Santa Monica

by Cassidy Lucas

  Which seemed a lifetime ago. Since the thing in the van with Zack (the mere sight of a van—any van—caused rays of heat to shoot to Mel’s face), Regina had not spoken to Mel in any form, save a single all-caps text: JUST STOP. Of course, she hadn’t responded to the text Mel had sent her, on an impulse, ten minutes ago.

  “Sloane?” Mel pressed. “Are you planning to answer me?”

  “Um, yes,” said Sloane. “Is it okay to use bad words when it’s the best possible description for something?”

  “Depends on the situation,” said Adam.

  “The situation is right now. And it’s only a medium-bad word. Not super-bad, like the f-word or the c-word.”

  How the hell would Sloane know the c-word? Mel wondered.

  “Hmmm,” said Adam. “I guess I’d say yes, then, since it’s just your mom and me here. But only if the bad word is absolutely necessary.”

  Fuck you, then! Mel shot at him, silently.

  “Okay, here goes,” said Sloane. “Drumroll, please!”

  Adam banged imaginary drums.

  “Your dress is kind of slutty, mom. Aka, skanky. No offense.”

  “Excuse me?” said Mel.

  “It’s too . . .” Sloane pointed to her own flat chest. “Boob-ish.”

  “Okay, that’s enough, Sloane,” said Adam.

  “Megan has nailed it!” Mel heard a voice yell from the TV. She felt her temper rise. She tried to speak, “diplomatically,” as Adam was fond of recommending. Screw him, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of her getting “hysterical.”

  “You know, Sloane, these boobs kept you alive for the first year of your life,” Mel said, covering the three steps from the staircase to the front door with extreme caution. “So, you might want to thank them before you get on your moral high horse.” The heels felt okay, actually. Worth every penny of the $398 she’d spent on them.

  “Mom, gross!”

  “Oh-kay,” said Adam. “It’s bedtime, Sloanie.”

  “What’s a moral high horse?” said Sloane.

  “It’s mommy feeling sensitive to criticism,” said Adam.

  “Good night, you two!” said Mel as cheerily as possible, opening the door to the cool night air.

  “Where are you even going?” said Sloane. “It’s a school night.”

  “I told you already, dinner with some lady friends.”

  “Oooooh. Sounds juicy.”

  “Love you,” said Mel, blowing a kiss in the direction of her husband and daughter. It took all her restraint not to add, And only you, Sloanie. Thankfully, Sloane hadn’t asked them, again, if they were getting a divorce. Mel hoped that, for now, Sloane believed the bickering was Mel and Adam’s regular routine. But hadn’t Sloane seemed a bit anxious that past week? Mel had noticed her daughter gnawing on her fingernails more than once, and her usual sass had begun to tip over into outright defiance. The other night Sloane had stormed away from the dining table after Mel suggested she use a napkin to wipe her ketchup-coated lips.

  “Love you,” Sloane and Adam sang out in unison. Like a two-headed creature, Mel thought, as she closed the heavy front door behind her.

  The air was cold enough to make gooseflesh rise on her bare arms—was this “winter”?—and smelled of night-blooming jasmine.

  Her phone chimed and informed her the Lyft she’d ordered was three minutes away. She felt her chest cave; why was she doing this to herself? She’d always hated “girls’ nights” of any kind, even in college. Groups of drunk, giddy women spilling gossip and confessions only made Mel feel sour and judgmental. Which then made her feel something must surely be wrong with her.

  There was only one reason she was subjecting herself to this godforsaken “Minnow Night.”

  She missed Regina.

  Mel gripped the handrail as she walked the three steps down to the yard, and once safely on the footpath, pulled her little white pen from her purse and took a deep, sweet hit off the vape pen advertised as Bliss. The sleek packaging promised an uplifting high with its nine-to-one THC/CBD ratio (God bless Prop 64). By the time she reached the sidewalk to wait for her Lyft, she was already feeling much better.

  23

  Regina

  “REGINA, OVER HERE!” JESS FABIAN WAVED FROM THE BAR OF CANYON Rustica, a dim, cavernous space lit by bare bulbs extending on pendants from the ceiling. Regina made her way past tables crowded with sleekly dressed diners toward the gleaming redwood bar, where a cluster of John Wayne moms stood holding cocktail and wine glasses. Country-tinged indie rock played in the background; Regina tried not to let it remind her of Zack. She scanned the bar area for Mel and was relieved not to see her among the group.

  She’d probably chickened out, Regina thought, glad she hadn’t responded to Mel’s rambling text.

  “Wolfie, yay!” Lindsey Leyner’s sharp manicure closed around Regina’s forearm. “It’s about time. Our table should be ready any minute. We’re getting that giant booth in the back.”

  “You look amazing, Regina,” said Kylie Dupree, a tiny, aggressive woman who reminded Regina of the sort of yappy dog celebrities tucked under their arms. Kylie ran the John Wayne PTA with a blend of shrill enthusiasm and a relentlessly guilt-inducing approach to fundraising. Thus Regina, who had yet to make her first of two expected annual donations (suggested contribution per family: $2,000), strategically avoided her. “I mean, look at your body, look at your skin! Are you doing Kybella?”

  “Am I doing what?” said Regina.

  “Oh, come on, Regina’s a purist,” said Lindsey. “She doesn’t do injectables. Not even Botox! Nothing but diet and exercise for the Wolfe. Old school.”

  “I officially hate you,” said Kylie to Regina. “Do you know how much I have to spend every month?” She zigzagged her index finger through the air in front of her face. “Just to keep from looking like a basset hound?”

  “Five hundred?” Lindsey guessed instantly. “No, wait. Seven-fifty?”

  “Basset hounds are cute,” said Regina, wishing she’d stayed home.

  Jess Fabian, the improbably nice redheaded mother of two menacing redheaded fifth-grade twins, Tyler and Torrance, swiveled around from the bar and extended a highball glass with a lime on the rim to Regina.

  “Here, Reg! I got you a vodka soda.”

  “Thanks.” Regina had been planning to have no more than a single glass of white wine with dinner, but accepted the cocktail. Jess was easily offended. Perhaps this somehow fueled the entitled, greedy vibe of her ten-year-old boys, though Regina wasn’t sure how. Kaden called them the double demons, and Mel had once referred to them as next-gen-#METOO.

  “How are those handsome boys of yours?” Regina asked Jess.

  “Oh, you know,” Jess said, a bit helplessly. “Already . . . tween-ish. I’m terrified to send them to middle school next year.”

  “Your table’s ready, ladies.” A handsome male server with sculpted cheekbones and shoulder-length dark hair—hadn’t Regina just seen him on some commercial?—appeared and beckoned the group toward the restaurant’s main floor. “One of your friends is already waiting at the booth for you. The lady in the green dress. She looked a little lost on her way back from the restroom so I took the liberty of seating her.”

  Regina instantly knew he was referring to Mel. Who else would get lost between the bathroom and the bar? Mel had a terrible sense of direction and was probably stoned to boot. Regina took another sip of her vodka soda, feeling her empty stomach flutter at the prospect of seeing her ex-friend, the traitor. The drink was strong.

  “Wait ’til you see how amazing Mel looks tonight!” said Jess to Regina as they followed the server toward the back of the restaurant. “She must have lost at least twenty pounds, right?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Regina.

  “Oh, I thought you two hung out all the time?” said Jess.

  “I’d say Mel’s lost eight to ten pounds,” Lindsey cut in. “It shows more on short people. But still, it’s definitely a s
tep the right direction. And I see her at Color Theory all the time now.”

  “She does love Zack’s classes,” said Regina.

  “Uh-oh,” said Lindsey. “Is someone else after your boyfriend, Reg?”

  “Shut up,” said Regina. Then added a smile.

  The server rounded a corner leading to another crowded dining area. Regina saw Mel sitting on the edge of an enormous U-shaped banquette, looking at her phone.

  “Melissa, there you are!” screeched Lindsey. “We heard you got lost.”

  “Hi, guys.” Mel stood up from the booth, wobbling a little on her feet.

  “Regina, hi!”

  Mel was not wearing her glasses, Regina noticed, and had put on a good amount of makeup, including liner applied cat-eye style and red matte lipstick.

  “Good evening,” said Regina, with as much cold formality as possible. Mel did look noticeably slimmer, and was wearing an uncharacteristically flattering wrap dress that exposed her cleavage.

  In fact, she looked great. Far too heavy, still, but glammed up in a way that suited her.

  The Zack effect, Regina thought darkly.

  Regina drained her drink and watched the server set a stack of menus on the table. She waited to sit until the other women had arranged themselves before taking a seat on the edge of the booth, as far from Mel as possible.

  “I’ll let you ladies get settled,” said the server, “and be right back to take your order. My name is Brandon, by the way.”

  Lindsey tapped a fuchsia nail to her wineglass. “Could we get another round? And a few orders of those buffalo cauliflower thingies?” Regina smiled to herself; Mel loathed cauliflower.

  “Certainly!” Brandon flashed a smile. “Let’s see, we’ve got two pinot grigios, two vodka sodas, and for you, in the green dress—?”

  “The green dress will have a Coke,” said Mel.

  “Diet, or . . .”

  “Or not,” said Mel, “Just regular Coke with shitloads of corn syrup.”

  “You got it,” said Brandon, looking perplexed.

  When he was gone, Lindsey snort-laughed and jerked her thumb toward Mel, seated beside her. “How funny is this one?”

  “Right?” said Kylie. “You’re such a firecracker, Mel!”

  Mel shrugged. “Sometimes men need a little extra help. Often, actually.”

  “Oh, do they?” said Regina, feeling suddenly loosened by the vodka. “What kind of help?” It was all she could do not to add, Like fucking-in-the-van help?

  She did not typically drink vodka so quickly. Or at all.

  “Oh, ah,” Mel fumbled. Regina hoped to God she was blushing. “You know. Just basic . . . guidance.”

  “I was just telling Regina how smoking hot you look, Mel,” said Jess. Regina could practically feel Mel cringe at the compliment.

  “Smoking,” Regina repeated.

  “Speaking of smoke,” said Kylie. “How terrible are things in Malibu right now, with the Woolsey Fire?”

  Jess nodded vigorously. “It’s atrocious. I watched a slideshow on the LA Times website earlier. Almost a hundred thousand acres burned up.”

  “I saw that, too,” said Kylie. “Heartbreaking. I was thinking the PTA could start a donation campaign at school, for victims of the fire. We could just suggest that all families tack on a little extra to their usual spring contribution, and I’ll stick it into a GoFundMe.”

  Was it Regina’s imagination, or did Kylie shoot her a pointed look?

  Fuck the PTA, she imagined blurting.

  “Let’s do it!” Lindsey squealed. “It’s the right thing.”

  “I don’t know,” said Mel, “I’m not all that sorry about Whatserface Kardashian’s house burning down.”

  “What?” Lindsey clapped her hand to her mouth. “You can’t say that, Mel. Just because she’s rich doesn’t mean—”

  “She deserves to burn to death?” offered Regina. “Is that what you meant, Mel?” God, the drink had been strong. She should probably eat something.

  “No!” said Mel. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t apologize,” said Kylie. “I love your honesty, Mel. And you’re right. The Kardashians are not the people we need to worry about. Do you know how many domestic workers there are in Malibu? Thousands.”

  “Right?” Jess shook her head sadly. “And lots of them are undocumented. So, when their bosses’ big houses burn down, they’re left with nothing. Nowhere to live, no insurance, no way to make money, just”—she snapped her fingers—“zilch.”

  “Ugh,” said Mel. “And that’s on top of the Big Cheeto already trying to deport them and break up their families.” Regina watched her lift the glass of Coke Brandon had just delivered into the air, as if waving a flag. “These people are already living in fear, hour to hour. When they’ve done nothing more than try to make better lives for themselves and their kids. It’s sick and malicious to start a national campaign against them. My friend Leticia was just telling me—”

  “You mean your housekeeper?” Regina cut in, unable to restrain herself. Mel, the activist! Mel, the kindhearted friend to undocumented workers! Regina had known Lettie for years before she’d introduced her to Mel. Regina had been the one to pick Lettie up in the middle of the night to rescue her from some violent asshole. Regina had co-signed for the financing on Lettie’s car. Regina had paid for physical therapy after Andres’s accident.

  Mel, the selfish, stealing slut.

  “Leticia is my friend first,” said Mel, narrowing her eyes at Regina.

  Regina fought the urge to extend her middle finger. Mel had stolen Lettie. Not that Regina had ever thought of Lettie as hers. But for years she’d had fond feelings and a comfortable (generous!) relationship with the timid Mexican woman, until Mel had horned in and made Regina feel guilty for the way she treated Lettie. As if Mel were the good employer, the one who truly cared, and Regina was merely someone who wrote Lettie checks, just another out-of-touch privileged white woman who didn’t really want to know her housekeeper.

  First Mel had claimed Lettie. And then she’d helped herself to Zack. Regina’s head swam from the vodka, and for a moment, she let herself miss him. The feeling rippled through her, a dislocating current of sadness. She’d never had Zack either, but Mel had taken away Regina’s vague hope of having him at some fuzzy point in the future—the only thing that had gotten her through the punishingly anxious days of the last year.

  And now, thanks to Mel and her stubbled vagina (oh God), Regina’s hope was gone.

  Feeling woozy, Regina pressed both palms into the soft leather of the banquette to steady herself.

  “Ready to order, ladies?” Brandon and his blinding smile materialized again.

  The women rattled off requests for salads and grilled fish (even Mel, usually quick to bypass a healthful meal, ordered salmon, Regina noticed); Regina said she’d already eaten.

  “So, ladies!” Kylie Dupree jumped in as if calling a PTA meeting to order. “I say we make this fundraising campaign really targeted. Maybe we don’t involve the PTA. Maybe we just tap all of our personal networks really hard, specifically raise money for domestic workers in Malibu displaced by the Woolsey fires. Not to sound, uh, elitist, but it’s just a fact that we all know people who know people with, well, resources. God knows my husband could stand to give back more. He writes one check a year to the Democratic party and another to the ACLU and thinks he’s some kind of philanthropist.”

  “I don’t think my husband contributes anything to anyone,” said Mel. At the mention of Adam, Regina detected a new edge in Mel’s voice, as if she were more awake, firing up. “Except maybe his goddamn jiu-jitsu academy and Sloane’s soccer team. Then again, we’re new to this whole having-money thing.”

  Regina cringed. Mel, the shameless over-sharer.

  “Ha!” said Kylie. “You’re right, Linds, she is hilarious.”

  Regina was sick of everyone’s endless amusement with Mel.

  “Sloane is so gifted!” said Je
ss. “Tyler is a big fan of hers. He says she’s the coolest kid in fifth grade.”

  “How sweet,” said Mel, though Regina could imagine her preferred comeback—something like, Aw, and Sloane says Tyler is the biggest douchebag in fifth!

  Mel was pretty funny.

  “I do love this fundraising idea,” said Jess, whose husband, Regina knew, was an executive producer of the Avengers franchise. “We could blow up a GoFundMe!”

  To avoid chiming in—how could you get excited about a plan to give money when you had none?—Regina busied herself downing the fresh vodka soda she hadn’t wanted and discreetly glanced into her purse to check her phone.

  Then, before she could stop herself, she texted Zack: Hey.

  A single word, nothing more. Still, her heart rate zoomed. She turned her phone off.

  “I don’t know,” said Lindsey, spearing a hunk of cauliflower coated in a purplish-brown glaze. “Not that I don’t have total sympathy for the immigrant situation, but I can sort of see both sides.”

  “Both sides of what?” said Mel.

  “Well.” Lindsey tipped her (third? Regina guessed, or fourth?) pinot grigio to her lips. “I’m all for doing a fundraiser for the Woolsey Fire victims. And I love Lettie, too, Melissa. She’s been like family to me for years.”

  “Has she?” Regina asked.

  Lindsey ignored her. “Also, let me state that I am one hundred percent against the Wall.”

  “What?” Mel looked as if she’d been stung. “I would hope so, Lindsey. I mean . . . Jesus.”

  “But, it doesn’t mean that there isn’t some risk in welcoming . . .” Lindsey paused. “Foreign workers.”

  “Oh, Lindsey, come on,” said Kylie. “Don’t get started on that Halloween incident again. It’s over.”

  “Let me remind you that my husband was assaulted, Kylie.” Lindsey set her empty wineglass down hard on the table. “It doesn’t just become ‘over.’”

  Regina closed her purse and sat up straighter, glad for a change of topic. “Assaulted? What do you mean?”