Instantly, Mel forgot the clever comeback she’d been composing for Davit.
“Hey, man!” said Davit. “Aren’t you supposed to be teaching now?”
“Bri subbed in,” said Zack, shrugging. “Last minute. Class is practically empty, anyway. Not worth my time.” He turned to Mel. “Did I interrupt some leftist propaganda going on out here?” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand and—oh God—winked at her. “Please, carry on.”
Mel’s just-cooled cheeks flared again—she felt like a kid who’d been caught talking smack about her schoolteacher.
“Let’s just not, ’kay?” she said, hoping to sound cute. She’d avoided talking politics with Zack, knowing it would become a never-ending debate. She was proud of herself—she was friends with a bona fide Republican—and congratulated herself on her open mind. After all those years spent in the liberal bubble of New York City, she’d never imagined she could admire a man who not only voted for the Big Cheeto but who seemed like one of the president’s biggest fans.
But Zack was waiting for her to respond with a smile so condescending it made her remember Trump in the last presidential debate shaking his head, lifting his brows, making ridiculous faces every time Hillary opened her mouth.
Davit continued to scrub the heart monitors but Mel could feel him waiting. Was there a hint of a smile? She felt trapped and thought of Hillary again, Trump lurking behind her on that blue-carpeted stage, ready to pounce.
“What is the topic of the day?” Zack asked. Clearly, Mel thought, enjoying himself. “The poor Dreamers? The evil Wall? Or the Supreme Court?”
Mel groaned. “Don’t get me started on the Supreme Court.” She turned to Davit. “What do you think?”
“Well,” Davit began, slowly, “I agree with you both.”
Zack let out a braying laugh. Instead of making her recoil, she felt the urge to fight back. After all, she thought, this political wrestling was as close to fucking as they’d ever get. So why not play a little?
“I would imagine,” Mel said to Davit, ignoring Zack, “as a man of color . . .”
“Don’t assume!” Zack interrupted. “You don’t know him. He’s Iranian-American.”
“Armenian, actually,” Davit said.
“I said ‘imagine,’ not ‘assume.’” Mel’s heart rate spiked—not in the red zone but on its way. “You know, that little thing called empathy—it takes imagination.”
“Whatever,” said Zack. “You’re still generalizing.”
She knew he was right, on some level. But she couldn’t stand down about the topic of immigration, not when there was so much at stake. If privileged American citizens like her didn’t speak out now, then the fate of America, as dark as it might be, would be her burden to carry. Worse, Sloane’s.
She faced Zack. “What do you have at stake in all of this? A good-looking single white guy with his whole life ahead of him? You don’t have to worry about your kids asking if what Trump says about women being pigs is true. Or about people of color being rapists and murderers. You’re not vulnerable. You’re white. And you’re not a woman!”
“No,” Zack said, leaning close so she could smell him—cedarwood mixed with something sweet like vanilla, plus the faintest brine of sweat—“I’m not.”
“I need to get going,” she said weakly, her legs suddenly jelly.
“I’ll walk out with you,” said Zack.
“Don’t kill each other, you two,” said Davit, returning to his spritzing.
“After you, Lady Melissa,” said Zack, opening the door with a sweep of his arm.
Mel stepped through, abandoning her protein bar at the front desk.
Outside, Main Street smelled like flowers and salt off the ocean, two blocks away. The restaurants were packed with attractive, sun-kissed diners crowded around sidewalk tables. Mel tugged at the hem of her Eat Pure, Train Filthy tank top, which was too tight despite being size XL, suddenly self-conscious to be walking next to Zack in public wearing so little clothing. She tugged again at the flimsy fabric, coaxing it to cover her butt.
“Shit, my sweatshirt,” she said, more to herself than to Zack. “I left it back at the gym.”
“It’s a balmy seventy-one degrees. Get it next time.”
“Then can we walk down an alley or something? I hate wearing all this tight stretchy stuff in public. I’d feel better if we were less visible.”
“Incognito. I like it.” Without breaking stride, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a navy track jacket. “Here.” He draped it over her shoulders. “Now you are in disguise.”
She thought of protesting—she was, she thought, the kind of woman who hated to have doors held open for her, a true feminist—but when was the last time she’d felt this charge, as if an industrial-strength power cord connected from her soft and round belly to his taut abs? Maybe as far back as 1993—the junior year homecoming pep rally when Dustin Lewis, the baseball star, had let her borrow his letterman jacket that smelled of Kodiak tobacco dip and spearmint gum. She felt like a teenager again now.
“Hey,” Zack said, “Sorry I lost my cool back at CT.” He winced, as if genuinely ashamed. “Jensen would fire my ass if he knew I was talking politics with the clients.”
“I would never say anything,” she said. “Ever! Cross my heart.” The skin of her chest felt hot under her fingertips and she wrapped his jacket more tightly to hide the cleavage that spilled out of her too-tight sports bra. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Like?” He tossed his hair out of his eyes and she was a teen again, flirting with Dustin Lewis as the pep rally bonfire raged.
“Anything but the Big Cheeto, okay?”
He snorted. Instead of finding it gross she found it adorable.
“What?” She slapped at the hard muscle of his chest. “That’s what I call him. Don’t make fun.”
Please, she thought, make fun. Don’t stop.
An electric Bird scooter careened down the sidewalk, inches from running her down.
“Sorry!” a twentysomething woman in short-shorts and flip-flops called over a shoulder, a yippy dog tucked under one arm.
“Use both hands next time!” Mel shouted in full Brooklyn ’tude. “And a helmet!”
“Nice reflexes,” Zack said.
“Did you see that? She almost killed me. I know I sound like an old lady—okay, I am an old lady—but I hate those things. And she had, like, Toto, tucked under an arm.”
“Did you sign the petition? For the scooter ban?”
She couldn’t tell if he was teasing her. That dazzling smile, all those perfect teeth, seemed to suck in the fading ocean light.
“What would you say if I did sign the petition?”
“I’d say”—he hooked his arm in hers, the soft hair on his arms tickling—“I signed it, too.”
“I thought you’d be proud to know,” she said, “I’m getting my own heart rate monitor.”
“Good girl.” His voice was pure honey.
She’d missed feeling this—a buzzing in her ears . . . and elsewhere.
“You know,” he said, “I can get you a free heart monitor.”
“Is that a bribe?”
“Mmm,” he said, like he’d tasted something delicious. “Well, you’re definitely the teacher’s pet.”
16
Regina
REGINA COULD FEEL THE MEN’S GAZE BEND TO FOLLOW THE GIRL IN MIRRORED sunglasses walking across the sand toward the ocean, a tote bag bouncing lightly against her slim hip, gauzy white dress and long dark hair fluttering behind her. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, Regina thought, and her languorous-yet-purposeful gait suggested she’d spent time on a fashion runway.
“Quit staring, guys,” Regina said to Gordon and his friend-slash-manager Bryan, who were seated in beach chairs next to Regina’s blanket, eating the burritos she’d packed for their supper picnic and swilling wine from a thermos. “You look like dirty old men.”
“Old?” Bryan grinned and t
urned toward Regina, his angular face profiled by the setting sun. “How dare you, Reg.”
“Staring at what?” Gordon said, feigning innocence.
“Don’t play dumb,” said Regina, as the girl by the shore stepped out of her dress, revealing a tiny metallic-gold bikini underneath.
The girl’s flawlessness triggered a pang of jealousy in Regina, and she momentarily regretted having blown off exercising with Mel. Then she reminded herself that one more measly hour at the gym would not restore her youth.
She couldn’t have faced Color Theory this evening anyway. The Friday evening classes were always half-full at best, which would allow Zack plenty of time to dote on Mel. Regina couldn’t make sense of his attentiveness toward her—what was he thinking? Yes, Mel was pretty in the way of an overfed Shetland pony, and had perfected her helpless-yet-pissed-off act at the gym, which was sort of cute, but surely Zack wasn’t actually attracted to her—was he?
More likely, Regina had been telling herself, Zack was trying to make her jealous by lavishing attention on Mel during classes. Perhaps it just fed his ego—heroically assisting the out-of-breath newbie, adjusting Mel’s weights and, ugh, her form. Was it Regina’s imagination, or had his hands lingered on Mel’s hips at the squat rack the other day?
Whatever the case, Regina didn’t want to think about it. Although she was not a fan of Bryan, she’d been grateful for his last-minute idea to meet her family for an evening beach picnic so that she could justify bailing on her workout-and-Thai-food plans with Mel. Though, admittedly, she’d felt a ripple of guilt after sending Mel a purposefully vague cancellation text, knowing it would send her into a tizzy of speculation.
Over the ocean, Regina watched the sun slip down toward the horizon, painting the sky pink and red as the afternoon receded. At the shoreline, the fashion-runway girl scanned the sand, looking for something Regina could not discern, then bent to pull what looked like a silky round tablecloth from her bag, maroon with gold tassels around the border. Then she removed a leather-bound notebook from her bag, opened it, and placed it face-up on her blanket.
Regina watched Gordon’s and Bryan’s heads slowly swivel back in the girl’s direction.
“You guys are pathetic,” Regina said.
“It’s just anthropology,” Bryan shrugged. “We’re observing a native species in her natural habitat.”
“Observe elsewhere,” said Regina. “This is a family picnic.”
“Apologies, boss,” said Bryan. “Though I’d like to point out that you’re staring, too, Regina.”
“A curious glance is not the same as shameless leering,” said Regina.
“The lady doth exaggerate,” said Bryan in a British accent.
“Don’t force me to blind you, Bry,” said Gordon. He reached his free hand toward Regina’s leg and closed it around her ankle; a gesture of solidarity, she supposed. She considered pulling away but didn’t.
“How about some basic self-control, Bryan,” said Regina.
“Burn.” Bryan grinned. “As the kids say.”
Regina checked for Mia and Kaden and saw them twenty yards up the beach, bumping a volleyball back and forth over a net. The sounds of their laughter carried on the dusky mellow air, making Regina feel, for a brief moment, that all was well in her life.
As if.
The girl in the bikini stretched out on her shiny blanket like a languorous jungle cat, her impossibly slender body offset by small, firm curves. She must have chosen her spot deliberately, Regina thought. The beach was practically empty. Clearly the girl enjoyed flaunting her youthful perfection in the presence of a few middle-aged parents, an opportunity to remind perfect strangers of how unattractive and encumbered their lives were by comparison.
The realization gave Regina an irrational surge of rage. The girl’s body alone was irksome enough—Regina knew she’d never look like that again, no matter how many hours she logged at Color Theory or how little she ate. Young-skinny and middle-aged-skinny were entirely different. But it was the girl’s air of leisure that chafed at Regina, emanating from Miss Pretty Young Thing’s golden skin like sound waves. Not having a care in the world besides basking near-naked in the sunset. Regina had the irrational urge to punish the girl for being so flagrantly vain and carefree, for having the audacity to preen at the edge of her family picnic.
On cue, she heard Mel’s voice in her head: The way that girl makes you feel? That’s how every middle-aged mom I’ve met here makes me feel. And anyway, this is Santa Monica. Everyone’s vain and carefree. We should all be ashamed of ourselves.
Fuck Mel. Who, at this very moment, was probably struggling to lift the lightest of medicine balls, groaning adorably until Zack darted over to help her.
The thought made Regina want to scream.
Then again, she’d been wanting to scream since that morning, when she’d gotten a second voicemail from the bursar’s office (what the hell was a bursar, anyway?) at Rustic Canyon Day School, requesting a conversation before end of business today—a small but menacing variation from last week’s message, which offered the cushion of responding at her earliest convenience. Regina had ignored it. Today, she’d replied to the voicemail with an email, apologizing profusely, explaining that she was completely and utterly slammed with a work project, and promising to connect as soon as she came up for air. Her face had burned with shame as she typed, and she’d immediately deleted the message from her Sent folder.
No way could she have handled a Zack-and-Mel flirting session at the gym, not after the day she’d had.
“The script is just so damn good, dude,” Bryan was saying to Gordon.
Their conversation had turned, of course, to Gordon’s newly finished draft of Eighteen Twelve. Early draft! Gordon had emphasized to Regina. I’ll still get tons of notes, implying he’d be returning to his day job none too soon.
Bryan went on. “Historically immersive, yet totally timely.”
Gordon bobbed his head. “That was the goal.”
Regina wanted to cover her ears. To hear nothing more about Eighteen Twelve until it had sold for seven figures. She reminded herself that this was her fault. All Gordon had done was accept her invitation to focus on his screenplay. All he’d done was trust her to be the primary breadwinner for a while. Something he’d managed to do, without fail, for practically two decades. How was she failing so royally at something millions of the most ordinary men did every day?
She grabbed a handful of sand and squeezed until her finger joints ached.
“Hamilton meets Band of Brothers,” Bryan was saying.
Regina squeezed harder.
A few hours after her call from the bursar, Regina had gone to the mailbox (thankfully, Gordon hadn’t bothered checking it in years) to find a notice from the Writers Guild declaring that their health insurance had been canceled due to non-payment of the premium. It had to be an error. Regina had been careful to mail the payment in time to arrive just before the cutoff, as she’d been doing for months. She was quite sure she could straighten out the insurance issue with one phone call. But still.
Regina dropped the sand and brushed her hands together. Then she eased back on the towel and closed her eyes, forcing a long breath of saline air, focusing on the raspy shush of the ocean before her and the manic screech of gulls overhead.
“I want to start shopping the script as soon as possible, man,” she heard Bryan say to Gordon. “How long do you need for revisions?”
Regina’s ears pricked, but she kept her eyes closed.
“It takes as long as it takes,” said Gordon firmly.
Regina’s eyes flew open and she shot upright, as if stung. She could not listen to this any longer.
“You okay, Reg?” said Gordon, crumpling the waxy white paper that had held his burrito. “You haven’t eaten any dinner.” He nodded toward her unopened brown rectangle of take-out salad.
“You know what? I think I’m going to jog home. Get the blood flowing. I have a bunch of invoicing t
o do tonight, and a run will help me get through it.”
If only she had actual clients to invoice.
“Run home?” said Bryan. “Isn’t that kind of far?”
“Not at all,” said Regina, a bit curtly. “Two miles, tops.”
“Have I told you my wife’s practically an Olympic athlete?” said Gordon with pride.
“She looks like one,” Bryan said, nodding toward Regina admiringly.
Regina hated that his validation pleased her. Bryan was semi-slimy; currently in the process of divorcing his second wife, he’d been lightly ogling Regina for over a decade, ever since he’d signed Gordon as a client. Still, the appreciation of her hard-won body felt good, even from a guy whose next wife would likely be the age of the gold-bikini-clad Millennial sunbathing by the water. Her body was the one thing Regina securely possessed, a thing that couldn’t be taken from her, even when everything else in her life felt on the verge of slipping away.
“Don’t forget the girls, Gordon, okay?”
“What girls?” said Gordon, smiling at her. “Can I get a kiss good-bye?”
The request made her feel instantly guilty. She leaned down to press her lips against his. What would Gordon do if he knew the mess she’d made of their lives, which she continued to hide with endless lies of omission? Would he ever kiss her again?
She jogged to say good-bye to the girls at the volleyball court, then sprinted up the sand to the footpath. To her right, the sun grazed the horizon, deepening the light to shades of honey and blood. Up ahead, the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica pier turned on, shooting spikes of neon color into the fading sky.
Somehow, the sight of it gave Regina hope. She ran faster, toward the lights and the graceful curve of the coastline beyond. Her lungs began to squeeze and sweat rose at her hairline; she was beginning to feel better. Running home had been a good idea.
She had planned to take the footpath all the way to the metal staircase that led off the beach and up to the edge of her neighborhood, and run straight home. But when she reached those stairs, she found herself glancing at the smartwatch on her wrist, then cruising past her exit toward a different neighborhood on the other side of the city—toward a certain southernly block of Main Street.
Santa Monica Page 17