Santa Monica

by Cassidy Lucas

  “Ha. Just try it.”

  “You first.”

  “I’m proud of you,” said Regina, settling in the seat across from Mel. “You killed it in class today.” It was true; after Mel’s first class, months ago, during which she’d walked at a geriatric pace on the treadmill, and skipped half the weight stations, Regina had been hesitant to invite her to another class. Color Theory regulars were generally understanding of newbies’ struggles to keep up—it was a tough workout—but Mel’s fitness level was lower than anyone Regina had ever observed at the gym.

  “I love Bri!” said Mel. “So much moxie. And she’s actually quite philosophical, if you can get past all the”—she paused—“hip-hoppy language.”

  “Philosophical.” Regina laughed. “That’s awfully generous of you.”

  “Oh please. You’re the generous one. Complimenting me on my old-lady workout? You were an animal in there! I saw your face when you were doing those squat hops.”

  “Jump squats.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, I swear, you looked like a soldier in the throes of battle. So intense! It was almost terrifying. But seriously, you’re my shero! I don’t know how you do it all—the business, the mothering, the extreme fitness. And you make it look so easy.”

  “All right, Goldberg, settle down,” Regina said. “That’s just the endorphins talking.” Truly, it made Regina cringe when Mel got all effusive and complimentary—she could almost see the raw emotion oozing out of the sweating woman’s pores.

  She’d been surprised when Mel had texted her to say she was coming to today’s class. Even more surprised when Mel had cranked up her treadmill to level seven and swung kettle bells with halfway decent form. As for Mel’s chemistry with Zack, it was hard to tell. Zack had been in even more of a performance mode than usual, hamming it up with Bri and doling out high fives and hugs during the circuit changes to anyone in reach. He hadn’t seemed particularly attentive to Mel, but then again, Regina had been so involved in her own workout, perhaps she’d missed something between them.

  Zack couldn’t possibly have the hots for Mel. Could he?

  “I killed nothing,” said Mel, sipping her smoothie and grimacing. “And for the first half of class, I was hating your guts. But then, something clicked, and I actually started to enjoy myself. It was kind of miraculous.”

  “I saw how much you were in the red zone,” Regina nodded. “That’s where the magic happens.”

  “Magic shouldn’t require so much suffering.”

  “Trust me,” said Regina. “Pretty soon you’ll be dragging me to class.”

  “Now, that we both know is bullshit,” said Mel. “You live for this stuff. I see your face when you’re swinging that round anvil-thing. You’re in heaven.”

  “Round anvil-thing?”

  “You know,” said Mel. “That super-heavy and extremely dangerous thing with the handle?”

  “The kettle bell.”

  Mel waved a nail-bitten hand. “Whatever. You can’t expect me to transform my lifestyle and learn a whole new vocabulary at the same time.” She took another sip of her smoothie and wrinkled her nose. “This thing is gross. Oats should not be milked. Remind me why I can’t have dairy again?”

  “Inflammation,” said Regina patiently. It really was incredible, how little Mel knew about her body and how it functioned. “Dairy is a known irritant of the gut lining and suppresses the immune system. It basically makes your insides swollen and irritated.”

  “Would that even matter?” Mel sighed, pinching the excess flesh of her upper arm. “I’m already swollen and irritated on the outside.”

  Regina laughed. “Oh, stop it.” Mel had a way of poking fun at herself, of being completely open when it came to her self-doubt, offering up biting observations of everyone around her. She spoke without the filter employed by every other woman Regina knew in Santa Monica. Regina found it refreshing, though it also made her nervous. She never knew what Mel might say.

  “I have to ask you something,” Mel said, draining the last of her smoothie, which struck Regina as unnecessary, since Mel had pronounced it “gross.”

  “Ask away,” said Regina.

  “But you can’t get mad at me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “In fact, I’m just going to apologize in advance. I’m sorry for asking you a potentially offensive and invasive question.”

  “Oh, cut it out,” said Regina. Mel’s tendency to over-apologize, a sort of counter-habit to her frequent complaining, drove Regina crazy. “Just ask the damn question.”

  “Fine.” Mel took a deep breath. “Is there something going on between you and Coach Zack?”

  “Going on? Like what?”

  Mel arched an eyebrow and grinned. “Don’t play dumb, Wolfie.”

  “Zack and I are friendly acquaintances.”

  “Yeah, friendly acquaintances who flirt constantly. I see the way you two hug each other. It’s impossible not to notice.”

  “It’s Color Theory. Everyone hugs everyone.”

  “Yeah, but you and Zack do an affair hug. I hate to say it, but I’m not the only one who notices.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that you two give off a certain vibe that’s easy to feel. Even a lobotomized squirrel like Lindsey Leyner is onto it.”

  “So, you and Lindsey Leyner are gossiping about me and a thirty-year-old trainer?”

  “No! No one’s ‘gossiping’ about it. No one’s even said anything. But we’re just all thinking it. And as you know, I suck at repressing my thoughts.”

  “You do,” said Regina. “And I hate to disappoint you, but no, I am absolutely not having an affair with some kid-coach. I’m forty-four years old, Mel. With two kids and a husband. Zack’s cute, sure, but come on. I would never do something”—she found herself fumbling for the words, suddenly flustered—“that risky.”

  “Okay,” said Mel, lowering her voice. “But even if you did, you know it would be safe to tell me, right?”

  Regina thought of her early-morning dreams, how Zack frequently turned up in her bed and smothered her body with his. She ran her fingers over the beads of condensation clinging to her smoothie cup.

  “Thanks. But nothing’s going on with me and Zack. He’s all yours, Mel.” As if, she added to herself.

  “Ew,” said Mel. “Please. I respect that you two are, uh, friendly acquaintances, but the guy’s an actual Trump supporter. As much as Adam deserves for me to have an affair, it could never be with Zack. On principle.”

  “What? When do you and Zack talk politics? And what does Adam deserve?” Sometimes, the way Mel navigated a conversation—jumping from topic to topic, casually dropping bombs of information and then speeding on—made Regina’s head spin.

  Mel tightened her lips against her teeth. “I don’t want to get into it. Let’s just say Adam’s been mistaking himself for some sort of fucking prince. Or sultan. The ones that have a harem.”

  “Your Adam? He seems so—”

  “Please.” Mel held up a palm. “Don’t even think about using the P-word. As in perfect. No Adam worship. I might not be able to keep my smoothie down.” The levity drained from her voice. “I mean it, Regina.”

  Regina lowered her voice. “Did he do something?”

  “Jury’s still out. And I’m too pissed to talk about it.”

  “You have to talk about it,” said Regina. “It’s your marriage.”

  “I can’t. Not yet. It’s too infuriating. You know, I think that’s why I sort of enjoyed the gym today. It made me forget how pissed I am. I could pretend I was swinging the kettle-iron at Adam’s head.”

  “Kettle bell.” Regina couldn’t help giggling. “Exercise is great for anger.”

  “Maybe I should invest in one of those things,” Mel sighed. “Anyway, you never talk about your marriage. I barely know anything about Gordon!”

  “Funny, neither do I at the moment,” said Regina. “He’s currently married to the War of 181
2.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what his screenplay’s about. He’s taking a sabbatical from his regular TV writing job right now to work on it. It’s basically all he thinks about.”

  “Seriously?” Mel widened her eyes.

  Regina sighed. “Seriously.”

  Mel barked a laugh. “Sorry. But the War of 1812? That sounds like the most boring movie on the planet. I can’t even remember who fought in it.”

  “The US and England,” Regina sighed. “Gordon thinks it could be a really big movie, actually. Film’s answer to Hamilton or whatever. Though I agree with you.”

  “Men.” Mel rolled her eyes. “Can you imagine having that level of confidence? To just scrap your job and announce you’re writing a big movie about the fucking War of 1812? That’s what being born into cultural privilege gets you, I guess.” She cupped her hand over her mouth. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean Gordon specifically. I’m sure his screenplay will be . . . great. I just meant men in general are—”

  “Gordon works hard,” Regina cut in, feeling an urge to defend her husband. “You don’t need to get into one of your white-male-privilege rants.”

  “Sorry, sorry.” Mel pressed her hands to the still-flushed sides of her face. “I can’t believe I said that. I really do need to work on the whole self-control thing. Zack actually might be right about that.”

  “Right about what?”

  “Oh, we had a few chats at that awful party you threw at my house. He told me self-control can be learned. That physical discipline and emotional discipline go hand in hand, and that he thought the V2-whatever program would be perfect for me.”

  “What? He actually said that? Did you slap him?”

  “I said maybe first he should try to sign the president up.”

  “Ha.” Regina pushed her smoothie away. The way Mel pounded hers had killed Regina’s appetite.

  “I probably should have slapped him,” Mel went on. Regina thought she detected a new amusement in her tone. “But he meant it as a joke. And even though he’s kind of an idiot, he’s also pretty cute, with the floppy hair and the southern drawl. Like a big dumb puppy. So, I let it slide.”

  “He was flirting with you!” Regina would not allow herself to be jealous of one stupid conversation between Mel and Zack. “Like he does with everyone,” she added.

  “It was his fat-lady flirting,” said Mel with a shrug. “Which is completely different from his skinny-lady flirting. Which is not to be confused with his Regina-flirting. AKA his affair-flirting.”

  “Stop it.” Regina rolled her eyes. “So, getting back to Adam.”

  Mel ignored her. “Zack’s cute,” she said thoughtfully, “but he’s got to lose the hashtag blessed thing. Can you talk to him about that?” Mel pressed her hands into prayer position and giggled.

  “Don’t avoid my question,” said Regina, cringing to herself. Why did Zack insist on using that inane phrase? He was much smarter than he let on.

  “You know what I’d like to avoid?” Mel said. “Wasting our time talking about men. As it is, they dominate everything on the planet. We shouldn’t let them rule our conversations, too.”

  “Fine,” said Regina. “Let’s talk about ladies’ night. We’re having one in a couple of weeks. No men. A group of moms with kids at Wayne. Some of them go to the gym, too. We’ve been meeting for drinks at Canyon Rustica for years now.”

  “Ladies’ night?” Mel’s mouth dropped open. “What is this, 1988? Is there a wet T-shirt contest, too?”

  “You’re impossible. We actually call it Minnow Night, a cutesy version of M-N-O, which stands for Mom’s Night Out. I knew you’d make fun of me if I said that, so I changed it to ladies’ night, and you’re making fun of me anyway.”

  “Of course I am.” Mel flashed a devilish grin. “And Ladies’ Night, or Minnow Night, or Tittie Night all sound horrendous.”

  “Very funny. Put it on your calendar. November fifteenth.”

  “First of all, that’s like months from now.”

  “Under a month, actually.”

  “And secondly, I’m terrible at keeping calendars. Adam’s crazy for them. He’s always color-coding things and assigning, um, importance levels or something.”

  “Then tell Adam to put it on the calendar. You’re coming.”

  “Fine,” Mel sighed. “Have you ever noticed that our friendship is mostly based on you forcing me to do things that are completely contrary to my nature? Can that possibly be healthy?” She fiddled with her sparkling wedding band. Regina’s own fingers were bare; rings interfered with lifting weights. She wondered what was really going on with Mel and Adam. Frankly, Mel seemed like she’d be a difficult spouse.

  “I have noticed,” Regina said. “I’ve also noticed that you end up thanking me later. So, you’re welcome in advance.” She lifted her smoothie toward Mel, in a toast.

  Mel tapped her empty glass to Regina’s. “Are you even going to drink that thing? Or are you just giving me a lesson in self-control?”

  Regina couldn’t help smiling. “You’re insane,” she said, taking a long drink from the straw. “Oh my God. This is delicious.”

  “And you are absolutely delusional,” said Mel. “But I kind of love you for it.”

  In that moment, Regina kind of loved Mel, too.

  Wednesday, October 17, 2018

  13

  Mel

  MEL WAS STUFFING TWO NEW DESIGNER HANDBAGS (STILL WRAPPED IN plastic packaging—she must stop shopping online while stoned) into a bin in her closet when she heard Lettie call from downstairs, “Hello?”

  “Hola, Leticia!” Mel called back. “I’ll be right down! Just taking a quick shower.”

  “No worries,” Lettie called back. The oft-used phrase still made Mel cringe. No worries? Really, no worries? Mel wanted to respond when the Southern Californians uttered the ridiculous phrase. There’s, like, a million things to worry about! Don’t you see that Big Cheeto in the Oval Office? And, by the way, my husband is cheating on me! But Lettie could say anything. Lettie could do no wrong.

  If only Lettie wanted to be friends with Mel the way Regina did, Mel thought, scanning her walk-in closet one last time, searching for anything that should be hidden, like clothes with the price tags still attached. She’d almost confessed the Adam situation to Regina yesterday, over those horrid oat milk smoothies, then lost her nerve. It was too embarrassing: she, the oblivious fat chick with the hot, cheating husband. A scenario that now seemed so obvious she couldn’t bear to confirm its truth to anyone. And anyway, could Regina be trusted? She was the kind of woman who lied effortlessly. Small white lies, yes—the kind that all women told—but Mel had a hunch that Regina lied to herself, too. That tone she’d used when kvetching about her husband Gordon’s screenplay, the one about some long-ago war—hadn’t Mel heard a smoldering rage trying to break through? Was this the sort of person in whom Mel should confide her humiliating secret?

  No matter what, Mel was grateful to Regina. It was Regina, after all, who’d spotted Lettie’s handwritten index card on the bulletin board at the Santa Monica Food Co-op years ago, advertising “Good, Honest Cleaner” and dialed the number. Regina who’d recommended that Mel hire Lettie when Mel had asked for a housekeeping referral, Regina adding, in a protective tone, She’s undocumented. Just so you’re aware. As if Mel and Adam might have red Make America Great Again hats stashed in the back of their closet.

  In truth, Mel was happy to employ members of the group the Big Cheeto in the Oval Office targeted most viciously. Paying Lettie to clean her house was, Mel believed, her own small act of protest. And pre-cleaning the house before Lettie arrived was an act of self-care: it helped stave off the guilt she felt over having a housecleaner at all.

  Mel’s favorite time of the week was right after Lettie cleaned, when Mel sat in the still and silent living room, inhaling the lemony scent of the cleaning products, gazing at the tracks the vacuum left across the velvety tan carpet like a freshly mowe
d lawn. For the moment, her home was immaculate. Even if Adam was a cheating bastard. Even if Mel’s once sweet little girl seemed to resent her more every day. Her home was perfect. Before Sloane returned with dirty cleats and soccer socks hiding a hundred tiny pieces of turf; before Adam (that fucker), his gi drenched in sweat, made the house smell like a locker room.

  Showered, Mel threw on her uniform—black palazzo pants, black tank top, dangly earrings, and a pom-pom-fringed silk DVF scarf.

  On her way downstairs, she turned on the air-conditioning. She’d wanted to turn it on hours ago but waited until Adam and Sloane left the house. She’d heard Adam’s voice in her head—who used A/C when it was seventy-two degrees and under every single day?

  “I turned on the air for you,” Mel white-lied to Lettie as she stepped into the kitchen, where Lettie had begun to clean, washing, Mel realized with horror, the breakfast dishes Adam had left in the sink. “I can do that,” Mel said too quickly, nearly shoving Lettie out of the way.

  Lettie laughed. “You are too good to me, Melissa.”

  “It’s Mel. Please, Lettie. We’ve known each other for almost a year. You’ve got to call me Mel, ’kay?”

  “Mel,” Lettie said in that quiet way Mel admired. Her smile almost there.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you have a mysterious smile?” Mel asked. She turned the tap toward cold. How could Lettie stand water that hot? “A Mona Lisa smile.”

  Lettie frowned and crossed her arms. “Mona Lisa? She ugly.”

  “Sorry, that was dumb!” Mel winced. Of course, Lettie wouldn’t see that as a compliment. “You’re far more beautiful than any Mona Lisa.”

  She was relieved when Lettie smiled and tossed her long thick black hair away from her face coquettishly before nudging Mel with her hip so Mel had no choice but to step away from the sink.

  “Have you eaten?” Mel asked, opening the fridge door to see what Adam had cooked that morning. “There’s leftover frittata in here somewhere.”