The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  Carlotta’s makeup and wardrobe stations are tucked into a corner near the bathroom, which is now a “changing room.” Angela; her daughters, Lyllie, Mollie, and Kerina; and Jazmine’s daughter, Maya, are checking out the makeup and looking through the rack of clothing, which includes some pretty out-there designs but also some simpler pieces in soft, flattering colors.

  “This is so beautiful.” I reach for a pale-violet tunic with three-quarter sleeves and a boatneck that’s cut in deceptively simple lines.

  “I designed that for you, Judith,” Carlotta smiles. “I knew that color would be just right with your dark hair and eyes.”

  “You designed this just for me?” I hold it up in front of me, hardly able to believe it.

  “Um-hmmm. You know I enjoy things that sparkle, but I’ve been thinking that I could bring some more subtle ‘pop’ to people who aren’t looking to make a huge statement. Especially now that I’ve learned firsthand how hard it is to find things that fit and flatter when you’re not a size zero.”

  Jazmine arrives and is surrounded by her daughter and the McBrides. Wesley and Phoebe grab glasses of wine and huddle around Carlotta with the rest of us. Soon they’re oohing and aahing over matching white linen button-down shirts, Phoebe’s sleeveless, Wesley’s long-sleeved, topped off by beautifully tailored navy blazers with oversize gold buttons.

  “Hey, everybody. What’s going . . .” Erin skids to a stop just through the doorway. I’m not sure how Sara and Dorothy, who are right behind her, manage not to slam into her. “No one said we were dressing up.” She looks down at her black jeans and plain white top.

  “You just leave that to me,” Carlotta says. “I brought things for everyone to wear for photos today. I’m kind of practicing on y’all. Plus, I thought we could get a group shot at the end—as a memento and something I could use to show off my creations.”

  “I’m in. I cannot wait to put this tunic on,” I say truthfully as Carlotta presents Jazmine and Angela with denim wrap dresses—Jazmine’s is brushed light-blue denim that sets off her honey-brown skin, while Angela’s is in a stonewashed black that contrasts perfectly with her pale skin and blond hair.

  Chaz is the last to arrive. “You don’t really have something for me, do you?” he asks skeptically when we point him toward the rack.

  “You better believe I do.” Carlotta pulls out a T-shirt with a hand-painted American flag that covers the entire shirt.

  “Wow. That’s awesome,” he says, reaching for the hanger. “Is it okay to put it on?”

  We all suck in a breath when he pulls his plain white T-shirt up over his head, exposing pecs and abs you generally only get to see in Peloton commercials. We are careful not to ogle or make him uncomfortable, but I don’t think I’m the only one who’s sorry to see the flag T-shirt cover him back up.

  The photographer, who Meena introduces as Vicki, shoots candids of all of us yammering and modeling our designer pieces. No one displays the slightest hint of embarrassment or regret at having confessed such personal things at Superica. No one brings up what I admitted about the night Nate died. Or that Sara is getting divorced because her husband has a secret family, or that Angela, Phoebe, and Wesley admitted that they have briefly considered murdering those they love. And then there’s Annell’s revelation that she was married. It’s strange how you can know people for so long yet only uncover slivers of who they really are and what they’ve been through.

  What I do know is that this is a group that only supports and does not judge. And I am lucky beyond measure to be a part of it.

  “Is Nancy coming?” Carlotta asks. “I made something for her, too.” She holds up a lime-green golf skort with a multicolored striped halter top that would be perfect on Nancy Flaherty.

  “That is adorable!” I say, because it is.

  “She’s in Augusta for the Masters,” Annell says. “And then she goes to Hilton Head for another tournament, but she said she’ll be back for book club.” She glances around the room. “What do you think, Meena? Are we ready to get started?”

  “Yes, we are!” Meena steps to the front of the group and in a fair imitation of Annell’s usual book club welcome says, “So. How many of you have had a chance to read 121 First Dates?”

  All hands go up, including Annell’s and mine. But I only read it out of curiosity, and while I did enjoy dancing at Meena’s building’s happy hour, I have no intention of going anywhere online that’s more personal than Amazon or Instacart.

  “Okay then, you don’t need me to recap,” Meena smiles. “What did everybody think?”

  “It was a fun read,” Phoebe says. “Except having to go on one hundred twenty dates before you find the right person sounds exhausting.”

  “The fact that a size 16 middle-aged woman had plenty of dates and ultimately found a life partner was pretty uplifting,” Annell says.

  “And her pole dancing hobby was an interesting choice,” Carlotta adds.

  “I thought her advice not to date anyone who lives farther away than you’re willing to drive three times a week was pretty spot-on,” Chaz adds, stretching his arms and making his flag fly.

  “And meeting in person as quickly as possible so you can find out whether you have chemistry seems like a time-saver,” Wesley chimes in.

  I grin. Leave it to men to focus on the practicalities rather than finding true love.

  “Okay.” Meena holds up a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of dating sites with notes about optimal age range, consumer rankings, et cetera. Everyone needs to decide which sites make the most sense for them. I’ve gotten the best results with Match and eharmony, but I’ve heard good things about SilverSingles, too. Bumble and Hinge seem to be really big with younger people. Carlotta mentioned a site called BlackPeopleMeet and one called HER. On the back are some examples of strong profiles.

  “I saw a statistic that people who use the word ‘whom’ correctly in a sentence have a thirty-one percent better chance of a right swipe.” At first I think Meena is joking—I mean, I never took dating this seriously when I was dating—but she turns to Sara and adds, “Would you be willing to help anyone who needs it with their profile? A little editing never hurts.”

  “Sure.” Sara smiles. “It’s nice to know that grammar actually counts in the real world.”

  “Vicki here”—Meena points to the bouncy young woman who’s been snapping photos since we arrived—“is going to shoot photos for us to use when setting up profiles. My treat. And you’ll probably want a number of other photos from real life. The sites vary as to how many photos they expect you to include.” She pauses and looks around the room. “So—how many of you are going to set up profiles and give it a whirl?”

  Chaz, who must already be beating women off with a stick, is the first to raise his hand.

  Wesley and Phoebe raise one hand between them, and I wonder if they’ll set up one profile or two.

  “How about it, Dorothy?” Sara asks her mother-in-law. “Do you want me to help you get started?”

  The shock on Dorothy’s face is comical. There’s sputtering. Eye narrowing. “Of course not. Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Carlotta says. “You might want to at least get some pictures taken while you’re here.” She holds up a beautifully patterned silk scarf with brightly colored fringe that she made for Dorothy. “This would be stunning on you, and you can wear it with virtually anything. Besides, a woman can never have too many flattering photos of herself, can she?”

  “Goodness, that’s beautiful.” Dorothy reaches for the scarf, then rubs it against her cheek.

  Annell laughs. “I have zero interest in getting married again—saying ‘I do’ made me realize ‘I don’t.’ But I wouldn’t mind a date now and then. And it seems like this way you at least have some control over the situation. Besides, I am not wasting this gorgeous jumpsuit that Carl
otta made me.” She holds up a green silk one-piece garment with a V-neck and flared leg. “What do you say, Dorothy? Shall we pose for some photos and consider creating profiles?”

  I wait, assuming Dorothy’s looking for a way to say no. In the end, she says, “Hmph. I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

  Sara’s eyes go big, but she doesn’t comment.

  “Well, I’m going to help Jazmine set up a profile,” Angela says. “So I can live vicariously through her.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Jazmine looks her friend over. “I am already dating. I do not need to put myself online.”

  “I don’t know,” Angela replies. “I’m not sure three dates in fourteen years can really be considered dating. Going online will significantly deepen the potential dating pool.”

  “Oh my God,” Jazmine says. “When did you turn into Thea? What if someone who knows me professionally saw it?”

  “You don’t think people who work in sports use dating apps?” Angela deadpans.

  “Angela’s right, Mom. You should get set up online. I’ll help.” Maya is looking at her mother as if she’s just realizing that Jazmine is a living, breathing woman. “Aunt Thea says Rich Handsome is interested in her. Only Aunt Thea isn’t happy about it, and she didn’t like the way my mom flirted with him at my match.”

  “That’s Hanson,” Jazmine huffs. “And that was not flirting. That was irritation. And, and . . . business.”

  “How about you, Erin?” Meena asks when Jazmine shoots her daughter a look that finally closes the subject. “Are you ready to put up a profile and see who else is out there?”

  Emotions flit across Erin’s face far too quickly to categorize. This girl has matured so much in the months we’ve known her. She even managed to survive watching her ex-fiancé have the night of his life.

  Erin steals a glance at her boss. “I will if Jazmine will.”

  “Huh.” This is Jazmine’s only comment. But the look she aims at her daughter and her assistant speaks volumes.

  “Come on, Mom,” Maya pushes, clearly not intimidated.

  “And we’ll help,” Lyllie, Mollie, and Kerina promise.

  “All right, then,” Meena says. “Maya, Mollie, and Kerina have offered to do makeup for anyone who wants it. Lyllie will help you download your chosen dating app and get you at least started on setup. Carlotta, to whom we are extremely grateful, will serve as wardrobe mistress. After everyone’s individual photo shoot, we’ll get a group shot for her.”

  We stand up and get started. Some of us, make that all of us of legal age, grab a glass of wine.

  “Oh, I almost forgot! I brought some music to get us in the mood.” Meena pulls out her phone, scrolls, and taps a couple times. And we are transported back to the late ’70s and the ’80s. Carole King feels the earth move. Whitney Houston wants to dance with somebody who loves her. It’s impossible to hear these songs and not feel good. Moving is required. Soon even Maya and the McBride girls are singing the bits they know along with their mothers as they apply makeup and arrange hair.

  There’s noise and laughter. And plenty of faux catcalls when Vicki poses Chaz in the garden leaning against a tree trunk, his sunglasses low on his nose so that he can look over them directly at the camera.

  I bob and sing. Annell and I take up positions on either side of the photographer, where we make faces that cause Dorothy to smile a smile that lights up her face. Everyone, even those who have no intention of using the photos online, takes their turn in front of the camera.

  Then we pose together, letting Carlotta place and arrange us like mannequins, until the photographer gets the shots she’s looking for.

  We’re about to disband when a new song begins. It’s Sister Sledge singing “We Are Family.” And every single one of us sings—or more accurately, shouts—along.

  Because in this moment and in so many ways, that’s exactly what we are.

  Twenty-Nine

  Erin

  It takes most of Sunday to finish my dating profile on Hinge. One of my biggest problems, other than freaking out about the whole idea in general, is how hard it is to come up with six photos of myself that don’t include Josh. Or some part of Josh. Or me staring up at Josh. In fact, I can hardly believe how few mementos or memories I have that are only about me.

  I already downloaded the app, so now I answer prompts and upload photos—two of them taken yesterday at Between the Covers thanks to Carlotta, Meena, and her photographer, and one of me in the red dress at Katrina’s party that she sent me.

  I feel like I’m practically naked in front of the world by the time I finish my profile, which will open me and my life up to a whole batch of strangers. Before I can freak out completely, I speed-dial Katrina, who is now an official resident of New York City.

  “Hi.” She answers, and all I hear are traffic noises, car horns, a siren, people shouting.

  “Where are you?”

  “I, my friend, just left an incredible fashion exhibit at the Met and am now on my way into Central Park.”

  “Oh my God! You are an actual New Yorker.”

  “I am. It’s a whole other world, and I keep pinching myself to be sure I’m really here.”

  “Is it wonderful?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah. I mean, my apartment is the size of a postage stamp. And there is no dishwasher or washing machine or any other convenience, including an elevator. But the location’s great. I can walk to shops and restaurants, and to the park. And the subway is only five minutes away.”

  “You ride the subway.” It’s a statement, not a question. The closest I’ve ever been to Manhattan is Sex and the City reruns.

  “I do. Personal space takes on a whole new meaning in the subway at rush hour. In other words, there is none.”

  “Is it awful?” If someone gets within two feet of you here in Atlanta, they’re most likely a relative.

  “Sometimes. But it’s wonderful, too, you know. I just . . . everywhere I look there’s something interesting. And life. And . . . remember how the suburbs would be deserted at nine p.m.? Well, things don’t even get started here until then. How about you? You all right?”

  “I’m okay,” I say, trying to sound it. “I’m on Hinge as of, like, fifteen minutes ago. And I’m feeling kind of unhinged about it.”

  Katrina snorts. “Ha. Good for you. It’s about time you experience some of the rejection and heartache the rest of us have been living through for years.”

  “I think I did that in one great big chunk,” I point out.

  “True. You always were an overachiever,” she says. “Are you really okay?”

  “Yeah. Just . . . it’s weird. He was such a part of my life for . . . forever.”

  “I know, Erin. And I know it’s hard. But it’s time. You’re right to move on. Like Josh is.”

  “I know. Only, I feel kind of like a balloon off its string, just sort of floating along with nothing to hold me in place.”

  “You never needed Josh, Erin,” she says. “You know that, right? You drove that bus, and frankly, he was lucky to be on it. I don’t think he’d be where he is today without your drive and ambition for him.” There’s a brief pause. “You can do that for you now. You can tether yourself. Not so tightly that you can’t take off and fly, but not so loose or fast that you can’t control where you’re going.

  “It’s called freedom. And it can be totally scary and totally fabulous, sometimes all at one time. I feel that here every time something new happens or I have to do something I’ve never done before. You just have to take a deep breath and know that everything you need is right inside of you.”

  “Wow,” I say when she finishes. “You’re good. A little woo-woo but good. Maybe you should give up fashion and become a therapist.”

  “Hey, as far as I’m concerned, fashion is therapy. It brightens the world. And when you get some time off, I want
you to come up and visit. I’ll show you around. I think you’d really like it here.”

  “I’ll come up. Just as soon as I can. But . . . I don’t know if I can do this whole dating thing right now. Not because I want Josh back or anything, but— I don’t know, I’m just not really interested.”

  “So don’t. You don’t have anything to prove. Just focus on yourself for a while. Figure out who you are and what you really want—not what you thought you were supposed to want. You’re only twenty-three, girl. You have plenty of time to find a man when and if you want one. There are, as they like to say, plenty of fish in the sea.”

  Sara

  When I come into the kitchen Monday morning for that all-important first cup of coffee, Dorothy is already at the kitchen table frowning down at her phone.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask over my shoulder as I brew my K-Cup.

  “It’s this dating app. The SilverSingles thing.”

  “What’s the problem? Do you need help setting it up?” I ask, carrying my coffee to the table and hoping Saturday’s Dating 101 session was enough to help me help her figure it out.

  “No. I think it’s working. But now that I have it, I feel like I have to use it. I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of: that no one will be interested in me or that someone will.”

  I understand this completely. Not having to put myself out there and find out if strangers consider me attractive may be the only upside to my current still-married status.

  “No one is going to force you to do this,” I point out as I add cream and sugar.

  “I know.” She takes a long sip of coffee. “Only, I promised Annell.”

  “Yeah.” I join her at the table. “I still can’t believe I’ve known her all this time and never had any idea that she’d been married.”

  “We all have our secrets,” Dorothy replies sagely. “Some are more benign than others.” She looks down at the tabletop, then up at me. “I should have told Mitch the truth about his father a long time ago. I . . . shouldn’t have babied him all those years, excused the weakness I saw.” Her face and voice are tinged with regret.