“Meditating?” guessed Sloane.
“Something like that,” said Mel.
“How lucky am I,” Adam said, clearly sensing Mel’s mood and hoping to lighten it, “to be having lunch with both my girls today?”
“Women,” corrected Sloane. “Right, Mom?”
“Sorry,” said Adam quickly. “Women.” Mel knew he was trying; normally, he would have responded with some sarcastic, barely cloaked criticism of her—Well, Mommy is the word police, she could almost hear him saying.
Instead, Adam was being nice to her. So why wasn’t she feeling more grateful? After all, she’d been wrong about him. Dead wrong. And those fawning Santa Monica mothers, the ones who’d batted their lash extensions at Adam during soccer games, the ones Mel had privately labeled ditzes, had been right: Adam was a good man. The best, really. And somehow, he still belonged to Mel. Her life was full again.
So why did she feel so empty?
Adam lifted his ceramic teacup. “A toast, please. To my favorite women.”
“Hashtag cheesy!” said Sloane, but clinked her cup to Adam’s with a grin, and Mel could hear the delight in her daughter’s voice. She willed herself to focus on this—her happy family, sitting in their beautiful kitchen, winter sunshine pouring through the leaves of the magnolia in their front yard—and ignore the fact that Sloane’s hashtag comment had caused Zack’s face to appear in her mind, his aqua eyes and brown curls as clear and vivid as a photo.
Mel wasn’t completely sure he’d be attending the Woolsey Fire Benefit, which she’d impulsively offered to host, but a part of her hoped, desperately, that he would.
No. Zack was the past. Mel now lived in the present, just as everyone in Southern California had been suggesting for the past two years. Facing forward.
Who was she becoming? Was it possible she was losing her inner Brooklyn? Had leaving New York made her not only a shitty, lust-crazed wife and negligent mother, but also shallow, just another California mom floating from school drop-off to the gym to Whole Foods and kids’ soccer games on the beach?
Sloane abruptly dropped her chopsticks onto the table and leaned forward, toward the large window facing the front yard and Georgina Avenue and beyond, as if suddenly hypnotized by something outside.
“What is it, honey?” said Mel.
Sloane extended her arm and pointed toward the street.
“Look,” she said. “Someone’s spying on us.”
Mel and Adam looked.
Idling on the curb directly in front of their house was a rusted maroon pickup truck.
Mel felt the miso soup and seaweed salad she’d just eaten rise. Zack was sitting right there, in broad daylight, with the window rolled down, his elbow propped casually on the frame.
“Hey,” said Sloane. “I know that guy!”
“You do?” said Adam, sounding genuinely curious.
Mel was sure she was going to throw up. Maybe this was it: the punishment for her sins. The premature arrival of the hell she’d been so certain didn’t exist. You didn’t get to do what she’d done—fuck a guy who wasn’t your husband in half the hotels of Los Angeles County—and get away with it.
“Yeah,” said Sloane. “That’s the guy mom was holding hands with at my soccer game.”
“Oh,” said Adam. “Is it?”
Mel snapped into survival mode. “Holding hands? What?” She tried her best to sound incredulous. She might be a terrible, weak person, but she didn’t deserve to lose her family now, in one fell swoop.
Did she?
“And why were you holding his hand, Mel?” said Adam calmly.
“Holding hands? Ha! Not at all. Though I can see why you thought that, Sloanie. That’s just some . . . trainer guy from my old gym. I bumped into him at Clover Park a few weeks ago and he gave me a high five. He’s always giving everyone high fives! He’s, like, famous for it. It’s a . . . like a tic. He’s kind of an . . . idiot.” She heard herself stumbling over her words, saying like too much, as if she were a teenager caught breaking curfew.
In short, acting guilty.
Shit shit shit.
“Is he also ‘kind of’ a stalker?” said Adam, hooking his fingers into air quotes. “Because showing up at the home of a client from the gym strikes me as odd behavior.”
Out of nowhere, Regina flashed to her mind. Mel could almost hear her saying, You got this, Goldberg, in her firm, imperturbable way.
What would Regina do in this very moment?
Breathe, Mel commanded herself.
Then she turned to Adam and forced what she hoped was a confident smile. A Regina smile. “You know what? I bet I know why he’s here. You remember how I’m hosting that community fitness event thingy next week? The fundraiser for the Woolsey Fire victims? I’m sure I told you, but maybe I—”
“I remember,” Adam interrupted. “What’s it got to do with anything?”
“That trainer.” She gestured to the window. “He’s . . . involved with the event. He’s probably just scoping out the location. The event is kind of high-pressure. And he’s kind of an idiot.”
“You mentioned that already,” said Adam, ice-cold. “Call me crazy, but I don’t like idiots loitering outside my house.”
“I can go—talk to him,” she managed, through her nausea, feeling her heart accelerate to what felt like a hazardous pace. Surely, she was in the red zone. “I’ll go tell him to leave.”
Her attempt to conjure cool and capable Regina had failed.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Adam, rising from the table, still holding his chopsticks, the “hand-sharpened” ones made of cherry bark that Mel had purchased from the Brentwood Country Mart at a whopping price. You could literally stab someone with these, the dippy cashier had said with a laugh as he rang her up. “I’ll go have a word with him.”
“Careful, Dad!” said Sloane. “I saw that guy’s muscles at the park. They’re huge.”
“So are mine,” said Adam, and before Mel could stop him, he blazed out the front door.
BURN FOR MALIBU!!!
MARCH 2ND 9 AM-11 AM
COLOR THEORY IS SPONSORING A COMMUNITY EVENT TO BENEFIT DOMESTIC WORKERS AFFECTED BY THE WOOLSEY FIRE. COME SWEAT IT OUT FOR THE FOLKS WHO NEED IT MOST! LOCATION TO BE DISCLOSED UPON RSVP AND MINIMUM DONATION PLEDGE. SEE YOU THERE!
Saturday, March 2, 2019
37
Zack
THE MORNING OF THE BURN FOR MALIBU! FUNDRAISER WAS ESPECIALLY dazzling, even for Santa Monica, where Zack had grown numb to the endless perfect weather. But the first weekend of March followed several days of rare spring rain, and when Zack stepped from his apartment at eight A.M., he was startled by the beauty of the sky, a cornflower-blue dome painted with fat cumulus clouds. The air tasted clean, rinsed of its usual trace of exhaust, and was so clear he could see threads of snow on the San Gabriel Mountains, sixty miles to the east.
Could anything bad possibly happen on a day like this? he wondered, climbing into his Tacoma and heading west on Pico toward the heart of Santa Monica, his adrenaline suddenly kicking in as he cut north toward Georgina Avenue, recalling the menacing look on Adam Goldberg’s face on Valentine’s Day as he’d strode from his house toward Zack’s truck idling at the end of the driveway. Zack had peeled from the curb before Adam reached him—a cowardly move, Zack knew, but what was the alternative? A screaming match? A fight on the sidewalk, with Mister Jiu-Jitsu himself? Zack had already been lucky once, in escaping the scuffle with that pudgy Captain America back at Halloween. As much as he relished the thought of pulverizing Adam Goldberg, of smashing his chiseled jaw, Zack knew he would not be so lucky again.
What had he been thinking, showing up at the Goldberg house? That was the problem: he hadn’t been thinking at all.
He’d simply been weak. He missed Mel. Combined with the news that he would not be able to adopt Andres, the thought of losing his nephew to a foster family—or a dead-end life back in Mexico—was too much for Zack to bear.
He would remain stoic this morning, he reminded himself. At least for the next several hours, during which he’d be co-leading another group workout in Mel’s backyard. He’d thought of bailing, of inventing some airtight excuse for why he couldn’t participate, but Jensen had insisted, reminding Zack that his new job as the head coach of Color Theory Malibu required him to think of yourself as the face of our brand. Which had struck Zack as a little threatening, but the bottom line was, Zack desperately wanted the management job, which was a clear step forward, an actual mark of progress in his otherwise lame-ass “career.”
So, he’d agreed to show up in Mel’s backyard today, telling himself he’d simply teach the class and go home. If possible, he’d talk to no one. That seemed easier than specifically avoiding Mel.
Then yesterday, he’d received Regina’s text: Hey, I know it’s been a while but I’ve been dealing with some stuff. Sorry. I did finally find that laptop of yours and will bring it to the Malibu event at Mel’s tomorrow. Promise. C U there.
He’d stared at the text, shocked. Laptop was her code for cash. She was bringing him the cash she still owed him—just over three grand. To Mel’s house.
He’d considered texting back: Don’t bother, fuck you very much!
But it was a lot of money. Lettie claimed it could not save her from her legal troubles, but what if she was wrong? Practical matters were not her forte—look at how naïve she’d been in hiring that greedy, sketchy attorney off a dang billboard. Surely one more chunk of cash could help her in some way, especially since Zack could not make good on his offer to adopt Andres.
Which Lettie did not yet know. He’d not had the heart to tell her.
Honestly, he’d rather die than tell her, he’d thought more than once since he’d crumpled up the awful adoption refusal letter and tossed it in the trash.
He’d take the money Regina owed him, Zack decided, and hand it right over to Lettie. Perhaps it would ease the bad news about Andres.
OK, he’d responded.
How had he become such a loser? Zack wondered, as he turned onto Mel’s block of Georgina, already clogged with parked cars. Wasn’t LA where you came to reinvent yourself, to shed your old skin for something shiny and new?
The letter from the adoption agency had reminded him that his old skin was still in place, closed in around him like a straightjacket. How foolish he’d been to think that Mel Goldberg had transformed him, that they might actually be headed toward a brand-new life together. That he’d actually let himself picture it—the bungalow in Malibu with the rusty shutters, the lazy nights together by the sea—made him seethe with embarrassment now.
He finally found a spot to park, a good block and a half from the Goldbergs’ Tudor. Carrying his gym duffel, he trailed a giggling cluster of twentysomething women clad in crop tops and micro-shorts, clearly headed to the workout event. Zack steered his eyes away from their high, round bottoms and smooth, tanned legs gleaming in the sunshine. Perhaps he was still a loser, but he would not go back to his old, sinful ways with women. Never. Mel had shown him there was a better way. She had made him a better person.
He was going to see her. Any minute now.
“ALOHA, FOLKS!” JENSEN shouted at the large spandex-and-Lycra-clad crowd of about fifty or sixty—mostly women, many of whom Zack recognized from Color Theory—arranged into rows across the lush grass of Mel’s backyard. “I’m truly humbled by this turnout!”
Zack stood at the front of the group between Bri and Shawn and scanned the sea of faces: Lindsey Leyner was there, of course, jogging in place in the second row, clad in head-to-toe fuchsia. He winced at the sight of Regina, who was uncharacteristically situated in the far corner of the back row, next to Sukie Reinhardt, stretching her arms over her head. Looking at her in her skin-tight mesh-paneled workout clothes, he noticed with petty satisfaction that Regina had put on a few pounds. A few months without Zack training her and she was falling apart.
“What an amazing way to kick off our Burn for Malibu! benefit,” Jensen shouted to the crowd. “As one of our favorite trainers might say, hashtag blessed.”
“Yeah, Zaaaaack!” yelled Bri, and a few people in the crowd whooped.
Zack cringed inwardly as he flashed a thumbs-up at Jensen. He knew Mel considered the phrase detestable, which meant that this very moment, she might be silently laughing at him. He stole a glance at her huddled with Lettie at the long refreshment table on the patio. Seeing her now in her usual all-black clothes, pushing her bangs off her forehead as she rested her palm on Lettie’s shoulder—clearly, they’d become even closer—felt like a blade to Zack’s gut. So much for stoicism; seeing her was torture. Pure want and need.
“The fires of last November were devastating,” Jensen was saying. “Nature unleashing her wrath. But, man”—he pumped his fist in the air and Zack noticed the guy’s arm was as hairless as a newborn—“with discipline and with faith, man can prevail over nature.”
“You mean over climate change,” someone said from the patio, just loud enough for Zack to recognize Mel’s voice. His entire body bristled at the sound.
“Which is what brings us together today,” Jensen continued.
Zack felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Adam Goldberg, dressed not in workout clothes but in some sort of metrosexual outfit—skinny jeans and a tight, pec-revealing T-shirt—like he’d just stepped out Esquire.
Adam lowered his face—the dude had a few inches on Zack—and spoke into Zack’s ear as Jensen continued to warm up the crowd.
“Can I have a word with you?”
Stoic, Zack told himself. You are stone. He checked quickly for Mel, who had disappeared from the refreshment table, leaving only Lettie, who was pouring boxes of coconut water into a large glass dispenser.
“Um, sure,” Zack said, realizing, immediately, that he sounded like a pussy. Where was the hot adrenaline that had been pumping through him that morning when he’d fantasized about pummeling Adam’s handsome face into mush? Maybe this was his chance to show Mel his devotion, or simply prove to himself he wasn’t as much of a loser as he feared.
He followed Adam around the side of the house, trying to stay calm. Surely the dude wasn’t going to grapple with him right here, under the noses of fifty people in his own backyard? And if Adam did go full-blown MMA on Zack’s ass, Zack hoped it would only make Adam look like an unhinged brute; Zack the victim. Would that be enough for Mel to return her love to him?
Adam stopped beside a tree heavy with avocados and crossed his thick arms over his chest.
“Look, buddy,” he said, “I understand you’re at my house today to work. So, I just wanted to remind you to do your ‘work’”—Adam air-quoted—“and then get the hell out of here.”
Zack thought back to the day at the park, the soccer game. Adam must’ve seen Zack pleading with Mel. The humiliation made Zack want to grab an avocado and stuff it whole into Adam’s smug mouth.
“And without further ado,” Jensen’s voice boomed from the yard, “I’m proud to introduce three senior members of my staff at Color Theory Fitness. Together, they’ll lead you beautiful people in an hour of intensive exercise that’ll make your heart rates go crazy! Up here I’ve got Bri Lee, everyone’s favorite early-morning drill sergeant!”
“Look, man,” Zack said, “I don’t know what—”
Adam interrupted, raising his voice to be heard above the cheers of the crowd. “No chitchatting, no lingering, no hanging out near the goddamn coconut water, and above all, no high-fiving my wife.”
Zack imagined swinging at Adam, throwing punches without aim, knocking the taller, richer, more fortunate man to the ground.
“I don’t know what you were doing here the other day,” Adam said, “but I’m going to give you a pass. That pass expires if I see you anywhere near Melissa. You touch my wife again and I will kill you. And I don’t mean figuratively speaking. Do you know what figuratively speaking means?”
Jensen’s booming voice reminded Zack of
the announcer at a pro wrestling match. “Shawn Carruthers, aka King of Quads. Let’s hear it for Shawn!”
Zack took a chance—what did he have to lose, now that he’d lost everything?—and took a step toward Adam, leading with his chest, his foot landing close to Adam’s designer sneakers. Just as Zack had hoped, Adam flinched, took a step backward, and stumbled on an overripe avocado split open on the ground.
Zack almost laughed. Then he heard Jensen call his name.
“And last but not least, ladies and gents,” Jensen said, his excitement ratcheting up like a drumroll, “the new head trainer for Color Theory’s Malibu location, coming in June! The one and only Zzzack Doheny!”
While the crowd clapped and cheered, Zack lifted his chin to Adam and spoke. “As it happens, I do know what figuratively means.” He stepped closer still. “It’s the opposite of literally. As in, I literally screwed your wife.”
“Where has the Z-man gotten to?” Jensen called over the mic.
“Let’s get this party started, yo!” yelled Bri.
“Thanks for the chat,” Zack said to Adam. “I gotta get to, you know, work now. My fans are calling for me, bro.” He stepped around a jaw-hung Adam and jogged around the corner of the house, back into the yard, past Bri and Shawn, toward the front of the crowd, his heart rate already up in the red zone. He noticed Mel had reappeared next to Lettie on the patio and was talking to her urgently, her hands cutting through the air as she spoke.
“Yeah, Zack attack!” he heard Lindsey Leyner scream as he reached the front of the group. The opening notes of Flo Rida’s “Good Feeling” blasted over the sound system.
Zack hopped in place, beaming at the crowd.
“Hey hey, happy Saturday, y’all!” he began, launching into yet another version of the spiel he’d done hundreds of times. “My name’s Zack and the first thing we’re gonna do is get those hearts pumping, so everyone, give me some high knees! Forty seconds, on the clock, in three-two-one . . .”
“Get after it, people!” screamed Bri, the Tattooed Wildcat, raising her knees high enough to touch her chin.
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