Our book club survived for two years before anyone admitted none of us had finished a book

The book club began with a 412-page historical novel and six sincere intentions.

By the third meeting, only one person had reached page 200. It was not me.

Our host, Camille, had moved into the building and wanted to meet people. She placed a handwritten sign near the mailboxes: FIRST THURSDAY BOOK CLUB. APARTMENT 3B. TEA PROVIDED.

Six of us came.

There was Denise from the fifth floor, who worked nights. Omar from 2A, who brought cookies from his bakery. Me. A graduate student named Mei. A retired accountant named Walter. And Lila, who lived across the street and had followed a friend into the lobby before seeing the sign.

At the first meeting, everyone had read enough to be polite.

At the second, we discussed the first four chapters for ninety minutes. At the third, Camille asked what people thought of the ending. The room became deeply interested in its tea.

Omar said he had left the book at work. Denise said night shifts had disrupted her reading. I claimed I was “sitting with” chapter eleven, which meant I had fallen asleep during it twice.

Walter saved us by asking whether anyone wanted more cookies.

We selected a shorter book.

Nobody finished that one either.

Still, we met every first Thursday. We became skilled at discussing covers, opening chapters and themes broad enough to survive incomplete evidence. Then we stopped pretending to discuss books for most of the evening.

We talked about rent increases, bad supervisors, Walter’s tomato plants and whether Mei should move in with her boyfriend. When Denise’s mother had surgery, we organized meals. When Omar’s bakery closed for repairs, we bought more cookies than six people needed.

Every month, we chose another book.

This was important. Without a title, we would have been six people asking one another to attend a scheduled friendship meeting, which felt too vulnerable. A book made the invitation respectable.

Camille moved away after eighteen months. She assumed the club would end.

We moved it to the laundry room.

The laundry room has bad chairs and no kettle, but nobody’s apartment can hold all of us comfortably. We brought thermoses. The group continued.

Last month, our building manager asked to feature the club in a resident newsletter. He wanted a photograph and a list of favorite books.

We panicked.

We could not agree on a single book everyone had finished. Walter suggested the instruction manual for the building’s washing machines. Mei said she had not finished that either.

Finally, Denise said, “I don’t think this is a book club.”

The relief was immediate.

Omar admitted he had not completed any selection after the first one. Camille, joining by video, confessed she used to search summaries before hosting. Walter said he had finished several books but deliberately avoided revealing that because he did not want the meetings to become homework.

For two years, each of us had privately believed we were the least qualified member of a club that did not exist in the form any of us imagined.

We declined the newsletter feature. Then we renamed the group First Thursday.

Next month’s plan is to assemble a shelf in the laundry room where residents can leave books without promising to read them. Walter says this may still qualify us as a book club. Denise says he is on thin ice.

I keep thinking about the useful fiction at the center of it. We failed at reading together and succeeded at returning. The unread books were not obstacles to the real purpose. They were the small, dignified excuse that allowed the real purpose to begin.

What group in your life may be succeeding at something entirely different from the thing printed in its name?