The Dirty Book Club(68)
“Forgive me, Jules, but you’re not the first person on my list of People to Turn to When Contemplating Abortion,” Addie said.
“Maybe if I was, you’d have a daughter of your own someday and you wouldn’t need mine!”
“Am I on your list?” Britt asked.
With a swift, hair-swinging turn, Jules scooped up her purse. “I’m not like you girls. I get pregnant; I have a baby. I get married; I stay faithful. I stand by my obligations no matter how hard they get.”
“What about your obligation to this club?” M.J. asked, her voice urgent and thin.
Jules removed her key necklace and placed it on the coffee table.
“So that’s it?”
“Maybe she’s right,” Britt said. “My kids are back from camp, so I’m not doing much reading these days.” She laid down her key.
“You can’t do this!” M.J. said.
“You’re leaving anyway,” Britt told her. “We couldn’t continue even if we wanted to.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m staying in Pearl Beach. I’m going to start writing again.”
“Well, I’m leaving.” Addie removed a clump of necklaces, bracelets, and hair elastics from her purse. She attempted to separate her key from the tangle, but quickly gave up and tucked it in the pocket of her blazer. She relinquished her napkin of deli meats instead.
And just like that the Dirty Book Club was over; a potential social life that never made it to term.
How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale
CHAPTER
Twenty-Two
Pearl Beach, California
Monday, August 29
Waning Gibbous Moon
CALI WAS A charming cliffside restaurant. Lit by paper lanterns, furnished in shabby-chic flea-market finds, and stocked with farm-to-table ingredients, it was a Pinterest poster’s no-brainer. And the conversation was surprisingly entertaining. Dan was right. His Red Cross buddies did have friend potential.
“Tampons, huh?” M.J. asked. “I guess it makes sense.”
“It does when you’re low on QuikClot and the Syrian girl in your arms is bleeding out,” said Marco. He was jockey-short and San Tropez–tanned. “O.B.’s are the Ziplocs of field medicine,” said his wife, Catherine, who was taller, Nordic blond, and missing her two middle fingers so it looked like she was calling “bullshit” on everything. “We use them constantly.”
“For what?” Winsome asked. She was a fund-raiser for the organization with the ability to make a shapeless caftan look sexy, as proven by Aaron, member of the Disaster Action Team (and her fiancé) who couldn’t keep his capable hands off her.
“We use O.B.’s for nosebleeds and gunshot wounds,” he told her. “They even make great replacements for air filters in diesel engines.”
“And curlers,” Catherine enthused.
Marco reached for his beer and shook his head; he knew what was coming.
Catherine directed her “bullshit” hand at him and said, “Mr. Carry-on here, doesn’t let me bring products on missions and my hair gets super limp without mousse. Like, itchy limp, you know?”
M.J. nodded. She really did.
“So when we were in Mosul, I took a few wet strands and rolled—”
Marco gripped the sides of his head. “A few?”
“Fine, nineteen, but I swear my waves gave hope to those poor women in Khazer camp. Like even in Mosul, miracles can happen.”
“Speaking of,” Winsome said, “my sister just got that endometrial ablation procedure. Can you imagine? No more periods?”
Aaron waved his organic cotton napkin. “Waiter, I’d like to order a new subject.”
Everyone laughed, even M.J., who always found joy in playful banter between friends. When the Dirty Book Club imploded she thought she’d never hear it again.
“Are you sure you can’t join us in Haiti?” Marco asked Dan as their smiles settled. “It’s a short one. A few days of hurricane relief and we’re out.”
M.J. began stabbing the bush berries in her seasonal green salad. Anything to avoid the longing in Dan’s his eyes while he contemplated the offer or the dopey grin she’d have to flash to hide the fact that this was an uncomfortable topic. But uncomfortable it was. Enough to make her palms sweat and her stomach clench. Dan wanted to leave the Red Cross, she told herself. His idea, his choice. His idea, his choice. His idea, his choice. It didn’t matter how many times M.J. thought those words. She still felt guilty for holding him back.
“I am starting my own practice, remember?” Dan told Marco. Then, with a light squeeze to M.J.’s thigh—“Besides, I’ve spent too much time away from this wonderful woman. I need to stand still for a while.”
Need or want? M.J. was tempted to ask, but did she really want to know?
“He must love you to bits,” Catherine said, raising her white sangria in honor of Dan’s devotion. “Sacrificing a trip like this is major.”
“I sacrificed a lot, too,” M.J. blurted. Her cheeks instantly burned with the shame that comes from sounding desperate. But why should Dan get all the credit. Or rather, why should she take all the blame?