The Dirty Book Club(39)
M.J. nodded like someone who didn’t think a Bruce Willis reference was decades too late. “Was it Paul?” she asked, still hoping those loose threads would come together and explain how it led to sex on a Friday afternoon. “Did he finally show up?”
“No,” Britt hissed. “It was a hot guy leaning against the wall across from me, arms folded across his chest and shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows like he’s posing for a Rolex ad.”
“He was wearing a Rolex?” M.J. asked. She treasured her father’s old Timex but had always wished he’d sprung for the crown.
“No, a Fitbit. Even better, right? And he was bald.”
“How bald?”
“Bald. A young bald, though, not an old bald.”
“Like Mr. Clean?”
“Yeah, but without the hoop earring. More like a Brazilian wax.”
“And he said, ‘You’re incredible’—out of nowhere like that?”
“Actually, he was on the phone when he said it, but he was looking right at me. And when I say looking, I mean look-ing. It was primal. And I swear, M.J., my loins ignited like a gas burner. Which is weird, because I’m usually attracted to guys like Paul—dark hair, dark eyes, atrophied muscles . . . but his body was tight and he was licking his lips and watching me—all while telling whoever he was talking to that he’d had a sudden change of plans and whoosh”—Britt indicated a gas explosion over her crotch—“rational thoughts ceased to exist and I—Stanford University graduate, recipient of real estate’s prestigious Gold Medallion Award, mother of twins, and three-time winner of the Thanksgiving Turkey Trot marathon—was reduced to a throbbing slab of meat with nerve endings.”
M.J. was struck by the brazen confidence of this stranger as much as Britt’s ability to be seduced by it. Had some creep who smacked of a Brazilian wax gazed at her in a bar while whisper-speaking like Bruce Willis, she would have ignited his crotch.
“So he hangs up the phone and says, ‘What are you drinking?’ And you know what I said?”
M.J. shook her head.
“I said, ‘You.’?” Britt smacked the table. “Can you believe? Then I shoved him into the men’s room, because the women’s was still occupied, and straight up fuck-attacked him.”
“So the guy you were with when I called today, that was—”
“The Brazilian.” A slow sunrise of a smile brightened Britt’s eyes, which she was now lining in black kohl.
“What’s his deal? Is he married? What does he do?”
“Dunno. We haven’t done much talking. We didn’t even exchange names. I’m keeping it zipless. The less I know the less real it is and the less I have to feel guilty about.”
“So you feel guilty?”
“Not really.” Britt laughed. “Weird, isn’t it? If anything I feel like I deserve it. Like I’ve done everything I possibly can to fix my marriage and Paul’s completely checked out. At the same time I love the guy. So what am I supposed to do? Get divorced and break up my family? Drink myself numb? Resign myself to a lifetime of missed anniversaries and forgotten couples therapy sessions? God, I’m bone-tired of feeling like I don’t matter and the Brazilian makes me feel like I do, you know?”
M.J. lied and said she could relate. But in truth Dan was a devoted adviser, lover, grief counselor, and friend. If anything she took him for granted and was now starting to wonder if that’s why he stayed in Jakarta for so long. To get away from her apathy and surround himself with people who not only needed his help but also appreciated it.
Just as she was about to share her newfound concern with Britt, Addie appeared. She had an hour-long lunch break at the women’s clinic and chose to spend it drinking with friends and handing out invitations (condoms with the particulars written in Sharpie) to her thirty-fifth birthday party. Though the intrusion was poorly timed, it filled M.J. with delight. She had been small-town sabotaged and invited to a party in the same afternoon. She was starting to belong.
Now, still in bed and close to noon, M.J. kicked off the covers and followed the sound of CNN into the living room, eager to show Dan how much he mattered before someone else did.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
Pearl Beach, California
Monday, July 4
New Moon
BELOW THE ROOFTOP bar, which was cleverly named Rooftop, cars sharked the narrow streets looking for parking, kids ran along the beach waving glow sticks at the dusking sky, and a bouncer worked his way through a line of Pearl Beach B-listers hoping to crash Addie’s party and get an unobstructed view of the fireworks.
“Was she actually born on Independence Day?” Dan shouted above a thudding remix.
M.J. followed his gaze to the train of blondes, dancing on a low table, gyrating rhythmically; their red, white, and blue bikini tops and high-wasted cutoffs a predictable homage to America’s birth. And then there was Addie—the redhead at the center of it all—wearing a flowing gown made of iridescent green and black feathers in a true show of independence.
“She was,” M.J. said, with a parent’s proud smile. Proud because she was part of Addie’s celebration, proud to be holding Dan’s hand amid it all, and prouder still because after three years of social celibacy she was back in the game.