BOOK CLUB AND BAD IDEAS
Kate
The house is quiet.
Too quiet. The restless sort that leaves you wondering what the hell to do with yourself.
Cole’s on a forty-eight-hour shift, which means I have two whole days with the place to myself—a rare thing, even now. You’d think after twenty-five years of raising a kid, I’d be better at enjoying the silence. Turns out, I’m not so great at it.
I fluff the pillows on the couch for the third time, adjust the angle of the lampshade like it matters, and glance at the clock.
My book club is supposed to start in ten minutes.
I actually read the book this time. An Oprah pick—surprisingly good, even if half the plot made me roll my eyes.
But it’s not really about the book. It’s about Helen and Margot, wine, and girl talk.
An excuse to laugh too loud and pretend we’re not all trying to figure out what the hell comes next in life.
I light a candle, mostly because the house smells like lemon cleaner, and pour the first glass of wine.
Cole’s a good man. Better than I could’ve hoped for. I did my job.
Now what?
My therapist keeps telling me it’s time to focus on me.
Margot’s version of that is more fun—download a dating app, get laid, live a little.
Helen just nods and tells me the truth in that quiet way she does: You’ve earned more.
I don’t disagree.
I just don’t know what more looks like, even if I want to.
The doorbell rings, loud and insistent.
I open it to find Margot, holding a bottle of Chardonnay, and Helen, carrying the book like she’s about to quiz me.
“We brought backup!” Margot declares, sweeping past me into the kitchen.
“Wine and moral support,” Helen adds with a smile, giving me a quick hug before following her.
“You two are a hurricane,” I say, shutting the door behind them.
“You love it,” Margot calls.
She’s not wrong.
Margot is the first to kick off her shoes, already halfway to the kitchen.
She’s all legs and wild curls, wearing something boho that I’m sure she bought off a street vendor in a city I’ve never been to.
She’s never been married, never wanted to be, and lives like the rules were never written for her.
Helen’s the opposite. Classic and polished. Her hair’s always perfect, her clothes tailored just enough to say she’s got it together—even when she doesn’t. She’s been widowed for five years now and somehow always knows the exact thing I need to hear—even when I don’t want to hear it.
We’ve been friends since our kids started kindergarten, bonding over bad PTA meetings and worse coffee. They were the first ones there when my husband walked out, and I was the first one there when Helen lost Patrick. We’ve stuck together through everything.
I wouldn’t survive without them, even if they drive me crazy sometimes.
They head for the couch like they own the place.
Margot pours a glass without asking. “Alright, let’s get to it.”
“To the book?” I ask, settling into the chair across from them.
“To your love life,” Helen says, deadpan.
I choke on my wine. “What?”
Margot grins. “You thought we were here to talk about plot holes? No, honey. We’re here to talk about your holes.”
Helen nearly spits her wine.
“Margot!” I shoot her a look, but I’m laughing despite myself.
“What? When was the last time you got any? Be honest.”
Helen shakes her head, wiping her mouth. “This is an intervention.”
“It feels like one.”
“Because it is,” Margot says, smug. “I’ve had it with your excuses. Cole’s grown. You’re hot. And you’re wasting prime years hiding behind a candle collection and book club.”
“I’m not hiding.”
Helen gives me the look.
“I’m... easing into it.”
“Into what?” Margot shoots back. “Celibacy?”
I groan. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re downloading a dating app. Tonight.”
Helen snatches my phone, already scrolling. “I’ve got three good ones. You can’t argue.”
I straighten my posture, ready to stand my ground. “I can absolutely argue.”
“But you won’t,” Margot says, kicking her feet up. “Because deep down, you know we’re right.”
I sip my wine, watching them, this whirlwind of truth and trouble.
Maybe they are.
Maybe it’s time.
Margot’s already got her legs tucked under her, scrolling through the phone like she’s on a mission.
“I’m thinking something simple. Fun. Not too slutty.”
“Please don’t pick anything slutty,” I say, eyeing her.
Helen smirks, holding up her own screen. “Hinge or Bumble?”
Margot leans over, peering. “Bumble. She gets to make the first move. Safer that way.”
I laugh. “Safer for who?”
“For the poor souls you’d destroy with that teacher glare,” Helen says, tapping away like it’s already decided.
“Guys, I’m really not ready for this.”
Margot looks up, her grin all teeth. “Kate. When was the last time you were ready for anything we’ve done?”
She’s got me there.
I cross my arms, sinking deeper into the chair. “Fine. But no shirtless guys. Or fish pics.”
“God, no,” Helen says. “We have standards.”
“Barely,” I mutter, but they’re already too deep into this.
Margot waves the phone like a wand. “Okay, give me your info. Age, location, favorite things, least favorite—”
“Favorite things? Wine, books, and not doing this.”
“Cute,” Helen says, typing. “We’ll spin it.”
Margot’s fingers fly. “Hobbies? Cooking for your son doesn’t count.”
“I don’t have hobbies.”
“She bakes,” Helen adds, without missing a beat.
I groan. “I bake when I’m stressed.”
“Even better. Men love homemade pie; that’s good.”
Margot’s cackling now, nearly spilling her wine.
“Oh my God, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“No, we’re going to give you options,” Helen corrects, handing me the phone. “There. Profile made. All you have to do is say yes.”
I stare at it.
Kate. 45. Teacher. Wine, good books, bad TV, and better company. Looking for someone who can make me laugh harder than the two friends who made me create this profile.
“You’re both insane.”
“But you love us.”
I do.
And maybe they’re right.
I hit NEXT.
The screen shifts.
Welcome to Bumble.
Margot throws her arms up like we’ve won something. “Now let’s see what Boston’s got to offer.”
Margot is fully horizontal now, one leg draped over the arm of the couch, wine glass balanced on her stomach, phone raised high like she’s narrating a sporting event—or just because she’s forgotten her reading glasses.
How is this my life now?
“Alright, contestant number one. Shirtless. Holding a fish. Immediate no.”
Helen leans over. “Is it a big fish at least?”
Margot squints. “Honestly? Could be a trout. Either way—rejected.”
I rub my temples. “I already regret this.”
“Too late,” Helen says cheerfully. “We’re in it now.”
“Next,” Margot announces. “Firefighter. Muscles. Dog in his lap. Wait—is that a puppy? Oh hell, Kate, this man’s a ten.”
“No,” I say automatically.
Margot grins. “Why not?”
“Because it’s too obvious. He knows what he’s doing.”
“That’s the point,” Helen mutters, sipping her wine.
Margot swipes. “Fine. We’ll come back to puppy guy.”
Plus, he’s a firefighter—he could work with my son, and that’s a scenario I very much want to avoid. I’m pretty sure Cole likes the idea that I’m celibate.
The next few come and go—one in a fedora, one with a weird selfie in a gym mirror, and one who says “sapiosexual” in his bio, which earns a collective groan from the couch.
“What does that even mean?” I ask.
“Means he thinks liking books makes him deep,” Helen says. “Swipe left.”
Margot throws her arm out. “Oh! Wait. This one. Mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, owns a bookstore, plays guitar.”
“Too good to be true,” I say.
“Or exactly what the universe is trying to send you,” Helen counters.
I take a long sip of wine.
Margot turns the phone toward me. “What about this one? Not bad, right?”
I glance at the screen. My first thought is—wow, he’s cute.
Jack. 43. SAR coordinator. Divorced. Says he prefers hiking to small talk and dogs to people. No fish, no fedora.
I raise an eyebrow. “What’s SAR?”
“Search and Rescue,” Helen says. “Could be hot.”
“Sounds like the kind of guy who’d mansplain survival tactics,” I mutter.
“Perfect,” Margot fires back. “You need someone who can handle your attitude in the wild.”
I give her a hard look. “He’s probably the type who judges people for not having a compass.”
Helen leans forward. “You could use some direction.”
I snort. “Rude.”
“You love it.”
They both turn to me, expectant.
I hesitate. Then tap.
Matched.
Margot claps like we’re at a graduation. “This is the beginning of your sexual renaissance.”
“God, don’t say that,” I groan, sinking into the couch.
Helen’s already topping off my wine. “To Kate.”
“To questionable decisions,” Margot adds.
“To getting laid before Christmas,” Helen says with a smirk.
I clink glasses with them both and laugh until my stomach hurts.
Maybe I really do need this.
Or maybe it’s just the wine.
Either way… I’m in trouble.
The house is still dark when I wake up.
It always is at this hour, and I move through the motions automatically. Ten minutes of yoga, shower, coffee, makeup in the hallway mirror that catches too much truth under fluorescent light.
I pull on a soft sweater, ankle boots, and my favorite pair of slacks that don’t feel like they’re trying too hard. I’ve got papers to grade and a room full of teenagers waiting to see if I’ll let them off easy on this next essay. It’s just another day.
Except it’s not.
Because now I’m someone with a dating app on her phone.
I sip my coffee and immediately think about Margot and Helen, wine-drunk and cheering like I’d just won The Bachelor. It was fun—God, it was fun. I hadn’t laughed like that in a while. I know they love me and care about me.
But also... what the hell did I do?
I glance toward the kitchen counter, where my phone is still sitting, facedown.
No rush. Probably just more spam emails and calendar reminders. Nothing important.
I pick it up anyway.
The screen lights up.
1 New Notification – Jack.
My stomach tightens.
Oh no.
Oh no, no.
He messaged me.
I stare at it, thumb hovering over the app. My heart kicks up like I’ve just been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
I could ignore it. Pretend it never happened. Delete the app, blame it on the wine, and tell Margot and Helen the universe sent a sign.
Or...
Am I really going to do this?
My thumb twitches.
I haven’t even opened it yet, and still, somehow, everything feels different.
I close my eyes.
Take a breath.
And tap the screen.