall apart.

  The dishes are done and I’m still resisting the lure of my bed when a text dings in from Hailey—longtime friend, member of the gang, and supposed-to-be bridesmaid. Going Away party for Katrina on for Saturday, April 3 8pm at St. Regis.

  I’m telling myself everything’s okay, I’m getting my life together, it’ll be fun to see everybody, when a follow-up text arrives. Josh coming, too.

  Great. My immediate future now includes a Braves game I’m not sure I can make myself attend and a party filled with people I’ve been avoiding, including the guy who decided not to marry me. Take that, Universe!

  I wander into my bedroom and eye the unmade bed. It crooks its finger. I’ve always known that one day I’d have to see Josh again. Only I thought it would be on television or from the stands or at the office, where I could hide my feelings behind a mask of professionalism.

  For one very long moment, I consider climbing back in bed, burying my head under the pillow, and becoming the pathetic bag lady my brothers think I am.

  Instead, I smooth the sheets, tuck in the comforter, and fluff the pillows. Kick-ass princesses may not come with a manual, but I know they don’t lie around and wallow.

  Judith

  It’s been two months since Nate died. That’s the equivalent of eight weeks, fifty-six days, 1,344 hours, or 80,644 minutes. Yes, I’m counting!

  I’ve spent a lot of those 80,644 minutes wandering through my empty house (and occasionally messing it up enough to keep Rosaria from quitting), trying to come to terms with what happened. Trying to let go of the guilt I carry. Trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do next.

  After a whirlwind shopping trip for resort wear, Meena left for the Mayan Riviera with Frank, so I’ve had no one forcing me to get out. The kids continue their daily text tag-teaming, but the only phone calls are from Realtors who’ve learned that I’m widowed and who think I should sell the house.

  I’ve spent much of my life worrying what people think of me, but I’m beginning to realize I’m not at the forefront of
anyone’s thoughts. (At least no one who isn’t trying to get a new listing.)

  All the errands I used to complain about, all the grocery shopping, the meals I planned and cooked, the doctor’s appointments I scheduled for both of us, the hair and nails and everything else I filed under “personal maintenance,” the social life that I organized and kept track of—without Nate, it all feels so unnecessary. What difference do my hairstyle or my nails make? Why cook when I can microwave a frozen meal or pick up or order something delivered? I have no idea how to use up all the time I have on my hands, how to create a life out of all this “nothing.”

  For those first months, I could hardly make myself leave the house; now, I can hardly bear to be in it. Listening to the echoing silence. Reliving the life I was ready to discard. Cursing Nate for dying. Chastising myself for not saving him.

  When I can’t take it anymore, I get in the car and go . . . somewhere. Often lots of somewheres, most of them within a five-mile radius. I wander through the grocery store for an hour and leave with a head of lettuce. I go to the dry cleaner and finally retrieve the carefully pressed dress shirts and lucky ties that I dropped off when Nate got back from Europe; I’d give anything to feel even an ounce of the fury I felt when I left them there. I go to Costco and push the basket through every aisle, which takes up a good forty minutes, ultimately leaving with exactly enough bottles of wine to get me through the week. (In case you’re wondering, that’s usually three, but I always buy four just in case.) Sometimes I pick up a couple Chickin’ Lickin’ meals from one of our franchises, even though I rarely open them. I wander aimlessly through Stein Mart and T.J. Maxx and Target and leave empty-handed.

  But this morning when I wake up, I have something to look forward to. An actual reason to get out of bed and, I think, to bake. Because tonight is book club. Which means I will be out of the house and going somewhere for an actual reason. To be with people I know and like.

  I head for the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. While it brews, I scour the Internet for inspiration. And voilà! I find the perfect idea for The Body: A Guide for Occupants. Because who doesn’t love a theme?

  For the first time since Nate died, I open the pantry and pull out flour and sugar and food coloring and everything I haven’t touched in so long that I feel like I’ve unearthed buried treasure. I print out pictures from the Internet, then use them to cut out the cookie dough I’ve made.

  I spend the entire day making anatomically shaped cookies—brains, kidneys, lungs, and small and large intestines. I don’t tackle the heart, because it’s complicated and too sobering a reminder. And no reproductive or sexual organs, because those make me think of Nate and the night he died, too. Plus, our book club is coed.

  I also make a batch of lemon cupcakes with lemon cream cheese frosting for anyone who balks at eating cookies designed to look like body parts.

  The entire day practically flies by. Plus, I create a stupendous mess, which will appease Rosaria when she comes tomorrow. This is a win-win.

  When I’ve got everything packed up in Tupperware, I jump in the shower for the first time in, well, I’ve kind of lost track. But I’m pretty sure my hair and skin sigh in gratitude.

  I close one eye while I blow-dry my hair so that I see only half of the gray roots. I also apply makeup and spritz myself with cologne, then pull on a pair of black pants that now require a belt to hold them up. The black-and-white-striped tunic I pull on to hide the belt hangs on me like a circus tent. Why is it the only time you lose weight without trying is when you’re too miserable to enjoy it?

  By four thirty, I’m dressed and ready to go. Even though it’s rush hour and way too early, I load the desserts into the car and drive to Between the Covers. I’d much rather hang out at the bookstore than sit at home alone, waiting.

  “Oh my God, these are great!” Charm laughs when she pops off the top of the Tupperware and sees what I’ve brought. “Do you mind if I create a sort of display with them? I’d love to get some shots for social media.”

  “Sure.” I’ve had the pleasure of creating and baking. My job is done. “Have at it. Is Annell around?”

  “She’s out in the garden. I’m sure she’ll be glad of the company.”

  I wander out to the carriage house, where the French doors are flung open, and find Annell kneeling over some flowering bush I can’t identify. Her short salt-and-pepper hair is standing straight up. One cheek is streaked with dirt. She looks incredibly content.

  “Oh my gosh!” She glances up and sees me. “What time is it?”

  “It’s just after five. I thought I’d come hang out for a while. You’ve got plenty of time before book club. Don’t let me interrupt you.”

  “Phew. Got a little panicked there. Have a seat.” She motions toward the concrete bench angled beneath a tree that’s bursting with magnolia blossoms. I sit under its branches and inhale the soft citrusy scent.

  “Ummm, this is nice.”

  “Yes, this is my favorite spot this time of year. Actually, any time of year.” Annell cuts off another stray branch and wipes her face, leaving another streak. Her fingernails are filled with dirt.

  Annell has always been easygoing, happy to talk or respect someone else’s silence. She’s never been one to pry.

  For the first time, I realize I’ve been so wrapped up in my own life, I’ve missed out on growing a deeper friendship. I’ve never wondered if Annell is single by choice or by necessity. Whether she worries about money or is as content as she always seems.

  I’m lucky that I have been left okay financially. Not exactly rich or anything. But the mortgage is paid off, and the franchises, under the experienced eye of the manager Nate hired and trained decades ago, throw off income.

  “I can’t believe I never thought to ask this before, but did you always intend to open a bookstore?”

  “Lord, no.” She laughs. “I was living in Boston, teaching English at a private prep school, and imagining myself as a Louisa May Alcott when my parents both took ill. I was an only child, and so I came home to nurse them. After they died, I remodeled the carriage house and set out to prove my talent. When I realized I’d rather read books than attempt to write them, I opened Between the Covers.” She smiles. “It hasn’t always been easy, but I’ve never regretted it. I’ve met some pretty wonderful people, and I can read as much as I want.

  “How about you, Judith? Are you doing all right?”

  “I’m not sure what that means right now. I . . . I think I’m doing better than I was. But getting through the days . . . I don’t really have a purpose anymore, you know?” I watch her snip off the tiny branches, tamp down the soil around the base of the plant. “What do you do in your spare time besides garden?”

  “Whatever I like.”

  It sounds so simple. But I have literally never thought about what I do and don’t like. I’ve spent my adult life running around taking care of things. Of my husband. And my children. I’ve never had a great passion. Or a talent. Or something I wanted to be or do. My single aspiration was to be a good wife and mother. Huh.

  I mean, I enjoy tennis and golf, and I’m decent at them. But mostly I learned both sports so that I could play with Nate on a vacation or a rare empty Saturday, or with girlfriends when I had the time. And because in my world those things were expected.

  But I’m not passionate about them the way a lot of people are. I don’t have a burning desire to start a business or get more involved with running the Chickin’ Lickin’s. The children are self-sufficient.

  “How does one choose what to do with one’s time when one could theoretically do anything?”

  Annell laughs in surprise. “I’m really not sure how to answer that question. I think it’s different for each of us. But I’m guessing it could be fun to try to figure it out.”

  I look at the woman I’m just now coming to fully appreciate. I’m not the first p
erson to have life as she’s known it blown apart, and I certainly won’t be the last. A once favorite line from The Sound of Music forms in my mind: “When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.” Perhaps it’s time to find a window I can fit through.

  Twenty-Four

  Jazmine

  When I arrive at Between the Covers, I’m relieved to see Erin’s car in the parking lot. I’ve been worried about her because the closer we get to the Braves home opener the more intentionally upbeat and relentlessly communicative she’s become, as if she needs to convince everyone that she’s not the least bit bothered by how excited the agency is about Josh Stevens. Or more to the point, how excited the Braves are about our client Josh Stevens. He and his surprisingly stellar innings on the road are pretty much all the staff’s been talking about. I’ve even held off the announcement of Tyrone’s deal with Sony until after these first home games of the season, so that the spotlight can shine completely on him. Even though I can’t wait to see Rich Hanson’s face when the PlayStation endorsement deal is announced, there’s no way I’m going to let Tyrone’s pride get bruised again.

  I’m imagining Hanson’s shock and awe over Tyrone’s deal when I reach the refreshments table and find Angela, Erin, Sara, and her mother-in-law staring down, transfixed. I feel a good bit of shock of my own when I see the chalk outline of a body, etched out on the tablecloth as if at a murder scene, with cookies shaped and decorated to look like that body’s organs arranged inside.

  “These are wild.” Erin picks up a kidney-shaped cookie from a platter that sits beside the body and places it on her plate. “Oh, and look at this one,” she says in delight as she reaches for another. “This is the closest I’ve ever been to an internal organ. I’ve never seen anything like them. Have you?”