The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  Meena snorts. “Do you remember all the time we used to spend cleaning the house before the cleaning people came?”

  “I do. It feels like a lifetime ago.” I sigh and take a long pull on my cocktail. “But I’m afraid of what the kids will say. What if they don’t want me to sell the house?”

  “You do realize this isn’t up to them. If you and Nate had decided to move and the kids didn’t want you to, would you have given up the idea?”

  “No, of course not, but . . .”

  “Don’t ask them, Jude. Tell them. This is your decision, your life. They have lives somewhere else. You need to do what’s right for you. And if you decide to put the house on the market, you give them plenty of time to come down and go through their things so they can choose what they want to take or keep or store or whatever. I was shocked at how little my children wanted. And the silver and formal china we all got when we married? Neither of them were even remotely interested.”

  “I can’t imagine going through that whole house. Having to look at everything. Remember everything.” I take a sip of my drink. “I don’t know how you managed to downsize from five thousand plus square feet to . . . how many do you have now?”

  “Just under two thousand.” She shakes her head. “It’s crazy, right? Stan did take some of it, but I had to let the rest go. Purging a lifetime of stuff was brutal. But I have to tell you, Jude. I don’t miss a single thing I got rid of.” She grins. Neither of us mention Stan.

  We finish off the asparagus fries and our grapefruit rickeys. We decide to split a second cocktail rather than getting two more. (Is that restraint or what?)

  When our main courses come, I dive into my fish tacos.

  Meena picks at her steak salad. “You know how I told you that Frank had brought up being exclusive?”

  “Um-hmmm,” I manage around a mouthful. “What did you decide?”

  “I’ve been waffling. I mean, I’m not really dating or responding to new people. He’s a great travel companion. And I’m not about to sleep with more than one man at a time.”

  “At least you don’t kill the people you sleep with,” I point out after a long pull on my drink. “I feel kind of like a black widow sometimes.”

  “Hmmm . . . If you do decide to try online dating at some point, you could post a warning.”

  We laugh, but I can tell there’s something on Meena’s mind.

  “I really enjoy spending time with Frank, you know?” She hesitates. “But yesterday morning, while we were just kind of lounging around, he started talking about how much I meant to him, how he hadn’t felt this way about anyone since his wife died.”

  I try and fail to imagine ever saying that, ever feeling that strongly about anyone again.

  “Then he brought up the idea of moving in together.”

  “Really?” It’s a lot to take in.

  She nods.

  “So, he wants you to move in with him?”

  “Actually, no. I think he wants to move in with me.”

  “Wow.” I look at her face, the way she’s downing the last of her cocktail. “That’s a pretty big step.”

  “Yeah.” She glances down into the empty glass. “I’m just not sure whether I’m ready to take it.”

  Jazmine

  It’s Friday night. Derrick and I have braved rush-hour traffic for dinner at Thea and Jamal’s house in Candler Park, where all the advantages of wedded and long-standing bliss are on display.

  Carmen and Maya are at their grandparents’ so as not to spoil the picture with too much reality. I am in the kitchen with my sister, who is worried that Derrick’s and my relationship is not moving forward fast enough. For some reason, she’s decided that tricking him into thinking I can cook will help.

  “There are laws against misleading advertising. And misrepresentation,” I point out while I stir what is apparently beef stroganoff.

  “There’s nothing wrong with letting him think that you know your way around a kitchen.”

  “Except that the only things I know my way around are the microwave and the toaster oven.”

  Thea is not fazed. We both know that she can beat me at any argument, having served as captain of her high school and college debate teams. “We’re just celebrating the Sony PlayStation deal.”

  “We already celebrated that at Mom and Dad’s. This is just you trying to force Derrick and me together.”

  “Well, when Jamal asked Derrick how things were going, he said you’d been busy whenever he called.”

  “I am busy.”

  “Not too busy for Saturday afternoon meetings with Rich Hanson.” She shoots me a look. “Or for arriving to pick up Maya from tennis in his British racing car.”

  I roll my eyes. “Rich is a colleague. We’re working on a project together. I borrowed his car to pick up Maya when I had a flat. You’ve taken all of these things out of context.”

  “Derrick is perfect for you. Richard Hanson is not.”

  “No argument there.” I set down the spoon and turn to face her. “But I’m not so sure your candidate is all that into me.”

  “Why do you say that?” She puts her hands on her hips.

  “Well, for one thing, our first, and only, kiss was slightly less than enthusiastic on his part. And when he had the opportunity to come in after our last date, he didn’t.”

  “He’s a gentleman,” she says. “You can’t penalize him for that.”

  “Maya was gone for the night, Thee. I assumed he’d at least come in. He didn’t.”

  “Oh, tosh.” She dismisses this, but a small worry crease appears on her forehead. “He’s attractive and intelligent and available. And he has a great sense of humor.”

  “I know.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  I’ve wondered this myself, and I haven’t come up with an answer. I close my eyes and listen to Jamal and Derrick chatting amiably in the living room. Derrick’s voice is unhurried, well modulated, ever friendly. And there’s that faint island lilt.

  I look down at the stroganoff Thea wants me to pass off as my own, trying to put it together. “I don’t know. We have a good time together. We’re on the same page about almost everything. He’s like the nicest guy ever, Thee. That’s the truth. But there’s just no . . . spark.” I wipe my hands on the dish towel and remove the apron she insisted I put on. “You and Jamal would have lasted like five minutes without that.”

  “Hmph.”

  We carry the dinner out to the table. Derrick pulls out my chair and waits until I’m seated before he takes his own. His manners are impeccable. He is one of the politest men I’ve ever met.

  “Wow. That smells delicious,” he says as we fill our plates.

  “You have totally outdone yourself,” Jamal says to Thea. At her glare, he amends it to, “Yourselves. Outdone yourselves.”

  “What’s your favorite meal?” I ask Derrick as he takes his first bites.

  “At the moment, it’s definitely this one.” He takes another bite and smiles his approval. “I’m always grateful for a home-cooked meal.”

  We eat and talk. Laughter comes easy.

  When we’ve finished the main course, Derrick excuses himself to take a phone call from the office. The three of us carry dirty plates into the kitchen.

  Jamal looks between Thea and me. “What’s going on?”

  “Jazz here has already relegated Derrick to friend status,” Thea huffs. “She’s hardly given him a chance at all.”

  “I like him a lot,” I reply. “He’s a genuinely nice guy and really good company. But we don’t seem to have any real chemistry.”

  “That just makes things . . . restful,” Thea argues. “And friendship is an important part of any relationship, and especially a marriage. Derrick is smart and kind, and he has a great sense of humor. He’s such a good man. Shouldn’t
those things matter more than chemistry?”

  “But we have all that and chemistry,” my brother-in-law points out to my sister. “We’ve got mountains of chemistry.” He waggles his eyebrows. “We got chemistry out the . . .”

  “Okay, you can stop right there,” I say to Jamal. “You guys definitely got it going on. Sometimes I’m even jealous of how right you are together. How you light up around each other. But it shouldn’t be an either-or situation, Thee.” I lower my voice. “It doesn’t matter if someone’s perfect on paper. Or even perfectly nice.” I tap Jamal’s chest and then Thea’s, right where their hearts are. “If it doesn’t feel perfect right in here.”

  Thirty-One

  Sara

  It feels incredibly weird to even say this, but my mother-in-law is dating. Dean Francis’s profile photo is very attractive if you go for men with iron-gray hair, eager smiles, and tortoiseshell glasses. As opposed to men in their, say, mid-forties who have brown hair and secret families.

  According to Dorothy, Dean is even more attractive in person than he appears online. She’s met him for coffee three times at three different Starbucks. I dropped her off the first time they met and actually watched through the window just in case, as if she were seventeen and not seventy-five. But you hear such awful stories about romance scams and con men who prey on lonely older women that I wanted to have eyes on him. She used her newly installed Lyft app to get to their second and third coffees. Yes, Dorothy is using Lyft, Uber Eats, and SilverSingles. So much for “old dogs” and their inability to learn new tricks.

  I’m dressed for my shift at Between the Covers and have just enough time to down a bowl of raisin bran and a piece of toast.

  “I have my own reusable coffee cup now,” Dorothy says. “And I get ten cents off every time I bring it in. Plus, I got a Starbucks card and I registered it, so that adds another 8.33 percent discount and free refills every time I use it.”

  “He doesn’t buy your coffee?” I look up from the bowl of raisin bran that I’m shoveling in.

  “Oh, he always tries to pay,” she says. “But I wouldn’t want to be beholden. You never know what a man might expect in return.”

  I am careful not to laugh, partly because my mouth is full of raisin bran. But it’s hard to imagine just how much a man might feel entitled to in exchange for a cup of coffee and an occasional blueberry muffin.

  “He’s made me promise that I’ll go to dinner with him next time. And he’s already warned me that he’ll be paying.” She harrumphs and attempts to hide her happiness behind her normal crusty exterior.

  “Where do you think you’ll go?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she says airily. “But Dean is used to dining at the best places. He’s had such an exciting life. After Harvard he was an investment banker in New York. On Wall Street. And then he was in LBOs, that’s leveraged buyouts, when they were becoming a thing. He ended up in Atlanta on a deal and never left. Now he serves on charitable boards. And consults. But what I love most is how fondly he speaks of his wife. But then they were married for over thirty years. I think that says quite a lot for his character.”

  I choke slightly on my cereal at the mention of character, which my own husband, her son, so sorely lacks. “What part of town does he live in?”

  “Oh, somewhere up off 85, I think he said. Around Duluth.” Her brow furrows as she tries to remember. “Sugar Coat Club? Or something like that, I think.”

  “Sugarloaf Country Club?” I name the well-known and affluent suburb.

  “Yes, I think that’s it. Although he has complained about rattling around in the huge home where they raised their children. Now that they’re both grown and living outside of Georgia, he’s thinking of downsizing.”

  “How nice.” I don’t point out that we may soon be forced to downsize to no home at all, if my divorce doesn’t go as I hope.

  “Did you know Annell met someone online, too?” Dorothy asks.

  “Um, no.”

  Dorothy’s hands flutter. A smile flickers on her lips. It’s amazing what a real smile can do to a person’s face.

  “She texted me all about it.” This is another new skill my mother-in-law has developed in order to be able to communicate with her online heartthrob. And, apparently, with Annell. “He’s divorced, I think.” This is clearly not as attractive as being a widower. “But he loves to garden and read almost as much as she does.”

  “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to ride with you to the store.” Her smile flickers back to life. “Annell asked if I’d come help with story time. And I’m eager to see photos of the man she met online. It’s really quite exciting.”

  I nod and smile because no speaking is actually required. And because I can’t possibly be jealous that Annell and Dorothy are communicating directly. Without me.

  When we arrive at Between the Covers, there is no surreptitious depositing of book club names or even blank pieces of paper.

  I’ve barely set my purse on the counter or hugged Annell hello when she and Dorothy make a beeline for each other.

  “I honestly can’t believe how perfect a match he is,” Annell says in delight. “It’s almost as if he was made-to-order.”

  They decamp to Annell’s office so that Dorothy can get a look at Howard Franklin, whom Annell is already referring to as Howie, even though they haven’t yet met in person.

  I hate to sound bitter or jealous, but they remind me of my middle schoolers down to the squeals of excitement.

  I stuff a few book club name suggestions in the box, only it’s nowhere near as fun as it was when Dorothy and I were psyching each other out.

  jaun·diced

  ˈjȯn-dəst, ˈjän-

  adjective

  1. affected with or as if with jaundice

  2. exhibiting or influenced by envy, distaste, or hostility

  Ex: “My view of men and relationships may be slightly jaundiced.”

  Erin

  Early Saturday afternoon, I pull up in front of my brothers’ house to deliver a care package from our mother, who, despite the height and weight of her three sons, lives in constant fear that they will somehow waste away to nothing if she fails to provide regular sustenance. Travis’s Jeep, which is the largest of their vehicles, is in the driveway, with its back window up and its tailgate open. Duffel bags and camping gear are stuffed inside.

  I knock on their front door, which is only a formality because it is virtually never locked. “Mom sent you guys some homemade subs and brownies,” I announce as I walk in. I don’t mention the salad she’s also sent because I know it will never be eaten.

  “Perfect timing.” Travis is packing a cooler that sits on the kitchen counter.

  “It’s like she can read our minds or something,” Ryan says as he takes a six-pack out of the open refrigerator and hands it to Tyler, who then passes it to Travis to stuff into the cooler.

  “What’s happening?” I ask.

  “Road trip,” Ryan replies. “The Braves are playing a doubleheader against the Rays tomorrow, and Josh hooked us up with tickets. We’re driving down to Florida today and coming back on Monday. We’re all going to take sick days.”

  I would never do that sort of thing to Jazmine or any other employer, but I am not my brothers’ keeper. “When are you leaving?”

  “Soon as we have the Jeep loaded.”

  “It doesn’t bother you, does it?” Ty asks. “That we’re still friends with Josh?”

  Travis stops loading beer long enough to cuff him on the back of the head. He’s protective that way.

  “Of course not.” My answer is automatic. I told Josh to his face that calling off our wedding turned out to be for the best, but was it true or was I just trying to save face?

  I feel around inside searching for tender spots, hidden bruises. Nada. The well of loss that I once thought I’d
drown in? All dried up.

  The only thing inside me is . . . me. Which is kind of stunning. “It really, truly doesn’t bother me. Not even a little bit.” I straighten and examine myself one more time. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt better.”

  Their faces show various degrees of skepticism. But I haven’t felt this good or this clear since the day Josh told me he couldn’t marry me. I love learning from and working with Jazmine. I’m building new skills and growing stronger and more confident every day. I can hardly wait to start representing clients of my own.

  “In fact, I think it’s time to look at apartments.” The idea sends a little shiver of excitement darting through me.

  “You can live with us if you want,” Travis offers generously.

  “Yeah,” Tyler chimes in.

  “Sure,” Ryan adds. “There’s that extra room just after you come in from the garage. You’d have your own space. All you’d have to share is the bathroom.”

  My shiver of excitement turns to a shudder.

  “It could be sort of like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,” Ryan says.

  “Except there’s only three of us,” Ty points out.

  “And we’re clearly not dwarfs.” Travis rolls his eyes.

  They look at me expectantly.

  “That is so sweet of you,” I say, going up on tiptoe so that I can kiss each one of them on the cheek. “But I’ve never really lived on my own, and I think it’s time.”

  I am touched by their offer. Really. But the bathroom thing? Not even a zombie apocalypse could induce me to share one with all three of them. Ever.

  Judith

  I wander through the silent house, slipping in and out of empty rooms.

  Nate’s clothes, including decades of lucky ties, still hang in our closet. The kids’ bedrooms haven’t changed since they were in high school. They’re hermetically sealed time capsules of the children they once were. Documentation of the family we used to be.