The Color Theory class she’d been scheduled to take with Mel was about to let out. Maybe, Regina reasoned, she could catch Mel at the studio as she was leaving. They could have dinner together after all.
17
Mel
THE COLOR THEORY VAN WAS PARKED IN THE GYM’S LOT, WEDGED BETWEEN a pickup truck and a red VW bug with Girlz Rule and Show Me Your Tats bumper stickers.
Zack sighed, nodding toward the VW. “Freaking Bri and her slogans.”
“I kind of love her,” said Mel.
“Of course you do,” said Zack, stopping in front of the black van with Train Filthy emblazoned across its side in yellow. He pulled a key fob out of his pocket and pressed it. The van unlocked with a chirping sound. Mel felt her pulse thrumming in her neck. What was she doing, standing here in a parking lot with a man so handsome he was practically edible, and young enough to qualify as a Millennial? A man who routinely attracted stares from women a hundred pounds lighter and twenty years younger than Mel?
“The monitors are in there?” she asked dumbly, as the van’s door slid open.
“Duh, totes,” Zack said. Mel cringed; could he please stop speaking like a teenager?
“You sure you’re not a secret serial killer?”
“Oh,” he said, smiling big (did he look like Ted Bundy, or was that just the twilight?), “it’s no secret.”
“Very funny.”
“Seriously, you should pick out the monitor you want,” he said, gesturing into the van’s dim interior. “There’s a bunch of different ones in there.” He stepped inside and beckoned toward her. “They all have a different fit. Hop on in and try a couple.”
Alarms clanged in Mel’s head; clearly, she should run in the other direction, straight to her own car, and hightail it. She shook her head. “That’s okay. You can just choose one for—”
He cut her off. “Now, now, don’t be ungrateful. Not everyone gets the privilege of choosing their very own complimentary monitor. C’mon, m’lady.” He extended his arm toward her, grinning. “I know how you love to be called that.”
“It beats ma’am,” she said, her voice wobbly as she gripped the cool metal frame of the van, bypassing Zack’s proffered arm, and hoisted herself up. Once inside, she crouched awkwardly beside him in the cavernous interior, making sure to keep a few inches between their bodies.
“Atta girl,” he said. “Now, look around and help me find them.”
“Find what?”
He laughed. “The heart rate monitors! I know there’s a stash of them in here somewhere.” Mel blinked, trying to get her bearings; despite the van’s interior light, she could hardly see anything but Zack’s hulking form.
“Isn’t this illegal?” she said. “Rummaging around in a vehicle that doesn’t belong to us? I could just buy one. I’m happy to, you know, to support the studio. Small biz and all.”
“No, ma’am, your husband and kid won’t have to bail you out of jail tonight,” he said—she actually liked it when he called her ma’am but wished he wouldn’t remind her of Adam’s existence, and definitely not Sloane’s. “I’m embarrassed to admit that Jensen, the owner of the studio—you met him yet?—he let me sleep in here a few times when I first started training. I found a job before I had a place to live.”
“It does smell a little like Old Spice in here,” Mel said, then worried she might have offended him. He was sharing with her, and here she was, as always, cracking a joke, then hating herself for it.
“Hey, we can’t all shop on Rodeo Drive.” He sounded a little hurt.
“Fuck,” she sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I need to get me some thicker skin.”
She wanted to say, I like the skin you’re wearing. A desire to be honest welled inside her.
“Not to go all political on you again,” she said. He held his hands up in mock surrender, his long arms silhouetting on the van’s upholstery. “But, ever since the election—”
“The Big Cheeto?”
“Ha, yeah. Ever since the orange guy took over, well, I’m doing this thing with men. Starting arguments over nothing. And, well, everything. I try to tell myself to shut up. To keep it all in. But, as you can see”—she motioned at her body, her hands smoothing over the curves she loathed—“I don’t have much self-control.”
“There you go again,” he said and, suddenly, his breath was warm on her neck, “being hard on yourself.”
The heat of his body was so close. She wanted to touch the curve of his back, trace the humps of muscles under his thin T-shirt. She thought of how, in class earlier, he’d done a handstand, and his shirt had fallen down, exposing chiseled abs and the trail of golden-brown hair leading from his navel into his shorts.
“There they are!” Zack said, jutting his chin toward the back of the van.
“There what are?”
“The belts, dude,” he said, shimmying toward the single bench in the far rear. “A whole pile of ’em, right here.”
“Great,” said Mel.
“Come on back here, so I can show you how these medieval things work.”
“Medieval?” Mel said, feeling a queasy tremble in her stomach. “Aren’t they just like . . . wristbands?”
Zack patted the seat beside him. “Nope. These are old-school. They go around your upper torso. Totally easy, once you get the hang of it. Get back here and I’ll show you.”
Holy shit, she thought, was this really happening?
She moved to the back of the van and sat next to Zack, who was holding a belt-length strap affixed to a black square.
“Sit up straight, missus,” he said. “No slouching.”
His arms reached around her, and she felt the pressure of the band at her bra line, and then the click of something plastic in the center of her back. She sucked in her gut, as much as she was able. As he fumbled with the monitor, his face was close enough to rest against her cheek. She felt the rhythm of her own breath, rising and falling.
“See, it’s kinda complicated. I always help clients strap it on the first time.”
“That’s what she said.” Great, Mel thought, now she sounded like a drunk college freshman. Where had that come from? Now was not the time to go filter-less.
But Zack barked a genuine laugh. “You crack me up, Goldberg.” He drew away from her, and she tried not to feel disappointed. “Your monitor’s all set. Fits perfectly. Consider it yours.”
“Most of the time, I don’t even mean to be funny, you know,” she said. Was her voice shaking? “It just comes out that way.” She thought of Adam, who criticized her overuse of sarcasm, called it emotional deflection.
No, she told herself, don’t think of him. Be here. Be now.
Zack sat back, engulfed by the darkness for a minute so she could see only the shape of his face. “You do that a lot,” Zack said.
“Do what?”
“Say bad things about yourself.”
“Oh,” she said, “that. What can I say? I’m a realist.”
“More like a nihilist.”
What was he saying? Was this going to be some rehash of the whole new you spiel? Version Two You!, blah blah blah? Or did he mean something else?
He was looking at her—really looking at her in a way she wasn’t used to, not since she’d morphed into post-Sloane Melissa. Invisible, especially to men—a freedom she resented but also appreciated.
She ran her hand over the monitor in the center of her chest, suddenly paranoid that he’d actually turned it on, and would be able to see how her heart was racing, rocketing all the way up into the red.
“Can I share something with you?” he asked.
She nodded, barely able to speak.
“It’s a quote I like to share with clients.”
“Okay.” She’d been hoping, like an idiot, to hear something only for her.
Zack closed his eyes and Mel swallowed a giggle.
“Your body can stand almost anything. It’s your mind you have to convince.”
<
br /> He opened his eyes and looked straight into hers.
“Wow,” she said, hoping she sounded genuine. “Oh yeah, totally.”
“It’s a good one, right? I can’t remember who said it—sorry about that—but it really gets at the integral connection of body and mind . . .”
He kept talking. Spouting the typical shallow bullshit intended to be deep and meaningful that she’d heard every trainer at every gym she’d joined (and quit) say. Believe in yourself. You are stronger than you know. Mindfulness and intentions and self-actualization. She nodded, knowing she was stroking his ego—the same game she felt forced to play with most men. Telling him what he wanted to hear, knowing that later, hours or even days after, she’d hate herself for doing it. But with Zack, she felt different, didn’t she? Was she hallucinating, or could she trust the part of her that believed he just might be different from those other men?
“Hold up for a sec,” Mel said, lifting a hand, and silence him she did—his mouth froze mid-sentence. “I don’t mean to be rude, and I know what I’m about to say is rude, so sorry in advance. I know you’re not just some meathead gym dude.” His eyebrows lifted and she cursed herself silently. “You said some really smart things in my backyard at the workout party. But”—she paused, realizing there was no sugarcoating the shit that was her marriage since she’d uncovered Adam’s affair—“I need to be concrete. Let you know where I’m, so to speak, at.”
“Cool.” Zack nodded. “Lay it on me.”
He ran his fingers through his hair, seeming suddenly nervous, which made him all the more attractive, and emboldened her.
“Look, Zack. I need to start over. Like from scratch.”
“I get you,” Zack said. “Promise.”
That squint, that sheepish smile. She wanted to believe him almost as badly as she wanted to reach out and touch his hard chest, run her finger along the straight pretty line of his jaw. Then she remembered he was a coach. A person who made people feel good about themselves for a living. As if someone as gorgeous as he was could actually relate to her woes. Sure. She, a plus-sized middle-aged woman whose husband was cheating on her—a husband she’d been delusional enough to believe had actually loved her, was attracted to her, thought she looked beautiful in the lingerie she could barely squeeze into. As if!
She was a needy mess, a person so lonely she paid people—Lettie, and now Zack—to be nice to her. And then was foolish enough to hope they actually cared. She felt a surge of anger rear inside her. She was mad now, at Adam, at Zack, at this entire phony feel-good city, the whole damn it’s all good West Coast. Best coast, her fat ass!
Mostly, she was angry at herself.
“You were saying?” Zack tipped his head at her, expectantly, eyes crinkling with something that looked like concern. “About starting over?”
“Right,” she managed. “It’s nice of you. To try to understand. With the pep talk and all. But it’s not just my outside that needs . . . renovating.” She gestured at her legs, her chest, as if she was shooing away a gnat. “It’s me. Everything about me is just—ugh, I don’t know. It’s just not . . .” She paused and looked down, only to realize her boobs were nearly climbing out of the sports bra she’d outgrown. “I’m not me. Not anymore.”
She hooked her thumbs under the sports bra straps and adjusted it to better cover herself. Zack looked away. Great, she thought, not only was she making a fool out of herself sounding all neurotic and corny but now she was grossing him out.
“I have to go,” she said, dropping her eyes to the grimy floor of the van, but not moving. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” he said softly. She looked up to see him stone-faced, his light, actorly charm replaced with solemnity. Oh God—was he about to cry?
“I know what that feels like,” he said. “I haven’t been me since I left Florida.” He sighed. “Please don’t leave yet. We can just sit here. Honestly, I just don’t want to be alone.”
Was he for real? She glanced around, unable to shake the paranoid fear that this was all a joke. Maybe Regina put him up to this, and was about to throw open the van door and yell Surprise!
“Okay,” she whispered.
They sat in silence. Mel stared at the shadows dancing across the dumpster lit by a streetlamp. It was full dark out now. For once, she felt no pressure to find words. Always, her impulse was to fill the quiet spaces in conversation, uncomfortable with awkward pauses—especially with someone as handsome as Zack. Better to hide behind the noise.
But not now. Now, she was only surprised by how calm she felt sitting next to him with no words to shield her. Calm and safe.
“I’m going through a thing with my husband. It’s been”—she paused—“bad.”
She hadn’t meant to say it. But she had. Not the whole truth, but enough.
Relief washed over her.
“That sucks,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
She waited for him to say more, but was grateful when he did not.
“Maybe we both don’t belong here,” she said. She clamped a hand over her mouth. “Oh God, that was a stupid thing to say. I’m so fucking negative all the time.”
He reached over and tugged her hand away from her face. His fingers were so close to her mouth she could smell his sunscreen, or whatever he put on his face, something coconutty, tropical.
“Hon, you got to be kinder to yourself.”
Did he really just call her hon? She knew she should be offended—she’d reprimanded strange men in public before (mostly waiters) for calling her sweetheart, babe, even ma’am. But coming from Zack, she liked the way those saccharine endearments sounded, embarrassing as it was to admit to herself. Weren’t they names that had belittled women for ages?
“Yep,” she said. “My whole adult life men having been telling me to relax. Smile.” She dropped into her surfer dude impersonation. “Chill out. Take it easy—that one’s the worst, like I’m trying to attack them or something.”
“Almost as bad as It’s all good.” He laughed. “I’ll never get used to that BS.”
“Oh God.” She giggled now, too. “That one’s the worst. Nothing makes me want to beeline back to Brooklyn more.”
“I love talking to you,” Zack said.
Really? she wanted to ask.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I really—I mean really—want to give up. Pack my shit and go home. People come here to, I don’t know, rewrite their story, you know?”
She nodded. She did know. Adam had rewritten his story and now he’d flown past her. On to bigger and better things.
“I mean, look.” Zack blinked a few times—Mel wondered if it was a tic. “I’ve been here, what, two years, and I’ve seen people go from nobody to somebody with a single audition. This one chick I know”—Mel tried not to react, reminding herself he was young—“she’s from deep-south Alabama . . . she’s famous after one freaking YouTube video. And I don’t just mean internet-famous. She’s on a show now. It just got picked up by Starz.”
Mel wondered if that was what he wanted—to be a “famous” star in some forgettable TV show on a B-network? Oy, he was so young.
“We—you and me included—we’re all here to be a better version of ourselves,” he said. “I know how cheesy that sounds, like gag-me-level cheesy. And it was Regina who came up with that dumb-ass Version Two You! name but, sometimes, the cheesy things are the truest things.”
“Well, well, well,” she said. “Mr. Doheny is a romantic. Maybe you do belong in the City of Angels after all.”
He let out a big laugh. “What do I know? I’m just a meathead—you said it yourself.”
“Lame joke,” she said. “And I didn’t mean it. Swear. I think you’re . . . great.” She gripped his arm for emphasis, blushing in the darkness, and felt him flex under her touch.
“Great, eh?” he said. “Oh, how you spoil me, sweet Melissa.” She did not move her hand from his arm.
“Glad to help,” she said. “In any way.”
Had sh
e really just said that?
“Who’d you see running ahead of you in Bri’s class?” he asked.
“What?” She let go of his arm and tugged at the heart rate monitor, which was cutting into her flesh. This was too close. Intimate. He was doing that thing again. Reading her mind.
His fingers reached for her, found her knee, sending a tingling current up her leg. He hooked his fingers in hers.
“Zack, I should—” she began.
What was there to say? She hadn’t felt this in almost twenty years. Since she was a Melissa she couldn’t even remember.
“No, you shouldn’t,” he said firmly. “Not yet. Do you want to know who I was chasing?”
“Uh-huh.” Her body was humming. She was sure to do something awful if she didn’t get out of the van right then. She felt a throbbing between her legs, as urgent as when she was thirteen, lying on the sofa late at night watching her dad’s Playboy channel, her fingers slipped into her panties, praying she’d come before her parents caught her.
“I was chasing myself. That better me,” he said. “The me you help me to see.”
Whoa, Mel wanted to say, wishing she could freeze time, have a second to figure out what exactly was happening.
“Who do you think I was chasing?” She heard the sadness in her voice. How pathetic. “My cheating son-of-a-bitch husband.”
“Oh, Mel.” He stroked her arm, sending a shiver through her body.
“Yep, I’ve got irrefutable proof.” She held up a hand. “But I don’t want to get into it now. Just trust me. It’s real.”
“I trust you, darlin’.”
Oh, how she wanted him now.
“Then”—she paused, knowing she was taking a step forward and that there’d be no turning back—“there was someone else in front of me.”
“And . . .” He was playing with her, she thought. He knew it was he who she wanted to chase.
“Next time,” she said, desperate to change the topic, cut through the thick warm air of the van, the humming attraction, “I’m going to imagine it’s Regina I’m chasing. With a knife. That skinny bitch stood me up. We were supposed to take class together, then have dinner.”
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