“No, Zack,” she said. “It’s me. I made a mistake. With you.”
His face went dark, like a terrible understanding had rolled over him.
The muscle in his jaw wriggled. “Was it Lettie, then? What did she tell you about me?”
“Lettie? What are you talking about?”
“I’m a good guy, Mel,” he said, voice pleading. “I would never hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” She felt woozy with confusion.
The whistle blew long and high behind them and Mel remembered that Zack was standing beside her in full view of her family—Adam and Sloane were less than a hundred feet away, on the soccer field. Not to mention Coach C, and Assistant Coach Hazel, along with Mel’s entire soccer community.
“You have to go.” She raised her palm and took another step away from him. “Please. My family’s right over there. I can’t lose them.”
“I need to talk to you.”
She turned to face the field. She would not look at him again.
“I’m leaving,” she said. “Please walk the other way.”
Back at the field, Mel saw two rows of girls, one wearing blue and gold, the other red and black, high-fiving each other. The game was over, and, Mel could see from the slumped shoulders of Sloane and her teammates, the Tsunamis had lost.
Goddammit.
She felt Zack’s hand on her back.
“Melissa. I miss you. I miss us.”
“Don’t touch me,” she said through clenched teeth, sidestepping away. “My husband is right there.”
Guilt rippled through her as she spoke the words, and she ached for Zack. Wished she could allow his fingers to keep playing over her back. That he could lead her by the arm to his dumpy truck where she would bury her face in his neck and breathe in his scent, feel his mouth hot and wet over hers.
“I’m walking away now, Zack,” she said, but didn’t.
“Two minutes. Please.”
She scanned the soccer field for Adam; he was huddled in the center of the field with the other refs, filling out end-of-game forms. Only Sloane, standing alone with a soccer ball tucked under her arm, seemed aware of her mother’s whereabouts. She appeared to be staring straight at Mel and Zack. Much too far away for Mel to read her features, but Mel imagined disgust warping her daughter’s angelic face.
“Zack,” Mel said. “It’s over.”
“I’m not giving up on us.”
“Please do.”
She started down the long grassy slope leading away from the soccer field toward the tennis courts, unsure of where she was going, only that she had to get away.
“Mel. Wait.” Zack was begging.
Her willpower vanished and she looked back at him. He stood as solid as marble, one muscled hip jutting forward, his arms outstretched in disbelief. All she had to do was blink to remember him naked. Her resolve melted and she yearned to touch him. He sensed the shift and the smallest smile crossed his face. Her mind flashed to their last few hours together, under the crisp white sheets at the Malibu Beach Inn, the fireplace roaring, the feel of their bodies glued together, moving in furtive sync with the Pacific waves pounding the shore right outside their window.
“Look. I don’t need a version two you, Mel. I . . . I love the you—the you that you already are. There, I said it.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to contain the joy his words sparked inside her. To push it down and stomp on it. To remind him—both of them—that they would never be together. Not in this life. This life was for Adam and Sloane.
Perhaps in another, she told herself.
“No,” she said softly.
He stared at the ground, holding the back of his neck in his palm. When he finally looked up at her, she saw he was giving up.
Then he held up his hand for a high five.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Mel.
“Please,” Zack said. “Just a high five. I just need to touch you one last time. Nobody’s paying attention. And even if they are, it’s a high five. At a kid’s soccer game. Everyone’s high-fiving.”
She lifted her palm to his and their hands clasped together in the air, fingers tangled, locking together with urgency.
From the field, she heard the winning team shout, “We are proud of you! So very proud of you!” She snatched her hand away from Zack’s and backed away from him.
“Don’t ever show up like this again,” she warned. “Or you’ll be sorry.”
Then she turned and ran to the soccer field, to her family, her life.
Monday, February 11, 2019
34
Regina
THE MESSAGE WAS WAITING FOR REGINA WHEN SHE SETTLED IN FRONT OF her laptop at six thirty in the morning to check email while she sipped her coffee. At the top of her inbox was Lindsey Leyner’s name, and when Regina clicked on the message, she found it was addressed to all the women who’d gone to Minnow Night, plus a dozen others.
Subject: WOOLSEY FIRE WORKOUT BENEFIT [please read!!!]
Hey guys! As some of us were discussing at the last Minnow Night, it’s in our power to do something to HELP the most powerless victims of the Woolsey Fire: DOMESTIC WORKERS. (Read this great article if you haven’t yet!—www.DisplacedDomestics.com) I’m writing to let you know that I will be organizing a benefit to raise money for this cause in the form of a donation-based, super-fun group fitness event, co-sponsored by none other than the BEST gym in all of Los Angeles, COLOR THEORY. I’ve secured a date—March 2—and a group of coaches to lead us. But I still need a VENUE, as my own home is being re-landscaped over the next month. Anyone out there have a space they might volunteer for an AMAZING cause? Please let me know ASAP & we’ll SPREAD THE WORD. Let’s pool our resources to do the right thing!!!!
Xoxoxo LINDSEY
Regina stared at the screen in disbelief. As low as her opinion of Lindsey was, she still was shocked that Lindsey so blatantly, unapologetically repurposed Version Two You! Could her pea-sized brain truly not have come up with something more original?
Regina hit Reply All and sipped her coffee as she tried to come up with the perfect response. She wanted to let the group know Lindsey was ripping her off but also to support the cause, duh.
But before she could think what to write, a response to the message appeared in her inbox.
FROM: Melissa Goldberg
SUBJ: re: WOOLSEY FIRE WORKOUT BENEFIT [please read!!!]
Hi, all! Lindsey, I love this idea. It’s a cause close to my heart. I would be more than happy to host the Woolsey Fire Benefit at my home on March 2nd.
Warmly, Mel
Regina set her mug down so hard that coffee sloshed onto her keyboard. She wiped it away with her sleeve and slapped the laptop shut. She hadn’t been to Color Theory in almost a month, taking advantage of the free-first-week trials offered by the countless other gyms in Santa Monica. Nor had she had any contact with Zack since her first payment from BeastMode Wellness had come in last week, and she’d instructed him to stop the transfers. She still owed him around $3,500, which she did plan to give him—she wasn’t an asshole—just as soon as she got around to it.
As for Mel and Lindsey Leyner—Regina hadn’t communicated with either of them since Minnow Night.
But she’d be damned if she let them all come together for a workout without her. Hadn’t it been Regina who introduced each of these women to Color Theory? Hadn’t every one of these women called her some version of Workout Queen? Plus, not showing up would make her look worse than Lindsey Leyner, that callous . . . Regina would find a way to show up, to claim what rightfully belonged to her, and, most importantly, save face.
She was, after all, trying to fix her mistakes. On her way to becoming a better person. Regina 2.0.
Thursday, February 14, 2019
35
Zack
IN THE ENTRYWAY OF HIS APARTMENT BUILDING, ZACK TURNED HIS KEY IN the lock of his mailbox and pulled open the flimsy metal door. Sometimes he went days, an entire week
, even, without checking his mail, but the adoption agency had told him to expect a decision in mid-February and today was the fourteenth.
Valentine’s Day.
A day for lovers. A silly holiday of course, but still, today more than ever, he’d been unable to stop thinking of Mel. Whom he had not seen or heard from in almost two weeks. This morning, he’d taught four in a row at Color Theory, his usual upbeat cheer nearly impossible to summon, much less make the dumb little Valentine’s jokes he usually cracked. Irrationally, he’d hoped—okay, prayed, even—that Mel might show up for a class. Even though she hadn’t been at the gym in weeks. His sole consolation was the upcoming Woolsey Fire Benefit, the workout-for-charity event in which Jensen insisted every Color Theory staffer participate. The fundraiser was slated to take place in none other than Melissa Goldberg’s backyard.
Zack’s narrow mailbox was stuffed with paper, much of it crumpled and crushed to the bottom of the tight space. He pulled them out, a fat clog of envelopes, promotional postcards, Trader Joe’s newsletters, and fitness magazines.
And then there it was: a manila envelope with the adoption agency’s logo in the upper corner.
It was thinner than he’d expected.
He ripped it open and began to read the document on top.
Dear Mr. Doheny,
Thank you for your application to attain legal guardianship of Andres Manuel Mendoza. We regret to inform you that we could not grant approval, due to your prior Class-A Misdemeanor for Aggravated Criminal Sexual Assault Conviction issued in the State of Florida on October 11, 2010. Enclosed you will find supporting documentation for this final decision . . .
Nausea shot through him. He leaned on the wall for support. His breath shortened, his legs wobbled.
Misty Whatever. Back to haunt him.
Her and all the others. Forever haunting him, conspiring, it seemed, to bring him down. Why him? They hated him: all the girls from his youth in Florida, Misty Whatever and Casey from the laundry room, not-Arianna-on-Adelaide Drive, Regina and Lettie. And now, Mel. Each, in her own way, had made him choke, falter, fall on his sword. Made him learn to hate himself.
Thérèse: One must have passed through the tunnel to understand how black its darkness is.
An accumulation of angry women, turning his life to shit.
Bringing him to where he was now, at this moment, forehead pressed to the wall of his decrepit, overpriced apartment building on Pico, his tears falling on the scuffed, peeling surface.
He could not adopt Andres. If Lettie were deported, as she assured him she would be, any day now, her son would be placed in foster care—who knew where—and Zack might not see the sweet, limping little boy ever again.
It was too much. He already had nothing. No acting career, no real friends, no money, no Mel. And now, no Andres. His life was destined to sink further and further into its negative balance.
He swatted his tears away and ripped the documents from the adoption agency into quarters. The desire to see Mel gripped him with such force, he felt powerless against it.
Just to see her. She didn’t need to know. Just a glimpse of her would comfort him. She and Andres were all he had left.
And soon, Zack would not have Andres either.
He dropped all of his mail, including the adoption documents he’d just torn, into the wastebasket by the front door of his building and stepped back outside into yet another brilliantly clear and sunny afternoon. He climbed into his Tacoma and started the engine, but before he accelerated in the direction of Georgina Avenue, he pulled out his phone. Dialed *67 to block his number, then called Banc of California corporate customer service. A woman picked up on the second ring and introduced herself as Natalie.
Zack introduced himself as Jensen Davis. Calling from Color Theory gym to start the process for filing a fraud claim against a former corporate customer. A marketing firm called Big Rad Wolfe, LLC.
“Absolutely, sir,” said Natalie. “I’d be happy to get that process started for you. I’ll need to start by asking you a few questions . . .”
Zack answered the questions as he drove in the direction of Mel’s house, never hesitating or stumbling over his words, delivering a compelling, airtight story—the way, he thought to himself, only a halfway-decent actor could. When Natalie finished her questions, she assured him (“Mr. Davis”) that she’d filed an inquiry with the bank’s fraud prevention team, making note of his particular concern regarding Big Rad Wolfe, LLC, and that he could expect a response from them within thirty days.
Zack’s hands shook as he thanked Natalie and ended the call. He knew he was taking a major risk. Knew that in reporting Regina, he was essentially turning himself in, too. But he was prepared to use the skills he’d learned from her—Regina, the consummate liar, his mentor in crime—to defend himself. Yes, the actual computer transfers might be traced to him—it wouldn’t be hard to piece together the laptop’s IP address and Zack’s log-in times—but he was prepared to play dumb. To insist, with utter wide-eyed conviction, that he’d made an honest mistake—perhaps reprocessed old invoices, or confused her with another vendor, or something. He’d figure it out. What mattered was that Regina, thanks to her insistence on paying him in cash—had no proof that she’d paid Zack to help her. And since Zack had simply handed the money over to Lettie (minus the $3,500 Regina had stiffed him—his rage over it had since turned to relief—the less of her dirty money he’d touched, the better), there was no proof he’d ever had it in the first place.
Still: calling the bank to rat out Regina had been a questionable impulse, indulged, Zack admitted to himself, in a burst of raw emotion. But it was too late now. What was done was done. And anyway, since he’d lost both Mel and the prospect of adopting Andres, the risk he’d incurred seemed less menacing. He was pretty confident in his ability to convince authorities—if it came down to it—that he’d simply been a sloppy bookkeeper, a meathead fitness coach armed with nothing but an AA degree from a shitty community college, clearly unqualified to manage the vast and complicated finances of Color Theory. He’d summon fake tears to his eyes and blink with confusion, knowing how the sight of a man like him, strong and handsome, in the throes of emotional distress tended to move people. His looks had always been his superpower, and he would not hesitate to use it.
In the end, he told himself, as he cruised down Wilshire with Macklemore blasting on the truck stereo, the only hard proof in the case was that Regina had kept a large sum of money erroneously transferred to her account. She had not notified Color Theory of the error, or returned the funds, as any ethical business owner would have done.
Well, thought Zack, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, just let Regina Wolfe try to take him out. He would not back down, would never confess to having been her partner in crime. He’d rather die first.
He thought of Thérèse: My whole strength lies in prayer and sacrifice, these are my invincible arms; they can move hearts far better than words.
The words gave him fresh hope as he drove north across town, toward the grand houses lining Georgina Avenue.
36
Mel
“I LOVE MINIMUM DAYS,” SAID SLOANE, EXPERTLY SPEARING A PIECE OF salmon sashimi with her chopsticks. In the middle of the afternoon on Valentine’s Day, she sat between Adam and Mel at the breakfast nook in the kitchen window, the three of them sharing a platter of take-out sushi.
“You can say that again,” said Adam, pouring miso soup into the pretty Japanese stone bowls Mel had gotten him for his birthday last year.
“I love Minimum Days,” Sloane repeated, giggling.
“Me too,” said Mel, trying to sound convincing, though she resented the many ordinary school days declared “Minimums” by John Wayne Elementary, meaning that school ended at one thirty instead of three o’clock, always for some utterly inessential reason. Today, for example, the PTA (Mel made the “strongly recommended” contribution of two grand to join, but had never attended a single meeting) needed
to decorate for that evening’s Friendship Fiesta, their careful euphemism for a Valentine’s Day Dance, as if any direct reference to the romantic holiday would cause the children to instantly rip their clothes off.
Then again, given the texts—ugh, sexts—Sloane had been swapping with Tyler Fabian, Mel didn’t mind the name of the dance quite as much as she normally would. Although Sloane had been on her best behavior since the meeting with the principal, accepting without protest her full month of No Screen Time of Any Kind, and dialing back her snarkiness, Mel still couldn’t see her daughter in quite the same way as she had. A certain innocence had been lost, the door to puberty’s menace flung wide open.
More than anything, Mel couldn’t stop wondering if she’d been responsible for her daughter’s troubling behavior. Yes, the sexts had happened before Mel had climbed into the van with Zack, but could Sloane somehow have sensed the terrible, family-wrecking choices her mother was going to make? Could the sexts have been some sort of preemptive cry for help, Sloane’s subconscious attempt to throw Mel off her disastrous course? Sloane was noticeably happier since her parents had reinstated kindness in their marriage—the kindness Mel had derailed in the first place.
What sort of mother left her daughter in aftercare an extra hour so that she might tear off the clothes of a thirty-two-year-old gym coach who had voted for Trump?
Stop it, Mel commanded herself, taking a sip of miso soup. Since she’d ended things with Zack and recommitted to her (non-cheating, exceptionally handsome) husband, her self-loathing had ratcheted up higher than ever.
“You okay, Mom?” Sloane asked. “You’re doing a weird resting face.” She tipped her head and peered at Mel curiously, eyes wide.
“I’m fine, honey. I was just . . .” Mel’s voice caught in her throat. How had she let herself risk hurting her sensitive, quirky, brilliant little girl by having—she forced herself to think the accurate description—an affair?
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