Santa Monica

by Cassidy Lucas

  Adam reached for her, the coarse fabric of his gi rubbing Mel’s side. She recoiled.

  “What is going on with you?” he whispered. “I know something’s wrong. Please. Talk to me.”

  “Jesus,” she said, “this isn’t some corny scene in one of your movies.”

  She’d hit the mark. His hewn jaw dropped.

  “I’m not ready to talk about it,” she whispered, aware Sloane was all ears. “I need to wait for date night.” Knowing he’d get the gist, that she’d meant wait for therapy. “And please stop trying to coerce me into talking before I’m ready . . . It devalues my suffering.” A phrase Janet had used in their last session.

  “Coerce you?” He sounded hurt. Then again, Mel wondered if there was a man on earth more skilled at feeling sorry for himself. “I thought things—between us—were good. Almost great.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “You’re so confus—”

  “Stop, Adam. I’m not ready.”

  “I guess I won’t ask ready for what.”

  “Thank you,” said Mel.

  For a moviemaker, he was a terrible actor, she thought. Could he really hide an affair from her? The man could barely keep a secret, or stop himself from giving her birthday presents a few days early.

  “I can be patient, Mel. It’s just that”—Adam lifted an arm and let it fall back to his side—“I miss you.”

  His eyes went unfocused with that faraway look, the same distant stare he wore right before he climaxed. In their new life out west, Mel’s desire for Adam had rekindled. It was after sex, lying in the blotted glow of dawn with her head on Adam’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, that Mel had felt the deepest sense of optimism she’d ever known: that together, they could do anything. They were like the pioneers who had ventured west to strike gold, and wasn’t that what Adam had done? She had been sure Adam felt the unlimited possibility, too.

  Of course, now she knew the truth. He’d been thinking of someone else. For her, he’d felt nothing.

  “I need to get to the gym,” she mumbled.

  He looked defeated. “What gym?”

  “Um. Color . . . Theory.” What a stupid name, she thought.

  Adam nodded approvingly. “Circuit training. Nice.” He leaned in quickly and brushed his lips to her cheek. “I better get Sloanie to practice.”

  He stepped around her toward the stairs and seconds later—finally—was out the door.

  Mel went downstairs and grabbed her phone from the table by the front door, looked up Color Theory, and, before she could chicken out, tapped Call. As the phone rang, her eyes rested on the gold decal she’d stuck to the back of the front door on the day they’d moved in. It mocked her. Happiness Lives Here!

  “Thank you for calling Color Theory!” chirped a female voice. “How can we help you?”

  Where to fucking start? Mel thought.

  “I’m, um, hoping to take a class today. Like, your most beginner-ish class. Do you have any openings?” She paused, then continued. “And I hear great things about one trainer specifically. Zack? Yeah, I think that’s his name.”

  “Sad!” the voice sang. “Zack’s done teaching for the day. Sorry to bum you out!”

  “No problem,” Mel mumbled.

  “But I do know Zack would highly recommend Bri. He hits her 4:15 class all the time.

  “Great! I’ll sign up for that one.” Was she too quick? Desperate-sounding?

  “Lucky you! There’s one spot left. Yay!”

  Mere minutes after she’d booked the class at Color Theory and was searching her dresser drawers for the sports bra and leggings she’d worn at the Version Two You! party—Mel’s phone pinged with a text.

  Hiya, Mel! It’s Zack, your fave trainer. Thx for the epic party. Hope it was a little bit fun??? Are you ready for more . . . maybe a one-on-one?

  Was this kismet? A coincidence? Or had the cheerleader-chirpy Color Theory receptionist informed Zack of Mel’s call?

  Mel’s face flamed.

  A one-on-one?

  She told herself to calm down, that Zack could not possibly be flirting with her over text, and even if he somehow was, well, Mel was married, for God’s sake.

  Then again, she thought, fresh tears burning her eyes, so was Adam.

  Suddenly, her fingers were flying over her phone.

  Not sure if I’d call it “fun” but thanks for inspiring all the ladies! I almost died but am ready for more. I think . . . Ha!

  Zack texted back a few emojis. A bulging bicep. A guy lifting weights. Then a girl lifting weights. Not that she looked anything like Mel. Still, staring at the boy and girl side by side, Mel hoped there was a hidden message there.

  She hesitated, then, and before she could talk herself out of it, texted: Actually . . . I’m signed up for a Color Theory class today at 4:15. GULP.

  She added the cringing-face emoji and: Regina talked me into it. You know how convincing she can be. LOL.

  She was lying again. Worse, Brooklyn Mel would never have typed LOL. Maybe, she thought, this was what a midlife crisis looked like.

  Rad! Regina texted me about taking the 4:15. Yes she can be quite persuasive! How fun would it be for all of us to take a CT class together? Bri is a blast.

  Fun, indeed, Mel thought, forgetting how her thighs had only just recovered from the backyard sweat-a-thon.

  Mel replied: I’m in! DOUBLE GULP.

  See you real soon! Zack texted back, adding a flexing-bicep emoji. Studies have shown people who work out with friends, partners, and/or significant others have a higher chance of success with a workout program.

  While it sounded like something he’d copied and pasted off the obesity page at WebMD, she liked his tone, as if they’d known each other much longer than just a few days.

  Looking forward to it! If I can get myself there on time. Self-control isn’t my strong suit. But I am still hoping to rise from the ashes as Mel 2.0. (She added the googly-eyed, tongue-hanging-out emoji to show she was joking, when, in fact, she was dead serious).

  LMAO, he texted. Self-control can be overrated.

  Oooh, intriguing, she thought. Maybe there were some brains under all that brawn.

  10

  Zack

  ZACK LAY ON HIS LIVING ROOM COUCH, UNABLE TO NAP DESPITE BEING severely sleep-deprived, listening to afternoon traffic whoosh down the I-10. He’d slept terribly the previous night, dragged himself to Color Theory to teach his early-morning classes, forced himself to take Shawn’s nine A.M., then worked in the back office for a couple of hours. He’d planned to beeline home and crash all afternoon, but as soon as he’d showered and sprawled out on his too-soft secondhand couch, wearing only boxers (his tiny apartment was an oven in the daytime), he found himself unable to sleep because each time he closed his eyes, Melissa Goldberg’s face flashed to his mind. Her flushed, heart-shaped face, with its dueling expressions of uncertainty and wryness. Followed by her curvy body, thick but amply proportionate, with breasts that moved like actual human flesh and fat and blood, a little floppishly, the way God had intended, instead of the rigid, bouncing cones of his surgically enhanced gym regulars.

  Finally, he’d sent her a text. Just a friendly thank-you for hosting the V2Y! party, short and sweet. When she’d written back almost instantly, basically inviting him to join her at Color Theory that afternoon, he’d said yes—never mind that his quads and abs were already blasted from Shawn’s class—making sure to add some coach-like lines about fitness to keep it professional.

  Now, with an hour and a half before his second workout of the day, he found himself still unable to nap. The room was too warm, the traffic noises from the I-10 too grating.

  And then there was the stirring in his boxers.

  No. He would not taint Mel with his weakness. Would not allow his hands to push under his waistband at the thought of her. Mel was an authentic, substantial woman, with a massive house north of Montana, an adorable daughter, and a gi-wearing husband wh
o resembled a young Chuck Norris.

  Zack raised his palms and tucked them beneath his head, trapping them against his pillow, away from his growing erection. Mind over matter. Despite some of his actions of late, he was becoming a better person. Wasn’t he? His mind traveled to thoughts of himself just three years ago, when he’d first arrived in LA. He’d driven his pickup from Ocala to Los Angeles in five days flat, armed with nothing more than five grand and a burning desire to leave the steaming cesspool of Florida—where he’d done nothing but fail, make messes, and live like a heathen—for good.

  Almost immediately, despite his shock over landing in a blue state still enchanted by godforsaken Obama, life in California had seemed promising.

  Zack had scored the gym job right away, and spent money on quality headshots, landing an agent who sent him on auditions. He moved into the chintzy little apartment on Pico and Centinela, just past the edge of Santa Monica, with the flimsy vertical blinds and the stainproof carpeting and the absence of any cross-breeze whatsoever. Sure, he was old to drop everything and move to LA. Nearly thirty. But he didn’t aspire to be Leonardo DiCaprio. All he wanted was to act a little, earn his own money, and above all, become someone new. Shed the filthy, stupid old Zack and become someone better.

  It was in LA that he’d discovered St. Thérèse, quoted on the back of a Sunday Mass program at St. Monica Church.

  It was because of Thérèse, really, that he’d reached out to Lettie.

  Thérèse had written: I have learnt much by guiding others. All souls have more or less the same battles to fight.

  He’d had his own share of battles, after all.

  But in those first golden months in Los Angeles, when things, for the first time in his life, seemed to be going right—something inside him had shifted. It had been one thing to deny Lettie’s existence when she lived on the opposite side of the country, but another to do it when she was right there, in the same city. Contacting her fit right in with the new Zack: chaste, thoughtful, healthy, celibate. Focused on his work and on bettering himself. At night, he could almost hear Thérèse encouraging him to reach out to Lettie with these words: I have at last found my vocation; it is love!

  Surely, Lettie could use some extra love. Who couldn’t?

  He sent her a friend request on Facebook, and she responded within the hour. Soon, they’d met in person. Lettie balancing Andres on her hip, so small that Zack had said, How old are you little, man? About three and a half?

  Andres had been almost five. Zack had fallen, instantly, in love with his nephew.

  It wasn’t long before Lettie asked him to babysit. She didn’t have the luxury of interviewing and vetting babysitters, of checking references. She didn’t have forty bucks a month to spend on Care.com. When she couldn’t get Andres to Head Start, she simply brought him to work with her. Zack was blood and that was a good enough reason to trust him to watch Andres.

  Lettie had a regular gig on Wednesday afternoons, at a house in Beverly Hills. A long haul on the bus, but worth it for the $150. Andres still napped when he could—long, heavy naps that he woke from damp-haired and stunned-looking. When Zack didn’t have an audition or a class to teach, Lettie began dropping Andres off at his apartment.

  On that Wednesday, Zack had been feeling that, at last, his life was turning around. His agent had called to say he’d gotten a second callback for the hot dog commercial he’d auditioned for, and that the producers were literally smitten with him. The spot would bring him a serious chunk of cash, plus new credibility.

  That afternoon, Zack played Legos with Andres, and hide-and-seek, and they blew bubbles in the courtyard. When his nephew’s lids began to droop Zack asked him if he wanted some screen time. After five minutes on the couch with Zack’s iPad, he was sound asleep.

  Zack recalled that moment with perfect clarity: the soft afternoon light in his apartment, Andres’s long lashes and eyelids quivering slightly as he sunk deeper into his nap. The sensors of the garbage truck beeping outside.

  He’d only left to transfer his laundry from the washer to the dryer. Zack’s apartment was on the ground floor and the laundry room was at the end of the breezeway. He planned to be gone from his apartment, where Andres was sound asleep on the couch, for under five minutes.

  Except that Casey had been in the laundry room, too. Casey, the actress-slash-beauty-brand-ambassador who’d been flirting heavily with him since he’d moved in. Wearing short denim cutoffs and a tank top that didn’t quite cover her stomach. She probably hadn’t covered her abs since leaving Wisconsin. More than once she’d dropped by Zack’s apartment with a bottle of wine dangling from her hand, asking if he felt like hanging.

  He had not felt like hanging, ever. Casey set alarm bells off in his head. She reminded him of girls from Florida who wanted to slither all over his lap like porn stars. She represented everything he wanted to cast off.

  But he’d been in an exuberant mood when he’d walked into the laundry room and seen her there, sitting atop a washer and pecking at her phone, and so he’d shared his good news of the commercial callback.

  Duuude, she’d said. That’s amazing.

  She held up her hand for a high five. He accepted. Their hands latched and she pulled him into a hug. There was a lingering. He felt her breath on his cheek.

  In his ear she whispered, Why do you always avoid me? You’re not famous yet, you know.

  The proverbial door opened.

  She bounced her bare heels against the white metallic surface of the washer, making soft bonging sounds. Her legs were long and lean and bronzed.

  A dryer buzzed, loud and harsh. Casey released him.

  That’s my stuff.

  She opened the dryer door and its overstuffed contents spilled to the concrete floor. She shoved the pile into her laundry basket, taking her time with a pair of thong underwear. The clothes formed a mountain well above the rim of the basket.

  Can I help you with that? Zack said.

  Would you? My apartment’s upstairs. My upper-body strength is kind of pathetic.

  I could help you change that. I’m a trainer.

  I hate to sweat.

  This is LA. It’s too dry to sweat.

  He hadn’t entirely forgotten about Andres—but the boy was fast receding to a faraway region of Zack’s mind. This is what happened when he crossed over: everything else fell away.

  Follow me.

  He lifted the clothes basket and trailed her out of the laundry room and up the concrete stairs. She practically jogged, wagging her ass in his face.

  It was everything he didn’t want anymore. But in that moment, it was all he wanted. He desired nothing else.

  She pushed open the door of her apartment—it was exactly like his, but better decorated, with cheerful framed posters on the wall and red throw pillows on the two couches draped in white covers, a vase of sunflowers on a coffee table—

  Helll—ooooo? she called and then gave him a sly smile, catching her tongue between bleached teeth. My roommate’s not here.

  He dropped the laundry basket and the mountain of clothes tumbled to the floor.

  Hey! said Casey. That stuff is clean.

  He could not stop himself. He grabbed her and pulled her close to him, unbuttoned her denim shorts and yanked them down. Already her hands were in his shorts, her tongue in his ear, a whiff of chocolate on her breath. The moaning, the breathy oh yeahs. The sounds and smells that would torture him later. He fumbled with her bra and failed. He tugged at the fabric so hard it ripped.

  I’ve wanted this since the second I met you, she said in his ear.

  His perception of time dissolved. His body stamped out his mind. He was sensation and movement. She was not Casey, in particular, but a warm, breathy thing enveloping him. She was something he required. Deserved. Needed to consume.

  And then the intersection of sounds: unlike anything he’d ever heard. The blare of a horn, an ohmygod, oh Jesus shrieked at top volume, and on top of that, another sound, a
tortured soprano keening. Like a baby animal in great pain.

  But Zack was already inside her—Casey, whoever she was—his body reaching, clamoring for something he needed desperately, more than anything in the world, and he could not stop. His need in the moment felt bigger than anything he’d ever encountered, bigger even than the terrible sounds leaking through the living room’s half-open window. He was nothing in the face of his need.

  Baby, said Casey, in a ragged whisper. Those feet that had been lazily kicking the washing machine now thrust up in the air, above his shoulders.

  MAMAAAAA!!!!

  Zack heaved into Casey, emptying himself inside her.

  Then he snapped back into himself.

  MAMAAAA!!! From downstairs, an anguished squeal.

  Zack leapt to his feet, pushing Casey to the couch. Her legs flopped down, marionette-like.

  What the hell! she said. Not cool.

  Casey ceased to exist. Zack swiped his gym shorts from the floor and stepped into them without breaking stride, then bolted from her apartment and down the stairs.

  A small crowd knotted in the parking lot. A man in a sanitation worker’s neon-yellow vest knelt on the asphalt, talking frantically into his cell phone. A woman in a green sundress saying, Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod, I swear I didn’t see him, I checked all my mirrors! I didn’t see him!

  Lying on the ground was Andres, his leg twisted at a gruesome angle. A nub of gray-white bone poking from below his kneecap. Blood pooling beneath his lower body.

  Zack had screamed, a guttural sound from the pit of his belly, more convulsion than sound, as he knelt over the broken body of his nephew.

  FROM THE CARPETED floor, his phone chimed again, snapping Zack out of his half doze, back to the gathering heat of his living room. Late-afternoon sun muscled through the closed Venetians and sweat trickled down his temples as he rose to a seated position and reached for his phone.

  The text was from Regina: Melissa G says u r coming to Bri at 4:15 P.M.—true? And since when are you two texty?

  She’d added the chin-cupping-thinking emoji.

  None of your freaking business, Zack thought with a flash of irritation, and hovered his thumb over the keypad for a beat before deciding to ignore her. Then he stood and headed to the bedroom to change into a fresh set of gym clothes.