Skype with Mommy a few times a week. I will do my best to put on a happy face.
Thank you, my brother Zack. You did what you always are telling the workout people in your classes. You SHOWED UP. You saved us.
Love, your sister,
Leticia Mendoza
Wednesday, January 16, 2019
29
Mel
MEL COULD SMELL ZACK ON HER SKIN AS SHE SPED TOWARD JOHN WAYNE Elementary, her hands slicking the steering wheel with sweat, heart rabbiting in her chest.
The text from Adam had come at the most inopportune time. Meaning, when several of Zack’s fingers had been deep inside her, and another around her . . . bottom. Hole of her bottom. Bottom hole. Ugh. She couldn’t find a word for it that didn’t make her feel like a raging slut—but the thing he did in that place drove her crazy. The text tone she’d recently assigned to Adam, a clip from “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor, a song he’d once claimed to loathe more than any song ever made, had started at precisely the same time as her orgasm, and she’d grabbed for the phone practically before she’d finished, reading Adam’s words just as Zack’s fingers were slipping out of her.
Sloane’s principal called. Wants us both to meet with her at school ASAP. I have no idea why so don’t ask. Sloane is fine tho, I made sure of that. No panicking please. I’m on my way. Meet me there stat.
Of course, Mel had panicked. Bolted from the hotel room, leaving Zack naked on the bed watching House Hunters International, smiling with concern, gorgeous as hell.
“You coming back?” he’d asked, sticking out his bottom lip in a pout.
“If my daughter’s still alive,” said Mel. “But don’t count on it.”
At a red light, she checked her face in the rearview mirror and smeared gloss on her lips. Did she look disheveled? Suspicious? Sex-dazed? Would Adam even notice, or care if he did?
Of course not, she reminded herself, pulling into the faculty lot of Sloane’s school. Adam was too busy fucking the next Scarlett Johansson. She parked in a spot marked Staff Only and turned off the ignition. Let them tow her.
Mel smoothed her shirt over her jeans, hoping it wasn’t too wrinkled from its time crumpled on the hotel floor, and speed-walked to the front office, where she dropped her voice to a discreet volume to tell the receptionist she was there to see the principal.
Oh Christ, she thought, as the receptionist led her to Principal Burke’s office. What could it be?
Adam and Sloane were already inside, seated in two of five chairs arranged in a semicircle facing Principal Burke’s desk. Sloane slouched on the adult-sized chair, feet dangling above the floor.
“Mom!” said Sloane. She looked like she’d been crying. Mel’s heart clenched.
“Honey,” said Mel, kissing Sloane’s cheek.
“That took you a while,” said Adam, impeccably dressed in an olive-green button-down and the dark blue Bonobos pants Mel had bought him after she’d read online they were the “most perfect men’s pants ever made.”
Perfect pants for a perfect man.
Ha.
“Traffic,” Mel said to Adam, taking the seat beside him. He patted her knee. She moved it away from his hand.
“Melissa, glad you’re here,” said the principal, whose curt manner matched her name—Liz Burke. She reminded Mel of Jamie Lee Curtis. “Now we’re just waiting for the other . . . family.”
On cue, the door opened and Jess Fabian walked in, followed by her son Tyler, whose red hair matched his mother’s.
As soon as Mel recognized the boy she knew it was bad news.
“Jessica and Tyler,” said Principal Burke. “Welcome.”
“My husband couldn’t make it,” said Jessica. “Sorry.” Then she turned to Mel. “Melissa!” said Jessica. “How funny to see you here.”
“It is,” said Mel. “Funny.”
She hadn’t seen Jessica since Minnow Night at Canyon Rustica.
Jessica and Tyler sat in the remaining chairs in the room, Tyler assuming a slumped position similar to Sloane’s. The two children did not look at each other, Mel noticed.
“Now that we’re all here,” said Liz Burke, “I want to start by saying this room is an entirely safe space. For you, Sloane, and you, Tyler. Is that clear?”
Sloane and Tyler mumbled yeses.
“Good,” said Liz. “Now, kids, your parents don’t know why I called them in here today. So, I’d like one of you to tell them.”
The room was silent.
“Sloanie,” said Adam gently. “Can you do it? Tell us why we’re here? You’re not in trouble.”
Sloane put her hands over her face and began to cry. Mel wanted to gather her in her arms, but Adam beat Mel to it, rubbing the small girl’s back and whispering reassurances in her ear.
Finally, Sloane sat up and dropped her hands. She took a deep breath and looked to Adam, as if for courage.
But then Tyler Fabian spoke up.
“We sent each other dirty texts.”
Mel had the sense of the yellowish office walls closing in around her.
“You what?” said Jessica Fabian.
Tyler shrugged. “It was a game, kinda. We were just messing around.”
“We didn’t mean it!” Sloane finally found her voice. “I don’t even like him!”
“They exchanged a series of text messages,” said Principal Burke, “which came to our attention when our aftercare director caught sight of them on Tyler’s phone.”
“This is a mistake,” said Mel. “Sloane wouldn’t even know how to write . . .” She paused. “So-called dirty texts. She’s years away from puberty!”
“Mom!” Sloane burst.
“Melissa,” warned Adam. “It’s okay, baby,” he said, rubbing Sloane’s shoulder. “You can tell us.”
Mel wondered if Adam and Sloane were conspiring against her; if perhaps, in all those secret, giggling moments together, he’d convinced their daughter to help him hide his affair. Then she looked at Tyler Fabian, his mouth hanging half-open, and felt ashamed for betraying her sweet Sloane by thinking something so insane, even if just for one paranoid second.
“We were just having a . . . a contest,” said Sloane, her voice quavering. “Me and Tyler. To see who could write the grossest thing we found on gross websites.”
“We were pretending we were boyfriend-girlfriend,” said Tyler.
“We’re not!” cried Sloane miserably. “I’m too young for a boyfriend!”
“You sure are,” said Mel, fearing she might throw up. This was not happening.
“A contest?” said Adam, turning to Tyler.
“Yeah,” mumbled Tyler. “Or, like, just a stupid game. We were just bored at aftercare.”
“Mommy never picks me up on time!” burst Sloane.
Tyler nodded. “We’re always, like, the last kids there.”
“I doubt that,” said Jess Fabian, sounding weary.
It was as if Mel had been punched in the gut. “Honey,” she said to Sloane weakly. “I’m always . . . there to get you. And half the time you’re at soccer.”
Adam narrowed his eyes at her. “I thought we agreed you’d get her by four thirty on the no-soccer days.”
“So, this is my fault?” Mel’s cheeks blazed. How was Adam still siding with Sloane? She faced her daughter.
“It’s Tyler’s fault!” Sloane began to cry in earnest. “I hate him!”
“You do?” Tyler said, sounding hurt.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” Adam massaged Sloane’s head.
“The messages were very explicit,” said the principal. “Well beyond, er, PG-13. Which is why I felt I needed to bring them to your attention immediately.”
“Seriously, Tyler?” said Jess. “I give you a phone for your eleventh birthday and this is how you thank me?”
“Sloane doesn’t even have a phone!” said Mel. “This is impossible.”
“I used Daddy’s,” Sloane whispered.
“Jesus,” said Adam.
; “How explicit?” said Mel, the realization rising and coalescing inside her, suffusing her body with dread. “How explicit were the messages?”
Liz Burke sighed. “I have screenshots printed out.”
“But I erased the messages!” cried Sloane. “Every time.”
Mel jolted with a memory: Sloane standing at her bedroom door, the morning after Mel had found the texts.
Mom? Are you ever gonna get up? This is like the third time I’ve come in to see you.
Adam’s phone lying on the nightstand, undisturbed.
Unless Sloane had picked it up while Mel was sleeping, erased the messages, and returned it to the same position.
It could not be.
Burke picked up two stapled documents from her desk, each folded in half, and handed one to Mel and the other to Jess. “See for yourself.”
Mel slowly unfolded the paper, Adam breathing over her shoulder.
She made herself look at the top sheet.
The room began to wheel.
Distantly, Mel heard Jess Fabian’s voice: “Well, Tyler, you can kiss Fortnite good-bye for the rest of your life.”
I’m thinking about u & how hot ur right now, the printout read.
And: If peach is the emoji for ass what do I use 4 cunt?
The sentences had not been written by a half-naked starlet lusting for Adam as Mel had feared. They’d been written by Tyler Fabian and Mel’s very own daughter.
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
30
Zack
AT TEN P.M. ON TUESDAY, ZACK FINISHED THE LAST OF HIS CLOSING DUTIES at Color Theory—organizing the dumbbells from lightest to heaviest, re-racking the weights, disinfecting the water station—then hurried to the back office, where he locked the door behind him and closed all the blinds before sending a one-word text to Mel: Now!—signaling her to jump in a Lyft and come see him.
Sloane still awake, she wrote back. Give me 10 min & I’ll get a car.
Zack jumped into the office’s tiny shower, buzzy with anticipation.
He hadn’t touched her in almost a week, since a text from Adam had interrupted them, and Mel had bolted from the hotel room to deal with some emergency at their daughter’s school. In the days since, Zack’s need to see her had grown hot and gnawing, almost uncontainable. She’d been texting frequently, apologizing, explaining she’d been swallowed up by family stuff, that she was a slave to youth soccer, that Adam was ultra-present, always followed by sad-face or eye-rolling or thumbs-down emojis.
This week, though, the stars had shifted in their favor: Adam—Mister Jiu-Jitsu, King Hamster—was gone on a business trip for three glorious nights, and Jensen was on a trip, to Colorado and then Hawaii, which meant the back office of Color Theory was a safe haven for them to meet after hours. Zack had been surprised—and thrilled—when Mel offered, over text, to ask Lettie to babysit Sloane, freeing Mel to come see him at work.
For a moment, Zack had felt guilty at the image of Lettie parked on Mel’s enormous couch, watching her nighttime soaps on Telemundo while she fretted about money and getting deported, Andres’s sleeping head cradled in her lap. Then he reminded himself how much more comfortable Mel’s couch was than Lettie’s own. Andres was probably thrilled to be chilling inside the Goldbergs’ mini-mansion.
Zack could not think about Lettie and her problems now. First, he needed to see Mel. Desperately. She would clear his head.
He was toweling off in the cramped bathroom when he heard his phone ring. His heart jumped; perhaps she’d arrived early. Towel wrapped around his waist, he bounded out of the bathroom and snatched his phone from the desk.
The call was coming from Jensen Davis.
“Yo, Jens,” Zack said. “How’s vacay?”
“Z-man! I’m actually back in LA for twelve hours. I fly out to Maui first thing in the morning. Vail was unbelievable. All fresh pow. We seriously have to ski together some time.”
“I’m from Florida, bro. I only waterski.”
“Unacceptable. Hey, where are you at right now?”
“Right now?” Zack’s chest tightened. He reminded himself he was supposed to be at work right now—he’d taught the eight thirty class. “Just wrapping up at CT. I taught the late one.”
“Sweet. I was hoping I’d catch you there. Don’t leave just yet, I’m gonna swing by.”
Zack swallowed hard. “Swing by? As in, now?”
“Yeah, I’m ten minutes out. I just want to show you something real quick. It’s a surprise. I was gonna wait until after I got back from Hawaii, but I just don’t have enough self-control.”
“Wow, dude. I’m officially curious.” Zack’s heart started to hammer. “Can’t wait.”
“See you in ten.”
Zack scrambled into his clothes and texted Mel: HOLD UP. Have a small issue over here. Don’t call a car until I say it’s clear, OK?
She wrote back instantly: You’re making me nervous but OK.
He responded with a heart, then opened the blinds and unlocked the office door.
What the hell was Jensen’s surprise? And what could be so important that he had to show Zack during a twelve-hour layover?
Zack paced back and forth across the office, replenishing the coat of sweat he’d just showered off. Could Jensen have suddenly caught on to the transfers? Zack monitored log-ins to the Color Theory account constantly; the only visits to the site, for months on end, had been his own. He changed the password frequently. There was no way Jensen could have logged in lately—unless he’d spent a good deal of time on the phone with the bank, which, given that he’d been skiing “fresh pow” in Colorado for the past week, seemed unlikely.
Still, Zack could not stop pacing, fear roiling inside him.
If Jensen had somehow found out, and was coming to the gym now to “surprise” Zack with a confrontation, well, Zack decided, Regina was going down with him. If his worst fears came true, and he was about to stare down the barrel of jail time for embezzlement (Jesus, what would become of Andres? Zack thought, tears rising in his throat), well, he wouldn’t do it alone. That bitch owed him three installments of his 30 percent cut, and seemed to have no intention of paying him. She was crazy, truly loony, he’d decided. Zack was now pretty sure she’d put her dweeby husband up to leaving that bogus voicemail about wanting personal training—just to scare him, to fuck with him. It was the only explanation; he’d never heard from Gordon again. Or, hell, maybe Regina had put some other guy up to calling Zack, pretending to be Gordon. Who knew; the sky was truly the limit when it came to the creativity of Regina Wolfe’s manipulations.
She was insane. And dangerous. Still, for now, Zack needed her money.
He stopped pacing and tried all the other calming techniques he knew: five short, huffy breaths, followed by three long ones. Contracting every muscle in his body as hard as he could for a count of ten, then letting go. Holding a plank until his abs quaked.
Nothing worked. Finally, he reached into his gym bag and pulled out The Little Way for Every Day. He stared at the fuzzy image of the little black-and-white-clad nun on the cover. Then he closed his eyes, pressed the book to his heart, and asked St. Thérèse to help him.
31
Regina
REGINA WAS DRIFTING OFF ON THE COUCH TO AN OLD EPISODE OF SHARK Tank when she heard Gordon’s key turn in the door. She sat up quickly and reached for the remote to shut off the TV.
“You’re awake,” said Gordon, shutting the door behind him and stepping out of the new hip leather sneakers Regina had bought him to wear to his Eighteen Twelve pitches. This afternoon’s meeting, his biggest yet, with a production company attached to Spielberg, had gone so well, Gordon had explained in a breathless phone call to Regina earlier, that some of the “heavy hitters” from the meeting had invited him and Bryan to dinner. “I can’t believe you stayed up so late.”
“I was dying to hear how it went,” she said, patting the space beside her on the couch. “Come sit and tell me all about it.”
“Oh, you know.” Gordon shrugged, untucking his shirt from his jeans. “It was mostly a lot of hot air.”
She tried her best to hide her disappointment, knowing it had been foolish to hope for anything but rejection—Gordon had been working in Hollywood long enough that she should really know better. She reminded herself of all the new business she’d scored for Big Rad Wolfe. Maybe it would be enough.
“Really? Just hot air, all this time? You’ve been gone for seven hours.”
He crossed the room and sat beside her on the couch. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, detecting the sweet-sharp scent of bourbon.
“Well,” he spoke slowly. “It was mostly hot air, yeah. You know how Hollywood people are. So many words, so little substance. But I guess they did say one thing of interest.”
“What’s that?”
He took her hand in his and squeezed it. “That they’d buy it.”
“What?” She was sure she’d heard him wrong.
“Correction. They bought it in the room.”
“What?” Was something good finally, actually happening?
“You heard me.”
“They bought your screenplay? You’re not joking?”
“I’m not joking. They bought it. On the spot. In the room. For a lot of money. Then they took me and Bryan out to celebrate. I wanted to wait to tell you in person.” He smiled, though not as happily as Regina would’ve expected. She stopped herself from asking exactly what a lot of money meant. Later—now wasn’t the time.
“Oh my God! Gordon! That’s incredible.” Then why, she wondered, did the air between them feel so still and silent? Where was the celebratory hum? “Why don’t you sound more excited?”
“I guess I’m sort of in shock.”
“Babe! This is amazing. I’m so proud of you!” She threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. He leaned against her but did not squeeze back. He’d sworn the good news was true, so why was he acting so meh?
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