The Breakup Club Part 11

I won't use you, Ginger. You're too nice a person. And there are a lot of b.i.t.c.hes out there.

There were times when I looked at Ava in her stroller or her crib and I couldn't believe this perfect little creature was mine. She was stunning. Yeah, yeah, I knew all parents feel that way about their kids, but Ava truly was gorgeous. She had huge slate-blue eyes and long brown eyelashes, and now that her eyebrows had finally come in, she really looked like a little girl. Her s.h.i.+ny wavy brown wisps of hair were streaked with lit gold, and though I could never get the tiny barrette to stay on the way Jodie could, I did try. I was trying at the moment, since Ava was asleep. She didn't like me fiddling with her hair while she was awake.

"You need a bigger section of hair."

NO!.

Could I not take my daughter to the playground on a Sat.u.r.day morning and sit in peace while she napped in her stroller? Or would the Know-It-All-Mom Posse surround me every weekend? I recognized the blond Posse leader's voice without even looking up from my sunny bench. Even if I didn't, I'd recognize the Posse's shoes. High-heeled black boots, all of them.

d.a.m.n. I'd been planning to take advantage of Ava's morning nap by editing a ma.n.u.script, this one about a guy who stopped talking for a month. His great experiment cost him a girlfriend and his job, since both required communication, but he didn't say a word for thirty days. Futterman loved the premise and ended up paying a fortune for it, and advance word from the sales reps was that it was going to be a hot seller. The author was already booked on the Late Show with David Letterman to coincide with publication week.

"Here, honey, let me help," Posse leader said, sitting down next to me. She took the barrette from my hand and in two seconds had a perfect little swath of hair sticking up.

Stop calling me honey!

I had to learn how to do it sometime. I undid the barrette and tried again, but the barrette slid down to Ava's scalp. Posse Mom laughed and attached it for me. I nodded a thanks.

"So," she said, adjusting her green scarf. "Did you know the three of us are a playgroup? We met in Lamaze and have been meeting weekly ever since. Our fourth member moved, and Raising Your Well-Adjusted Baby says the optimum playgroup has four members. So we have an opening. Are you interested?"

No. I knew exactly what a playgroup was. Jodie had been obsessed with joining a playgroup the minute we brought Ava home from the hospital. A playgroup was a group of moms who met once a week with their babies and sat around talking about their deliveries or how much weight they had to lose and whose umbilical-cord stump had or hadn't fallen off yet.

No, I wasn't interested.

Posse leader bounced her daughter on her lap. "Our babies are all the same age. Plus, the three of us think it would be fun to get the man's point of view."

The brunette laughed. "We're hoping you'll help us understand our husbands."

I smiled. "I wouldn't rely on me as a model for all men."

The other blonde glanced at Ava, who was now awake and reaching for me with a huge smile. "Well, you're doing a lot right, obviously. Your baby girl is healthy and happy and clearly adores you."

Did I need to have my hearing checked? Or did someonea mother, mind you, and a member of the Know-It-All-Mom Posseactually compliment me with actual praise?

"Ooh, you use Pampers Cruisers?" the Posse leader said, pointing at the purple package in the basket of my stroller. "Those are my favorite diapers, too. I love the way they smellbefore they're used, I mean," she added, laughing.

I actually laughed, too. I also loved the way Pampers Cruisers smelled. Like baby lotion. Like baby. Like Ava.

"I hope you'll join our playgroup," the brunette said. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Christopher."

"Well, Christopher, I'm Nell," Posse leader said. She gestured at her friends. "Their names are easy to remember because they're both Jen. If you do decide to join, we meet here every Sat.u.r.day morning and when it gets too cold, like next weekend is supposed to be, we meet in one of our apartments."

"My place is pretty small," I said.

"That's okay," the blond Jen said. "I live in a studio. A big studio, but still a studio. My poor son has to sleep in the middle of the living room. My husband and I haven't been able to watch TV since he was born!"

"Ava's bedroom is a small walk-in closet," I offered. "I feel better now."

They laughed, and suddenly there we sat, bouncing our babies, feeding our babies, changing our babies, trading stories, laughing, and saying "Oh, I know!" to just about everything. Perhaps I'd judged these women too fast. Unless they were setting me up for something and about to move in for the kill.

"So what do I bring to the playgroup?" I asked. "If I decide to join, I mean."

"Well, if you're hosting at your apartment, you make sure you have Diet c.o.ke and a clean bathroom, and that's about it."

I smiled. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. "That I can do."

Five minutes later I had their addresses and they had mine. If it was below forty-five degrees next weekend, we were meeting at Nell's apartment.

"So tell us this, Christopher," brunette Jen said. "Why don't men help around the house? Why do they leave the housework and everything to do with the baby to the mother? If my husband and I are going to the playground, he'll sit on the couch until I tell him I'm ready. He leaves it all to me to pack Conner's diaper bag and get him dressed."

"Maybe because we're always told we're doing everything wrong," I suggested. "So we just don't even bother trying."

"Bull," Nell said, jabbing a manicured finger at my chest. "Men are just lazy."

I winked. "That, too."

I noticed Kaye, my savior, across the playground by the b.u.mpy slide. Her babysix, seven months old?was at the top of the slide, and she was leading him down, holding him by his sides. At the bottom, she scooped him up and swung him around. Our eyes metfor just a momentand I saw her surprise that I was sitting with the Posse of my own free will.

"So why'd your marriage break up?" Nell asked.

A little personal, don't you think?

"Nell," blond Jen trilled. "You can't ask that!"

Nell wrinkled up her face. "Why not? Should we talk about the weather instead? Baby p.o.o.p? Why shouldn't we talk about real stuff?"

"We broke up for a lot of the reasons you've been talking about," I offered. "I didn't do what she wanted, I guess." I could see I'd scared them. "So she left. She fell for someone else and that was that."

They gasped in unison. "Your wife left you? For another man?"

I nodded.

Brunette Jen's mouth was still open. "She had an affair right after she had a baby?"

"Are you sure you're Ava's dad?" blond Jen asked before I could even address brunette Jen's question. All heads whipped to her with stern expressions. "Sorry," she added. "Tacky question. I take it back."

"Well, considering that Ava looks exactly like me, I'm sure," I told her.

They glanced from Ava to me and nodded their heads. Ava did look exactly like me. It drove Jodie crazy. She used to always stare at Ava, searching for some tiny bit of her own features, but they were all mine, all Levy.

"Are you hoping to get back together with your wife?" Nell asked, caressing her baby'sSkylar'sback.

I shrugged. "Part of me wishes we could make it work for Ava, and part of me knows that Jodie and I made a terrible team."

They all gnawed their lips and nodded.

"Did you know that Ava's shoes are on the wrong feet?" Nell asked, pointing at Ava's pink shoes.

I glanced at my daughter's feet and my stomach twisted. Her perfect, tiny, adorable, little feet were probably squished and on their way to deformity. Why hadn't I noticed her shoes were on the wrong feet?

"I've done that," blond Jen said. "Yesterday we were practicing walking for five minutes before I realized I put Emma's shoes on the wrong feet. It happens to the best of us."

"Are you saying you're the best?" Nell asked her, eyebrow raised.

"No, I'm just say-saying" blond Jen stammered, then smiled when Nell nudged her in the ribs with a wink.

The Posse would either chew me up and spit me out in a sewer opening or they'd teach me something. I'd give them one shot at this playgroup thing. One shot.

Chapter eight.

Roxy There were many messages left for me on my voice mail since leaving Robbie at the altar.

Robbie's friends (with minor variations): "You're a selfish little b.i.t.c.h! I wish you the very worst!"

My parents' neighbors: "Dear, we haven't received back the blender and didn't want to trouble your parents or the Robertsbless their hearts."

Disguised voice (three timesno variation): "Wh.o.r.e!"

Every bridesmaid: "It's another guy, isn't it!"

Rita Roberts: "You broke his heart!"

Rita Roberts: "How could you do this to him?"

Rita Roberts: "How could you do this to us!"

Rita Roberts: "I thought I knew you!"

Robbie (just once): "Roxy, I love you. We can get through this. Call me? Please?"

My mother: "Have you come to your senses yet? Call me when you have."

Patty, my maid of honor: "Honey, I wish you'd told me how you were feeling."

My cousin's friend's seventeen-year-old sister: "I always thought Robbie was soooo cute. You don't mind if I go for him, do you? I mean, it has been, like, a week since you dumped him."

Nine days, to be exact. Nine days ago, when I took the subway to Manhattan instead of reporting back to my aunt on how my veil had held up, I had no idea that my entire life would change. An interview. A makeover (a makeunder, the stylist had said). A new apartment, a new roommate. A job offer! I'd done it: I'd gotten the job of my dreams.

When Lucy had called a few days ago to offer me the position of a.s.sistant editor at Bold Books, I'd been speechless. Twice she'd had to ask if I were there. After we hung up, I did the Snoopy-dance around my makes.h.i.+ft bedroom, then grabbed the phone again and punched in a familiar number until I realized what I was doing. I'd been about to call Robbie. About to scream my head off that I'd done it, gotten the job, yay!, let's go celebrate! But then I'd deflated. I couldn't call Robbie to say any of that. I couldn't call him at all.

And so I picked up the phone again to call someone else, but there was no one else to call. My mother would say, Roxy, I just don't understand you. Patty would say, Are there any good clubs by your office? My father would simply shake his head and go back to the newspaper. My aunt Maureen would scold me for letting another stylist touch my color.

My hand had itched on the phone's keypad. How I was dying to call Robbie and tell him about the job. He was the only one who'd say, Awesome, Rox! I knew you'd do it! Wow, my Roxy, a hot-shot Manhattan editor with her own office! He would be so proud of me, proud for me.

Stop it, I'd told myself. Put the phone down. You can't have it both ways. You can't have the good parts of Robbie without the bad. You made your choice.

Just when I'd been about to take myself out to a lonely celebration dinner, Miranda had come home from work and been a lifesaver. She'd canceled her plans and off we'd gone for Thai food. I'd always wanted to try Thai, but Robbie wouldn't eat anything he couldn't readily get at a family barbecue.

Thank G.o.d for Miranda. Today was Sunday, and as I stared at the phone, wondering who I could call to share my excitement about starting my new job tomorrow, she handed me my coat and announced we were going to her favorite Mexican restaurant to celebrate my last night as a person without any work to do.

"So can she go for him?" Miranda asked now as we settled into our booth in the colorful restaurant, a pinata hanging above our heads. A waitress handed us menus and set bowls of tortilla chips and salsa on the table.

"Can who go for whom?" I asked, deciding between the enchiladas and the fajitas.

"Your friend's cousin's aunt's brother's sisteror whoever that was who wants to make a play for Robbie," Miranda said, sliding the bowl of tortilla chips toward me. "Is he up for grabs?"

I froze, the tortilla chip turning to cardboard in my mouth. "I don't know."

"Whadaya mean, you don't know?" she asked. "You left him at the altar. You moved into a new apartment. You broke up with him."

"Are you breaking up with me?" Robbie had asked the night he came to my apartment to serenade me. "How can this be it? This can't be it."

It was so hard to look into his face, that beautiful, sweet face, those green eyes so sad, so conflicted and confused. "I don't know, Robbie," I'd told him. "If you want me to be totally honest, that's the answer. I don't know. I only know I don't want to get married."

"To me?" he asked. "To anyone? Right now? What?"

"I don't know."

"Jesus, Roxy, what do you know?"

"I know I want to be on my own right now," I said.

"For how long?"

I shrugged. "Robbie, I only know that I don't want what you want. I don't want the traditional life I somehow managed to get myself into when I moved in with you. I don't want to cook three-course manly meals five nights a week and spend my 'free' nights at our parents' houses. I don't want to clean while you fix the toaster. I don't want to have a baby at twenty-six. I don't want three kids before I'm thirty. I don't want to spend evenings chatting over coffee with the female relatives while you and the male relatives watch sports or play poker. I don't want to take my husband's last name. I don't want to be our parents!"

"What do you want, then?" he asked. "For me to cook when I'm awful at it? For you to fix the vacuum when you don't even know the difference between a Phillips-head screwdriver or a flat-head? You do some things and I do others. Other things we figure out together. You want to keep your last name? Fine, you'll hyphenate. It's give and take, Roxy, that's all."

"We've argued about this stuff over and over, Robbie. And we get nowhere. Let's just stop arguing."

He took a deep breath and shook his head. "So you run away and get a new apartment and completely change the way you look and that's that? What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. I hate to keep saying that, but I really don't know."

"This doesn't make any sense to me, Rox. I love you, you love me." He glanced at me sharply then. "Or is that the problem? You don't love me? Is that what this is really about?"

I felt tears sting the backs of my eyes. I put my hand on his shoulder. "I don't know."

He'd looked at me and then got up and ran.

"How do you not know?" Miranda asked as our waitress delivered our burritos. "I don't get that. Either you do or you don't, right? If you did, you'd be with him."