Santa Monica

by Cassidy Lucas

  11

  Mel

  “SHOW UP!” BRI, A PETITE, MULTI-PIERCED TWENTYSOMETHING COLOR Theory trainer whose favorite word was, apparently, Mel thought, fuck, shouted as Mel, along with Regina, Zack, and more than a dozen other sweat-drenched people, most of them far younger than Mel—all of them in better shape—raced on the side-by-side treadmills.

  “This is one goddamn hour out of your day,” Bri yelled even louder as House of Pain’s “Jump Around” blasted from the gym’s speakers. “One hour! You didn’t cart your cellulite-streaked butt through hellish traffic to fail. Did you?”

  A few of the runners spit out a garbled “No.”

  Mel didn’t dare open her mouth, scared she’d lose the little breath she had left.

  C & C Music Factory’s “Gonna Make You Sweat” came on—Bri’s class playlist was heavy on nineties music—tunes Mel had gyrated to at high school dances.

  “Oh, so you did show up to fail!” Bri laughed maniacally, her tight blond braids swishing side to side.

  Kill me now, Mel thought, guessing Bri would punish their lackluster response, and sure enough, Bri shouted. “Add point-five to those speeds! Or if you’re Zack, add one-point-five!”

  “Hurts so good!” Zack yelled.

  Mel had told herself, right up to the minute her Lyft pulled up in front of Color Theory, that Zack probably wouldn’t show up. This mild doubt had quickly turned into what the fuck was I thinking full-blown panic as Mel had stepped onto Main Street in her tight workout gear, the sidewalk crammed with tourists, many careening at top speed on those damn rent-a-scooters, and a bevy of shirtless men running like they were being chased by a pride of lions. The Santa Monicans loved to work out in public. Daily, she spotted throngs of them running up the steep wooden steps leading to the beach, in the park doing yoga under the magnolias, even dropping to the ground for push-ups at a children’s playground.

  She’d been ready to call another Lyft to ferry her back home, and then, there he was—Zack, waiting by the gym’s front door, smiling, the afternoon sun catching the gold in his thick hair. As if, she dared think it, he’d been waiting for her. He’d opened the glass door to the gym, and for a beat, pressed his hand against her lower back to usher her gently through.

  Regina was already inside the studio, jump roping at high speed. Mel waved in her direction, then stepped onto treadmill number five and punched it to a two-point-five speed. In the mirror, she could see Regina hopping manically, smacking the cord of the rope against the ground as if she were punishing it.

  The woman hustled around the clock, Mel thought, whether it was shuttling her kids to activities—Mel had seen Regina at a red light recently, angled forward toward the wheel, like a race car driver—or waiting for class to start. Go-go-go, at all times. How was it that Regina, a middle-aged mother who seemed to subsist on thinkThin bars and black coffee, could have the energy of a teenager? Clearly, she was avoiding something. It was the mystery of what exactly that might be—conversation, connection?—that had sparked Mel’s interest in her. Mel found herself hoping there was a messy, dark secret roiling inside Regina, something the woman could only suppress by staying in perpetual motion.

  Hey, Mel! Regina had veered over to her, jump rope dangling around her neck like a pet snake. I can’t believe I’m seeing you here. Can I ask you to scoot over to tread six? I know it sounds silly, but number five is my jam. It’s just right for me.

  Um, sure, said Mel, fumbling with the controls of her machine to make it stop whirring. A treadmill, just right? What was this, some deranged SoCal version of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears”?

  “Add two-point-oh to that speed, bitches!” yelled Bri now, from the front of the room. “NOW!”

  Mel added point-five. She watched Regina add three, the machine already beginning to shake with her high speed.

  “Goody-two-shoes,” Mel mumbled in Regina’s direction.

  “What?” Regina yelled. “I can’t hear you!”

  “Ladies, talking means you’re taking it easy!” yelled Bri. Regina shot Mel a withering look. Bri went on. “Looky at Zack! That stallion’s got perfect form, yo!”

  Bri went on to give Zack extra attention all class, and halfway through class, Regina abruptly switched treads, giving up her precious number five to run a few machines down, on the other side of Zack. Mel breathed a sigh of relief; she hated exercising next to that greyhound of a woman, and plus, Regina had seemed vaguely angry throughout class. Not enough attention from Zack, Mel guessed. Bri was hogging him, making a big show of it.

  When Bri, blessedly, gave them a ten-second “rest,” during which Mel exhaled short puffs of breath to stop the bile from rising up her throat, Regina ran on. And on and on. A triumphant smile, if not a bit manic, stretched across her narrow face. Mel caught Regina looking in the wall-to-wall mirrors, not at herself but at Zack. Waiting, it seemed, for him to notice her.

  Beep beep beep! Regina’s treadmill sang as she punched the plus-sign. As if, Mel thought, the faster she ran the more likely she’d catch Zack’s eyes.

  “And the Wolfe leads the pack! Let’s hear it for Regina maxing the tread the whole freaking class!” Bri let out a howl—ow-ow-owhooo!—so piercing and realistic-sounding, Mel was startled enough to lose her footing for a second. She panicked, punched the emergency Stop button, her treadmill groaning as it ground to a halt.

  “Ride ’em, Cowboy Zack. Yee-haw!” Bri let loose.

  “Hell yeah!” Zack shouted back. The southern twang in his voice gave Mel a boost, as if he’d breathed air into her body.

  She slapped the Start button and her treadmill whirred back to life. Her pace at five-point-five speed was half as fast as Regina’s. Still, she told herself, she had shown up. And, someday, she dared to hope, Zack would be cheering her on.

  “Twenty seconds, people. Don’t you give up on yourself now!” Bri yelled, and Mel could sense the trainer moving up the row of humming machines, jabbing at each machine with a finger, the whir increasing.

  Not me, please not me, Mel thought, rehearsing what she’d say when Bri reached her machine. Maybe she’d make a joke. I’m the most out of shape person in here. Haha. Any more speed and my heart will give out. Or straight-up lying. I pulled something yesterday doing yoga. Gotta take it easy.

  Mercifully, Bri stopped two machines short of Mel to focus on the runner who was obviously in the best shape of everyone. Zack’s treadmill ran so fast the thing quaked.

  “Don’t let me down, Zack,” Bri said. “Don’t disgrace your Fit Fam!”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Zack shouted and when Mel saw his smile one word came to mind. Golden.

  She lost her footing again but was able to catch herself before she rolled right off the machine. A nightmare scenario she’d imagined a hundred times in the last forty minutes. How long could three minutes take? When was the buzzer that notified the trainees to switch stations going to ring out? Mercy, please. Her hand hovered above the keyboard, desperate to slow the machine to a brisk walk. She’d rather speed-walk like a suburban grandma, but feared Bri would call her out, embarrass her in front of the whole class. In front of Regina. Worse, in front of Zack.

  She wanted, no, needed, to stop running. Her chest was burning. Dammit, she must stop smoking pot.

  But no—screw it—she would not be the fat girl who stopped before everyone else.

  “One more minute, my babies!” yelled Bri. “Before your last break.”

  They’d hit the last ten minutes of class. And a break was coming.

  “Actually, ladies and Zack, I just changed my mind! We’re running through the break. No break! Everyone adds another point-five. Don’t think, just do it!” Bri would not be stopped.

  Someone dared let out a groan and Mel knew this would only empower Bri. She ate their pain with pleasure.

  “Don’t give me that whiny bullshit. Don’t give them a reason to doubt you. You know who I’m talking about. Those assholes who are waiting to see you fail. Don’t prove
them right!”

  Them, Mel thought. Adam and his lover.

  “They are watching. Waiting,” Bri said, quietly now like she was telling a scary bedtime story. A shiver rolled down Mel’s sweat-prickled arms. “Waiting for you to give up on yourself. Just so they can say.”

  “Fuck them!” a woman to Mel’s right growled—an over-tanned woman who looked absolutely fantastic (and, Mel thought, might actually be a grandmother) and who’d squealed like a schoolgirl when Zack had entered the studio at the start of class.

  A few people laughed but Mel felt the collective motivation lift, the speed increase. As if they were one entity moving in sync.

  She punched the big plus-sign on her treadmill. Six-point-five. A new record. She was relieved she’d thought to put a maxi-pad on under her workout leggings—felt herself lose a drop of pee. Then another. Or was her crotch just that sweaty?

  Bri let out a throaty whoop. “Booyah! Melanie is showing up!” Mel knew, even if she had the breath, she’d never correct her. “Melanie just showed up, people!”

  Half-hearted cheers rose from the row of machines.

  “Yeah, baby!” Zack shouted.

  Mel punched the plus-sign again. Seven-point-zero. She was flying. Were her feet even touching the ground?

  “Forty seconds!” Bri roared. “You can do forty seconds, people. NOT thirty! NOT thirty-nine. Forty, bitches!”

  Mel’s lungs were aflame with the shortness of breath that had made her slow down to a speed walk in every other exercise class she’d ever taken. An arms-pumping, hips-swiveling speed walk that she knew made her look like the middle-aged suburban soccer mom she was. Not today. The lights dimmed so the massive HD screens above the treadmills bathed Mel’s pumping arms in a blue light. As if, she thought, nearly delirious, they were all swimming underwater. A colony of porpoises.

  “I want you to picture something you really, really want,” Bri said, almost in a whisper now, and yet it felt to Mel as if the woman’s breathy hush was all around them, drowning out the hum of the machines. “Right in front of you. You’re chasing it!”

  Mel imagined Adam jogging in front of her in that easy loping pace he could manage with his long muscular legs. He was looking back at her, smiling. Acting like he had no fucking clue why she was chasing him.

  “Maybe it’s a job. Maybe it’s those last ten pounds of pudge you need to dump. Maybe it’s that cute guy you want to ask you out. Hell, maybe you just want him to notice you. It don’t matter. Chase it!”

  Mel was catching up on Adam. That who me? smile. She’d slap it off his unlined face.

  “Maybe it’s a better version of yourself you’re chasing,” Bri stage-whispered, her voice softening. “A you you can love. ’Cause if you ain’t going to love you, no one’s gonna.”

  “Amen!” Mel shouted, surprising herself.

  She looked to her right and caught Zack’s eyes. He winked.

  “Eyes forward, Melanie!” Regina called out. “Or you’ll fall on your face.”

  Mel resented the jealousy in her friend’s tone. C’mon, Mel was fat and middle-aged; Regina supremely fuckable. She probably steamed her vagina like Gwyneth Paltrow. The last time Mel had her bikini line waxed was Spring Break 1998. Regina could actually have Zack if she wanted. What harm was there in a little flirtation between Mel and a guy a thousand miles out of her league?

  She banished Adam from her mind and, slowly, the image of his nude back, his hips thrusting into some other woman, was replaced by a new image.

  A different man. With green-blue eyes and Kennedy-boy hair.

  “Run!” Bri was stalking back and forth behind the treadmills, like a caged animal about to pounce, Mel thought, as she lost feeling in her legs. She was flying. Soaring. The faster she ran the less she felt. “No one ain’t never, ever, going to give you what you need. You got to take it!”

  The man in Mel’s mind put his hand on the small of her back. She could actually feel it, the warmth of his large palm cupping her, gently holding her up, pushing her forward.

  She kept running.

  “I want to hear you claim it, ladies! I want to hear you say it. Whose is it?”

  “Mine!” a few shaky voices answered, including the buxom grandma.

  “You don’t sound like you want it!”

  “It’s mine!” the women screamed back at Bri as she stirred them into a mania reminiscent of a scene from The Handmaid’s Tale.

  “You’re catching up!” Bri screamed. “You’re within reach! Run, bitches, run!”

  And Mel ran on. And on. Nevertheless, Mel thought, she persisted. She ran until the end-of-class timer rang out.

  12

  Regina

  “TWO AFTERBURN SMOOTHIES WITH OAT MILK, PLEASE,” SAID REGINA TO the cashier at Dogtown Delights, the cafe next door to Color Theory. Bri’s class had just ended, and although Regina wasn’t thrilled to be hanging out with Mel (not after the way Regina had caught Zack looking at Mel during class)—there Mel was, face aflame from exertion, waiting for Regina at a cozy corner table on the far side of the restaurant, which was decorated with large framed photos of famous surfers.

  Whirs from the espresso machine mingled with soft indie rock on the stereo and muddled conversations of Santa Monicans lingering over iced drinks. Who were these people, Regina often wondered, relaxing over six-dollar lattes in a sun-filled cafe on a weekday, when every other adult in America was at work?

  Then she remembered she was one of them.

  “The Afterburn, great choice,” said the cashier, a scruffy guy in his twenties. “Best smoothie on the menu. That’ll be twenty-two even.”

  Regina handed him Mel’s credit card, which she’d insisted Regina use. Glancing at the card—a “titanium elite” Visa with Melissa Goldberg imprinted on the front—Regina couldn’t help wondering about Mel’s finances. Was she as effortlessly, securely wealthy as she seemed? Did Adam know—or care—what she spent?

  Mel certainly didn’t seem to worry about money. Then again, Regina had read somewhere that a person was more likely to divulge details of their sexual history than their financial bottom line.

  Regina leaned against the counter of the cafe to wait for the smoothies, her muscles spent from the class she and Mel had just taken. Bri had been even tougher than usual and Regina had logged one of her best workouts in months. She went hardest at the gym when she was most stressed, and Zack’s text from Jensen about killing V2Y! had been center-stage in her mind since yesterday.

  V2Y is dead . . . you’ve GOT to refund all deposits or Jensen will wig out

  One text was all it took and—bam—all Regina’s work was undone. The planning, the invitations, the food and the kombucha, the $500 she’d paid Lettie to set up and spritz the goddamn towels—all of it had been for nothing. The cash she’d been counting on netting from the deposits of the women who’d committed to the V2Y! program gone.

  Which meant she and Zack were back at square one. Back to skimming money from the gym for at least a few more weeks, until Regina got caught up on bills and figured out a better plan.

  When she’d spotted Zack and Mel entering Color Theory (Zack’s tanned hand pressed against Mel’s back fat) she’d had the urge to blow off the workout, to jump back into her car and cry in private—but she’d promised Mel she’d be there. Not that Regina had ended up feeling needed when it became clear that Zack would be giving Mel special attention all class.

  Regina had thrown herself into the class with extra fervor, maxing out her treadmill and stacking extra weights on every machine, pushing past her limits to the place where her thoughts shut off and her problems, temporarily, ceased to exist.

  I want every one of you to look at Regina’s chart before you walk out of here, Bri had called out at the end of class, jabbing a dark purple fingernail toward the performance stats displayed on several wall-mounted flatscreens. That’s the chart of a fucking goddess. Let her be an inspo to every single one of you.

  Bri’s compliment, on top of
the intense workout, had elevated Regina’s spirits from the gutter of Zack’s bad news. She’d hardly been able to contain her smile as she eyed her own perfect digital chart on the wall, which indicated she’d spent most of the hour in the orange and red zones and burned 620 calories. For a brief moment, the disappointment of V2Y! evaporated, and she’d basked in the endorphin-soaked glow of her exemplary athletic performance.

  It was embarrassing, really, how much a little flattery from a tattooed Millennial coach and a few admiring nods from a handful of fellow gym-goers meant to Regina. But she couldn’t help it: she’d been a good student her entire life, driven by the validation of a job well done.

  A good student—yes—that was a label Regina could claim. But an inspo? Didn’t being an inspiration imply a certain level of good character, an intact moral fiber, the possession of many admirable qualities?

  Could one be an inspiration, while also a liar and a thief?

  Temporary liar, Regina reminded herself, scanning one of the free local newspapers strewn across the polished wooden counter. Temporary thief.

  Her actions were necessary. She was shielding her husband and daughters from a great deal of worry and discomfort. Shouldering the stress herself, so that they could continue to inhabit the only lives they’d ever known. Right? Right???

  “Two Afterburns!” the barista called out, setting two tall glasses filled to the brim with thick brownish liquid in front of Regina. Carefully, she carried the smoothies across the cafe to Mel, reminding herself to keep it together—to keep the bad V2Y! news out of her mood a little longer, until she was alone and could figure out what to do.

  “Sorry that took so long,” she said to Mel, setting the drinks down on the table. “I think the barista personally milked the oats.”

  “I didn’t even notice,” said Mel. “I’m so exhausted from that class I can barely move.” She used a napkin to blot the sweat still dampening her pink cheeks. “I’m glad I did the class, though. Thanks for making me show up.” She frowned at her smoothie. “God, what is this? Toxic sludge?”