The Dirty Book Club(54)

“I’d prefer a frittata if you have one,” Addie said. “My anorexic friend Loo’s apartment is a bad place to wake up if you don’t like mustard for breakfast.”

“I have five beers, half a bottle of prosecco, a burnt bagel, and some leftover Chinese food.”

“Don’t you eat?”

“Not when I’m stressed, which is most of the time.”

“So . . . the Chinese food?”

“All yours.”

M.J. led her into the kitchen, where Addie helped herself to the take-out box, sniffed the corpse-colored dumplings, and then returned it to the empty rack. “Wear a hazmat suit when you toss those.”

“So do you really need advice or was that the stalk talking?”

“Mostly the stalk,” Addie admitted. “I mean, I am asking my boss, Lara, for an advance today so I can fix the ceiling before Liddy finds out. But I don’t really need advice. That woman will do anything to get me into bed.”

“She’s gay?”

“No.” Addie reached for the burnt bagel, took a bite. “But she is human.”



* * *



HUMAN.

The word, though not particularly lyrical, sang in M.J.’s mind long after Addie left for work. It split into syllables—hu-man, hu-man, hu-man—that scored her footsteps as she walked to the coffee shop and claimed the corner table. It remained through two refills and an hour of reading her Prim-covered copy of Henry and June. But it wasn’t until she came upon the phrase white-heat living, that M.J. understood why.

Though written by Ana?s Nin to describe the kind of intensity one finds in lovers and mistresses, M.J. got that charge from Addie’s visit. The unexpected break in routine stirred her senses, woke her to her surroundings, and made her feel human again. It reminded her that she could be a friend’s destination. And that she, like the French author, used to journal about those feelings, too.

M.J. took a note card out of her purse and wrote, “Of Ana?s’s many relationships, the most intimate was with her journals. Privy to the full extent of her struggles, passions, and longings, they were her most trusted confidants. They were white-hot truth, unaffected by the opinions of lovers, purely her.”

Then she considered the Moleskine journal Dan had given her. The pencil. The thoughts that circled her head like airplanes in a holding pattern, waiting for a place to land. Unlike M.J.’s more creative days, those airplanes weren’t transporting story ideas, compelling characters, quippy one-liners, or middle-of-the-night revelations. They were carrying fear. Fear of being alone, fear of the unknown, fear of disappointment, fear that at thirty-four years old, her best days were behind her, and now fear that her journals will never measure up to Ana?s’s, so why bother?

“They’re not supposed to measure up,” Dr. Cohn told her on the phone during her walk back to the cottage. Though he didn’t dare say it, M.J. could tell by the vim in his voice that he found delight in the unexpected topic of this week’s long-distance session. At least she’s thinking about writing, she imagined him noting. “Journals are dumping grounds for embarrassing thoughts and first-grade grammar. They’re not supposed to be art. They’re supposed to help you sort through the sludge so you can get to the good stuff. Don’t let Ana?s take a crap on that.”

With a smile, M.J. promised to get started the moment she got home—Ana?s and her white-hot writing be damned!

But Addie was there when she returned; lying on the porch swing, pink Crocs kicked to the curb.

“What are you doing back here?”

Addie sat up. Her eyes were swollen and red. “Do you still have those beers?”

“I do,” M.J. said. “Want one?”

“No. I want three.”

M.J. reappeared with the beer, some flat prosecco, and her Moleskine. Not that she had any intention of writing while Addie was there; she simply wanted the journal nearby so they could bond.

“Are we celebrating?” M.J. asked, sitting. The swing dropped like a hot testicle.

“I knew I put on weight.”

“It always happens with two people,” M.J. lied, because though she had sat on it many times, it had always been alone. “Did you ask for the advance from your boss?”

“Yep.”

“And did she bite?”

“Oh, she bit all right. Sank her adult braces right into my head and ripped it off.”

“She got mad at you?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

Addie peeled the label off the bottle, rolled the foil paper between her fingers. “Because I was doing my job.”

“Meaning?”

“Knocked up, Samantha?” Addie said, earnest as a 1950s public service announcement. “Abortion is a very serious decision. Would you ever consider keeping the baby? No? Well, there are thousands of loving couples in this country looking to adopt. These pamphlets will help you understand the process. Is there a grown-up you trust? Someone to support you during this process? No? Well, you can trust me. I’ll be your grown-up. I’ll support you.” She took a sip of beer. “That was my job. Lara gave me a script and I delivered it.”

“So what was the problem?”

“After I delivered Lara’s script, I’d deliver my own.”