The Dirty Book Club(73)

“At least until my stitches come out, but hopefully forever.”

M.J. cut a look to the yellowing bruise on Addie’s head. Had that fall somehow loosened the part of her brain that was stuck in high school and hurtled it into adulthood?

“We want different things,” she continued, as she gathered her hair into a ponytail. “David really wants kids and I really, really don’t.”

“What do you want?” M.J. asked, playing the role of Dr. Cohn.

“I want him to be happy, and I want him in my life. So platonic it is.”

“How healthy of you.”

“I know, right?”

Addie barefooted into the kitchen, where her prescription bottles were lined up like chess pieces. Antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, painkillers; she took one of each, then one more painkiller. “Nap time.”

And then it wasn’t. Destiny called in hysterics.

“I have to go,” Addie said.

“Where?”

“The Majestic. Destiny’s in trouble.”

“Where’s Jules?”

“Working. It’s Piper Goddard’s wedding.” Addie found the key to the Mini Cooper in the mail basket. “Later, Salivator.” Then with a giggle: “I have no idea why I said that.”

“You’re not driving.”

“Why not?”

“You just took two Percocet.”

Addie tossed her the key.

“Thank you,” M.J. said, appreciating her compliance. “I’ll call a Lyft.”

Addie was standing in the open doorway, still barefoot. “Lyft? There’s no time for Lyft. One of us is driving and if it’s not me . . .”

“Dan is on his way home from some medical supply store and then we’re going to Africa. I can’t just drop everything.”

“I’m not asking you to drop everything, just this bullshit driving phobia of yours.”

“I don’t understand,” M.J. said, bicast leather sandals planted firmly on the shag. “What’s the urgency?”

“Chest is dead.”

“Dead? Well, why doesn’t Destiny call the police?”

“She thinks she killed him.”



* * *



“MY NAME IS May-June Stark and I am fastening my seat belt,” she said, probably out loud, but who knows? It was impossible to hear above the anxiety orchestra crescendoing inside her: heart on percussion, ears on strings, thoughts on brass. “I am adjusting my rearview mirror. My nails are painted Pink Flamenco. The neighbor’s goldendoodle is barking.”

Addie turned on the radio.

M.J. shut it off.

“I am putting the key in the ignition. I can’t breathe. Yes, I can. I can breathe. I am breathing. I couldn’t be talking if I wasn’t breathing.”

“Are you going to do this the whole way?”

“It’s one of my tools. It’s how I stay calm.” M.J. swallowed. “I’m going to turn on the car.”

“Please do.”

M.J. pressed the start/stop button. The engine giggled its way to a steady hum. “It’s on. I’m sweating.”

“You’re glowing.”

“I’m terrified.”

“You’re a Powerpuff Girl.”

“Why a Powerpuff Girl?”

“It’s fun to say.”

“True.” M.J. white-knuckled the steering wheel, hands at six and three. “What if we get in an accident?”

“I’ll give you a painkiller,” Addie said. “Now drive.”



* * *



DESTINY POKED HER pierced nose through the crack in the door of room 729, before opening it all the way. Smeared makeup marred her face as if she had just collided with an oil painting. And her hair—dyed rebellion black—spilled from her professional bun. Her Majestic Resort uniform, however, remained perfectly intact: crisp white shirt and burgundy blazer with a pleat down her slacks sharp enough to slit a wrist. Or a boyfriend’s neck, as the case might be.

“What took you so long?” she asked with the urgency of a girl whose afternoon took a turn for the worse.

“We got pulled over for going five miles an hour in a thirty-mile zone,” Addie explained. “Are you okay?”

Destiny nodded, though her rasping breaths told another story. “Is she?”

M.J., who was fanning her face with a Do Not Disturb sign, lied and said she was.

Inside the room, the cream-colored duvets were fluffed to a five-star standard. The plein air paintings were meticulously centered on the sand-colored wallpaper. Central air sang a pleasant tune called seventy-two degrees. And a shirtless, listless sixteen-year-old boy was lying faceup on the carpet between the queen beds.

Addie lifted her ear off his shaved chest. “He’s not dead, but he is one burp and a flame away from blowing the place up.”

“What?” Destiny asked, wringing her hands.

“He’s filled to the gills with cheap booze.” Addie fired off a quick text. A doctor alerting her nurse to send in the next patient. “Nothing a bottle of Advil and a burger can’t fix.”

Destiny collapsed onto the bed and cried relief.

“So what actually happened?” M.J. asked. Someone had to.