Santa Monica

by Cassidy Lucas

  Now, it felt like a sign. She remembered what Bri had said in that transformative Color Theory class. No one’s going to give you what you need. You’ve got to take it.

  Mel sat up straight, feeling the new muscles in her arms, the strength in her core. She took the deepest breath she could manage, and then she spoke.

  “I found the texts, Adam. The texts.”

  He stared at Mel dumbly, as if he hadn’t heard her. Was he going to make her say it again?

  “You’d think”—she looked to Janet—“a famous filmmaker would be smarter. Better at covering his tracks.”

  Adam cut in. “Covering tracks? What?” He was rubbing his palms up and down the thighs of his designer skinny jeans—something Mel knew he did when nervous.

  “I have a story for you, Adam,” Mel said, feeling bolder. “You might find it a little clichéd, but here goes.” She rummaged inside her purse as she spoke. “Man marries woman. Woman gets fat. Man gets rich and successful and famous. Man cheats on woman with hot young slut. The end.”

  “What?” Adam shook his head rapidly, looking, Mel thought, guilty as hell. Boo-ya! she heard Bri yell in her mind.

  “I know you cheated on me, Adam.”

  “This is a joke, right?” Adam looked to Janet.

  “No, Adam, this is quite serious,” Janet said.

  Mel located the printout of the texts in her purse and thrust the folded paper at Adam.

  “What . . . is this?” Gingerly, he took the paper from her and unfolded it.

  “Just read it.”

  Adam stared at the page, his lips moving ever so slightly, glasses slipping down his nose. Mel had the passing reflex to push them up for him, and then remembered she wouldn’t be touching him ever again.

  Adam looked up.

  “This isn’t me,” he said, his voice cool and tight. “I don’t know what this is.” He extended the printout back to Mel.

  She swatted it to the floor. “Bullshit,” she hissed.

  “Melissa,” Janet warned.

  Mel ignored her. “This, Adam, is the story you’ve, clearly, been living behind my back. Behind Sloanie’s sweet little back!”

  Her eyes burned with tears but she refused to blink. She would not let him see her as anything but strong. Self-reliant. IN CONTROL.

  But then she saw the look of terrified confusion on his face. Watched as he picked the paper up from the floor, almost pathetically, and scanned it again, his eyes flicking left and right across the page. She hadn’t seen him scared like this, so utterly lost-looking, since his father’s funeral.

  “Let’s all take a breath,” said Janet. “Adam, take a few minutes to process.”

  Adam did not answer. Mel watched him press his hands to his head, elbows resting on his knees. Panic shot through her: What if she was wrong? She wanted to grab Adam by the arm and drag him out of the room, lock the two of them in her car until he finally explained. Maybe, somehow, they could fix this. Hadn’t Adam always been a fixer, able to find a solution, no matter how impossible it seemed? Like when Sloane had inhaled a piece of carrot at two and Adam had picked her up, run the two blocks to the hospital, and stood in the middle of the ER waiting room, a wheezing Sloane in his arms, shouting until they let him in. As the doctors intubated Sloane, their baby’s delicate eyelids fluttering, Adam had looked Mel straight in the eyes and promised everything would be okay, and it had been. Until now.

  It was too late for any of that. Mel understood that the life she’d had before the texts, before the thing in the van, was irrecoverable. Their beautiful life, as they’d known it, was over. And she’d played a role in the destruction.

  A mewling came from behind the closed door. Janet stood, smoothed out her long, tie-dyed skirt, and opened it. Adam sat up as Janet’s smoky-gray cat slid into the room.

  “Tabitha’s a people-cat,” said Janet, settling back into her seat.

  “Do you mind?” Adam asked, with false politeness, nodding toward Tabitha. “I’m allergic.”

  “This isn’t your space, Adam,” Mel snapped, feeling her anger resurface. “It’s Janet’s. You don’t control the world. And”—she turned to Janet—“he’s not allergic. He just dislikes cats.”

  “Melissa,” Janet said, shooing the cat back outside and shutting the door. “Adam deserves more information.”

  “I just delivered printed evidence. What more does he need?”

  “No,” said Janet. “I mean information about how you feel. And then Adam gets to talk.”

  “I think he prefers to text,” Mel said, unable to help herself.

  “Those are not my fucking texts,” Adam said, through clenched teeth.

  “Getting back to my question, Mel,” said Janet. “About how you’re feeling?”

  “I feel,” Mel said, “like there is no moving on. As for healing . . . give me a break. I’ll never trust you again.”

  “But I haven’t done anything!” Adam shouted.

  Thar she blows, Mel thought. He’d finally lost his cool-as-a-cucumber attitude. Here was the Adam who choked out two-hundred-pound men on the jiu-jitsu mat. Adam—no worries, it’s all good, West Coast Adam—had vanished.

  “You’re cheating. I found proof on your phone. Proof that you erased. The texts were there. And then, a few hours later, while I was sleeping, they disappeared. Explain that, Adam.”

  “I can’t explain it,” said Adam, “because I had nothing to do with it.” He looked to Janet and spoke quietly, as if Mel were invisible. “This might be another of Mel’s episodes. She’s struggled with, uh, interpreting reality in the past . . .”

  Mel barked a laugh. “Oh, so this is my fault? I should’ve known you’d try to blame it on me. It’s always Mel’s fault. Crazy Mel. Sensitive Mel. I won’t let you gaslight me, Adam.”

  “Lay off the hashtag-Me-Too op-eds,” muttered Adam.

  “Time to de-escalate, guys!” Janet cut in firmly. “This conversation can’t be productive if—”

  But Mel couldn’t stop herself now. “You should’ve just killed me, Adam.” She punched herself in the chest and the hollow thud startled Janet, who began to rise from her chair. “Sit, Janet!” Mel snapped, smacking the air down with her palm. Then she added, “Please.”

  The therapist obeyed.

  “Because,” Mel continued. “I’m dead now. Do you know how many times I’ve died?” Now her fist was clenched and pressing into her gut. “Every. Single. Time. I read those disgusting texts between you and your . . . whore!”

  “I swear to God, Melissa,” Adam said, his hands clasped as if in prayer, “I would never do that. I never did!”

  Mel laughed. “I want to believe you, Adam. I want to believe you are good. Good-as-a-man-gets Goldberg!”

  Adam spoke directly to Janet. “I’m deeply concerned about Mel’s stability. It’s ludicrous to even think I’d do that to her.”

  “Or Sloane?” Mel asked, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. “We’ll have to tell Sloanie, of course. Maybe”—she looked to Janet—“we can do that here? Yes, I think that’s the best choice. Don’t you, Janet?”

  “Now wait a minute,” Adam said, straightening, looking from Mel to Janet and back. “Please tell me this isn’t some kind of delusional self-sabotage. Did you, Mel, type those texts yourself?”

  “Don’t you vomit that psychobabble nonsense all over me, Adam!”

  Janet tried to break in. “Mel, Adam. I think we need to slow down a little here.”

  “Well, I think we need to speed things up,” Mel said, searching her purse for her car keys. “Perhaps by getting a good divorce lawyer. Or maybe we could tell Sloane that her father penetrated another woman’s vagina.”

  “Mel, stop it.” Adam stood, his bulk suddenly filling the room. “That’s sick.”

  Mel slung her purse over her shoulder. “No, you are the one that’s sick.”

  “Janice,” Adam began, looking at the therapist.

  “It’s Janet!” Mel said. “Is every woman just
an object to you? I can’t believe I actually used to tell Sloane that Daddy is the best guy in the world!”

  “This is what I’m talking about,” Adam said, pointing at Mel but looking at Janet. “She’s unhinged. She’d rather ruin our daughter’s life. She’s determined to make Sloane hate men.”

  He was speaking to Janet now as if Mel were invisible. Something about her needing meds and calling her old psychiatrist back in Brooklyn.

  “It’s no wonder Sloane refuses to wear anything but boys’ clothes,” Adam went on to Janet. “When her mother is telling her how horrible men are day after day.”

  Mel knew she had to butt in, reclaim control. Janet was listening, nodding, her fingers tented in an upside-down V. Mel knew that gesture. She was believing him. Him.

  “Don’t trust anything he says!” Mel stood between Adam and Janet. “He’s said terrible things. Once he told me to move to a lesbian commune. Can you believe that? It’s like a line in a bad sitcom.”

  “Look, Mel.” Adam’s voice softened. “Can we just take a step back?”

  “Oh, now you’re nice,” Mel said. “Now that you’ve got our therapist on your side.” She narrowed her eyes at Janet, hearing the manic desperation in her own voice. Not caring.

  “I hear that you are hurting, Melissa,” said Janet.

  “Mel, sweetheart,” chimed in Adam.

  “Don’t ever, ever,” Mel said, jabbing her finger at his chest, “call me sweetheart again.”

  She charged through the door of the office and out into the afternoon, ignoring Tabitha’s piercing mewl from somewhere close by, and ran down Janet’s driveway toward her car. The smoky air mingled with her tears, stinging her eyes and throat. As she yanked open the door of her Mini Cooper and wedged herself inside, she swore to herself she’d go to the gym every single day until she was strong enough to fight Adam, right on his goddamn jiu-jitsu mat.

  Choke him unconscious.

  She’d make herself hot. Starting now. She wouldn’t stop until she was as supremely fuckable as every single woman who’d sweated at the party in her backyard. And then, she’d have her revenge. By the time she was done, Adam would be an emotional castrato. No way was he going to ruin her life after he’d convinced her to move across the country, her sacrificing everything—her business, her friends, her all-black wardrobe, her Brooklyn—so he could follow his dreams and cheat on her with trashy, illiterate women.

  She was going to Manifest Destiny his ass.

  Mel drove a few blocks, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking on the wheel. She pulled over and opened the Tiny Sheep virtual farm app on her phone. Sometimes, it was the only thing that calmed her down. She sheared a few tiny pink sheep, then dragged a male and female sheep into a “mating shack.”

  Her phone pinged with a text.

  Adam, she thought, demanding she return to Janet’s. As if.

  But it was a group text. From Zack.

  Winter’s coming, y’all! I love the gym as much as you do, but there’s nothing like sweating it out under the sun. Let’s get it while we still can! I’ll be in Beast Mode at Muscle Beach just south of the Pier on Thursday at 4 if anyone wants to join. Pro bono, no exchange of dinero, purely for fun! Hit me up if you wanna join.

  In the seconds it took to digest his message, Mel almost believed in fate with a capital F. She thought of Lettie’s advice to her, on that mortifying day in Mel’s bedroom, when she’d suggested Zack’s training program.

  I see it like a fortune-teller. All the good things coming to you.

  Mel took a breath and closed Tiny Sheep. Then she responded to Zack alone: Thursday doesn’t work—are there other times this exhibitionist misery is happening? She added an emoji, the ponytailed woman grimacing under the weight of barbells, counted to ten, and hit Send.

  Thursday, November 15, 2018

  21

  Regina

  “HON? I’M LEAVING IN FIVE,” REGINA CALLED THROUGH THE CRACK OF Gordon’s office door. From the hallway, she could hear the furious tap of his fingers on the keyboard. “It’s Minnow Night.”

  “Hang on,” he said, with an intensity Regina knew meant do not come in. “Don’t go yet. Give me ninety seconds to finish this sentence.”

  “That’s okay,” she called back to him. “Don’t let me interrupt you. My Lyft’s on the way.” This wasn’t quite true; she hadn’t called a car yet. But she’d begun giving Gordon little tests, to see who he loved more: Eighteen Twelve, or her.

  The screenplay was winning.

  Regina stepped into the bathroom across the hall to check herself in the full-length mirror. Dressing for Minnow Night always felt like a low-grade competition—who could achieve the most perfect hot-mom look without crossing over into the desperate, age-inappropriate cougar zone? Tonight, she felt especially good about her outfit: faux leather leggings that showed off her long, lean gams and thighs, a swingy white top, and red ballet flats. Makeup done just to the edge of sultry.

  She could definitely pass for mid-thirties. Exceptionally fit mid-thirties. How the hell Zack could have chosen Mel—obviously over forty, far out of shape—over her, was incomprehensible.

  At the thought of them, her entire body prickled with rage. Though she’d been getting the hang of pretending Zack no longer existed. When she struggled, she just closed her eyes and pictured Mel’s pale, flabby leg propped on the back of the van seat, with Zack’s head planted against her thigh.

  They were traitors, Zack and Mel, and Regina hated them both.

  She shut off the bathroom light and stepped back to the door of Gordon’s office.

  Tap tap tap.

  “I’m out,” she said.

  “No! Come here,” Gordon said from his desk. The tapping stopped. “Can I at least get a kiss good-bye?”

  At least? Regina thought. As if she were the one perpetually withholding affection?

  She stepped into his office. Gordon swiveled around from the high-tech, combined sitting/standing (he always sat) desk she’d surprised him with on his last day in the writers’ room of The Clue.

  “Wow,” said Gordon to Regina. “You look amazing. Are you sure you’re just going to a mom’s night out? Or is there some twenty-five-year-old male model I need to kill?”

  “Haha,” she said. “And unfortunately, yes, it’s just another Minnow Night at Canyon Rustica.”

  “Come here,” he said, beckoning to her from his luxury ergonomic chair. (How she wished she could snap her fingers and reclaim the $2,500 she’d spent on it.)

  Reluctantly (would it kill him to stand up?), she stepped forward and leaned down to kiss him. As their lips pressed together, Regina’s phone rang, blaring the ringtone she’d set for Mel: “By the Sea,” a little private joke, since Mel hated the beach. It was also the longest of any ringtone, the grating digital notes marching on for a full ten seconds.

  “Sorry,” she said to Gordon, breaking from their kiss.

  What could Mel want?

  “That’s my Lyft,” she lied. “I better run.”

  “Have fun,” said Gordon. “Come kiss me when you get home.”

  “Or you could come kiss me,” Regina said.

  “Totally,” said Gordon, already swiveling back toward his laptop. “Love you.”

  Back in the hallway, Regina read Mel’s (typically overlong) text.

  Look, I know there is big awkward stuff btwn us now and I want you to know I hate it and I miss you. Also, you probably meant to disinvite me from the Mom’s Night(mare) thing happening 2nite, but Jess Fabian cornered me at Sloane’s soccer practice yesterday and basically BULLIED me into saying I’d go. So, it appears I am coming to Canyon Rustica tonight and if you don’t want to talk to me I totally understand. I just thought I should tell you I was coming. I miss you.

  “Unbelievable,” said Regina out loud. As if stealing Zack wasn’t enough; now Mel was horning in on Regina’s friends, too.

  “Did you say something, hon?” came Gordon’s voice from the office.

 
; “Nope,” said Regina. “Good night.” She blazed toward the front door, opening the Lyft app and ordering a car as she strode down the hallway, determined to beat Mel to the restaurant. The bitch was usually late, anyway.

  22

  Mel

  “THAT DRESS IS KIND OF INAPPROPRIATE, MOM,” SAID SLOANE FROM THE couch, where she was nestled on Adam’s lap watching Nailed It!, the cooking show they loved watching together. Was it normal, Mel wondered, for a ten-year-old—even one in the third size percentile, like Sloane—to still sit on her father’s lap?

  “No offense,” Sloane added. No offense was Sloane’s latest favorite expression. She tacked it on to the end of her sentences constantly, as if, Mel thought, it made any preceding statement acceptable.

  “It’s not inappropriate at all, Sloanie,” said Adam, glancing toward the bottom of the staircase where Mel stood, testing the pair of taupe sling-back heels that had arrived from Zappos that morning. “Mommy looks beautiful.”

  Mel ignored him, as had become habit in the past weeks. Adam had been sleeping in the guest room, although Mel would have preferred him sleeping in a hotel. He still hadn’t given up the perfect (aka cheating) husband act, complimenting her excessively and leaving Post-its with a heart drawn on them beside the breakfast he prepared for her in the mornings while she was still sleeping.

  As if banging a slut could be fixed with charm and egg-white omelets.

  She took a careful step in her new shoes, hanging on to the banister for balance. The heels were just an inch-and-a-half high, but Mel still thought it was quite possible she’d fall and kill herself, having spent the past decade in chunky Dansko clogs.

  “What do you mean by inappropriate, honey?” asked Mel, glancing down at the kelly-green wrap dress she’d purchased from J. Jill on Montana yesterday (size ten—the smallest she’d been since college! Color Theory was torture, but she’d dropped nine pounds—nine!—after just a month of workouts), after Jess Fabian had taken her hostage at soccer practice and forced Mel to promise she’d come to dinner with a bunch of John Wayne moms tonight—the same damn thing Regina had invited her to on their smoothie date last month.