The silence is brief.
“Well, I know we’ve always tried to be there for one another, but tonight marks the move into new, previously unexplored terrain,” Annell says carefully. “And . . . I’m glad we feel comfortable enough to share the things we have.”
“So am I,” Sara adds. Dorothy still doesn’t look all that comfortable, but her nod is firm.
“Me, too,” Wesley and Phoebe say in unison.
Meena holds up Judith’s arm as if she’s just won a boxing match. Which in my book she definitely has.
Erin pumps a fist. Angela and I follow suit, while Carlotta and Chaz begin a chant of “woot-woot.”
“So, in keeping with the importance of the things we’ve shared tonight,” Annell continues solemnly, “let’s all raise our hands just as enthusiastically as we raised our glasses and swear that what’s said at book club—or any gathering of book club members, especially those that include alcohol—stays at book club.”
We raise our hands and do so solemnly swear. Out of the corner of one eye, I see a man who looks a lot like Rich Hanson ducking out of the way as if attempting to not be seen.
Twenty-Six
Erin
I’m pretty sure I’m not the only member of book club who wakes the next day with a hangover. I lie in bed for a while, taking stock and listening to the creak of wood floors and the faint sound of my parents talking. My head pounds, but it’s more a dull throb than a sharp stabbing pain.
Encouraged, I pry open my eyes—which are caked and goopy with makeup I failed to remove. Ditto for last night’s clothes. I roll onto my side and land on something hard and flat that turns out to be my cell phone. Shit.
Daylight streams through the shutters I forgot to close. I planned to be up early so that I could spend today primping for Katrina’s going-away party, but if my cell phone is right, it’s already one o’clock, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea to get too close to a mirror. I take two aspirin and chug down a full glass of water. Then I scroll through our group chat and Instagram posts and what feels like a million shots of Josh on the mound.
My original goal for tonight was to look so incredible that (a) Josh would be forced to see exactly what he walked away from and (b) no one would feel sorry for me. But even now, tired, hungover, dry mouthed, and dehydrated, trying not to look pathetic seems like a pretty pathetic goal. A kick-ass princess would aim higher.
I stare up into the ceiling reliving last night’s game. Josh on the mound. In command. Impressive. Everything I always knew he could be. Such an incredible relief to be able to finally let go of my own unhappiness and be genuinely happy for him.
Afterward at Superica, I discovered that everyone (including my boss, who always seems so totally together) is carrying stuff around, and a lot of that stuff is way heavier than mine. I think about Judith and Sara and Annell and Meena and the rest of the group, so there for me even though I’ve known them for such a short time. I need and want to be there for them.
I breathe in and out, slowly and with intention. Pillowing my head in my hands, I stare upward, listening to the murmur of my parents’ voices, a soothing soundtrack that I’ve taken for granted my whole life. For the first time, I wonder if they ever considered divorce. Or even briefly contemplated murder. The idea seems ridiculous, but then I’ve never given their relationship any thought at all. I’ve always thought of them in terms of me. A kind of disturbingly juvenile perspective and not particularly kick-ass.
I drink another glass of water, then doze for a while. I wake rested, clearheaded, and hungry. So I go to the kitchen and wolf down the leftover fried chicken my mother left wrapped in the fridge with a note reading For Erin ONLY folded around it to protect it from looting siblings. Who have been known to come here to graze or “shop” instead of the nearby grocery stores.
After two more glasses of water and a really small piece of apple pie, I head back to my bedroom where I shower, wash and dry my hair, then apply makeup.
Tonight is Katrina’s night. The only thing I need to do is to show up and celebrate her, her new job, and the adventure she’s beginning. It’s time to move on. To look ahead, not back.
What anyone else, including Josh, thinks of me is beside the point.
But that doesn’t mean I have to fade into the woodwork. After all, we are talking the St. Regis on a Saturday night.
I spend the entire drive pumping up my courage and arrive at the St. Regis with a smile on my deep-red lips—which exactly match my dress—and a trip-hammering heart. I accept the valet’s hand and use it to rise carefully out of my car, because the Honda CR-V isn’t really designed for tight cocktail dresses with discrete slits down one thigh and low, square necks that prohibit bending over.
I balance on stack-heeled snakeskin-embossed sandals that make my legs look longer, then throw in a head toss and a friendly yet mysterious smile. In my head I’m wearing a tiara that would make Cinderella and all her sister Disney princesses proud.
When I walk into the cocktail lounge and into Katrina’s hug, I feel every eye on me. With the possible exception of those of my brother Tyler, who’s too busy munching on the hors d’oeuvres and unsuccessfully trying to chat up the cocktail waitress.
“Whoever talked you into buying that dress is an absolute fashion genius.”
“Yes, you are.” Katrina and I hug and sway. “I am so proud of you. You better make sure there’s room for me to visit in that New York City apartment you’ll be rocking.”
“Good thing you’re small,” she replies. “I won’t exactly be living in a penthouse. At least not at first.”
We laugh. “I’ll miss you. I’m sorry I lost these last months with you.” All that time wasted lying in bed feeling sorry for myself. Convinced I had a broken heart when maybe what I couldn’t bear to give up was my plan.
I think of all the confessions last night at Superica. Every one of them a plan ripped away. By death. Divorce. Betrayal. Theft. Was it the loss of my plan that shook my world to its core more than my loss of Josh?
“You’re not allowed to disappear like that ever again,” Katrina says sternly. “But I’m proud of you, too. You look beautiful. And I’m sensing some new big-girl vibes coming off you.”
“Very astute of you,” I say, realizing she’s absolutely right. “I guess it’s about time, huh?” I say, because we have always called a spade a spade.
“Totally.”
Someone calls her away, and I head over to the bar. Where a very elegant and very flirty waiter makes me a cosmopolitan.
Unlike last night, I nurse my drink, carrying it around and stopping to chat with friends I’ve known forever and haven’t seen in way too long. Most of us went through school and puberty and crushes and pretty much everything else together. I can’t remember why I was so embarrassed or why I thought they’d be judging me for Josh’s change of heart.