The Dirty Book Club(47)
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“GOD.” ADDIE SIGHED. “I knew Uncle Rob liked his whiskey, but I had no idea he was an Abe.”
“Abe?” M.J. asked.
“Abe User,” she said. “It’s what we, at the old women’s clinic, call a wife beater.”
Jules blew her nose. The solemn peal, like reveille from a bugle, drew M.J.’s thoughts away from Dotty and placed her back in the Oyster Bar.
“Poor Dotty.” Jules sniffled. Tears stumbled drunkenly down her cheeks. “She really loved him.”
“That wasn’t love,” Addie stated, as if a parquetry of Harvard degrees decorated the walls behind her. “How could she love a man who popped her in the lip every time the baby cried? It’s not possible.”
“Then why did she stay?” Jules pressed.
“Pity, fear, denial, maybe a bit of Stockholm syndrome. You know, he breaks up the abuse with bits of kindness to give her hope that he’ll change. But hoping that someone will change is a red, heart-shaped herring, there to distract romantics from the truth. It’s what we in the biz call ‘trauma bonding.’ Trust me. I see it all the time.” She punctuated her statement with a swift shot of vodka.
Britt and Jules watched Addie slam down her glass with wide-eyed fascination. Like M.J., they were probably struck by the unexpected reach of her knowledge. How many men, if any, saw this side of her? How many knew that front, back, and doggy style weren’t the only points of view Addie Oliver had to offer?
“And for the record, Anastasia doesn’t love Christian, either. She was seduced by his power.”
“Too far!” Britt announced.
Jules nodded in agreement.
Addie poured herself another shot. “Do you honestly think she’ll be melting over Christian’s ‘gray gaze’ when he’s sixty-five, bald, and chasing her around the apartment with a riding crop and a leaky colostomy bag? No! She’ll shackle him to the radiator and Facebook the nice guy . . . oh, what was his name . . . ?” She rolled her wrist as if invoking a sneeze. “José!”
“You read the book!” Jules cried.
“More like skimmed.”
“That’s so depressing,” Britt said.
“Well, it shouldn’t be. I told you I’m not much of a reader.”
“No, the visual of Christian chasing Ana around with a leaky colostomy bag and a whip.”
“Only because it’s true,” Addie said. “Love is accepting someone for who they are, not who they’ll be once you change them. Because guys won’t change unless they want to, and most of them don’t want to. If you think otherwise, you’re in for a shit-storm of disappointment.”
M.J. thought of her struggle with Dan. How she admires his white knight complex, benefits from it even, and at the same time resents it and, at times, wishes it away. Did that mean she didn’t accept him? Because she did. She loved Dan whether it suited her or not. She couldn’t help it. Love was impervious to logic, uncontrollable as the weather. “Feelings don’t make sense, Addie. We can’t decide who to love.”
“And people do change,” Britt insisted. “We grow up and do all kinds of things we never thought we’d do when we were younger. Take those twenty-year-olds at my gym who say they’ll never get boob jobs. They can’t picture themselves with ape tits any more than I could picture myself cheating on Paul, and then next thing you know—”
Jules’s breath hitched. “You cheated on Paul?”
Britt froze, stunned by her accidental admission.
With a toss of her hair, Addie leaned forward. “Tell us everything, don’t leave one thing out. Start with ten minutes before it happened. Back when you were still innocent.”
Britt evaluated the three women staring expectantly at her. After a moment of grave consideration she reached for the plate of bruschetta. “I’m not going to tell you anything until you jam an entire piece of this toast in your mouth.”
They exchanged glances and then did what they were asked. As M.J. suspected, Britt waited for them to gag, then said, “That’s the feeling I want you to have every time you even think about repeating what I’m going to say.”
Chewing, they agreed.
“Do you love him?” Jules asked when Britt finished her story.
“Who, the Brazilian?” Britt answered.
“He’s Brazilian?” Addie asked, impressed.
“No,” Britt said. “Just bald.”
“Do you love him?” Jules asked again, now gripping the arms of the rattan chair bracing herself for what was sure to be a disappointing response: If Britt said yes, Jules’s heart would break for Paul. If no, it would bleed for the premature death of a fairy tale—a romance that never made it to term.
“I love my husband,” Britt said. “And I want to stay married, but I think he’s—”
“Not what you hoped for?” Addie asked smugly.
Britt cut a look to M.J., a plea for guidance. Do I tell them about Paul’s affair or not? To which M.J. mouthed back, “Wait.” There was no sense in riling everyone up until they were sure.
“How’s the sex?” Addie asked.
“With Paul?”
“No, the Brazilian.”