Santa Monica

by Cassidy Lucas

  In Melissa’s hallway, surrounded by the two women who had helped her make a better life in America—women now at war with each other, she knew—Lettie had finally been seen.

  In America, her mother, Gloria, had repeated again and again that year Lettie had readied herself to cross the border, saving every penny she made cleaning the hotel rooms of wealthy tourists visiting Oaxaca. In America, her mother had said, no one goes hungry.

  In America, every child learns to read.

  In America, every person has a chance to be king or queen.

  My America, Lettie thought, began with Andres. The little boy whose future, she still believed, overflowed with possibility. Who knew, maybe there was a President Andres Manuel Mendoza in America’s future.

  Her body was strong. She’d taken the blows. From Manuel, from the silver-haired comic book store owner, from the judge in court. Even from the Big Cheeto.

  And also, from those she had adored—Regina, Mel, and even Zacarias, whose broken promises, though only made of words, had once stung as much as Manuel’s slaps.

  She would return someday and start her American story anew. What was Zacarias always yelling at his students at the gym? Your body can stand almost anything! It’s your mind you have to convince!

  She’d go back to Mexico and make her mind strong again. And when she was sure her heart was as hard as stone, the heart of a woman who would not dare believe in promises again, she’d cross the desert, a second time, and be with her boy. Forever.

  FROM THE COLLECTED WRITINGS OF SAINT THÉRÈSE

  I understood that every flower created by Him is beautiful, that the brilliance of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not lessen the perfume of the violet or the sweet simplicity of the daisy. I understood that if all the lowly flowers wished to be roses, nature would no longer be enameled with lovely hues. And so, it is in the world of souls, Our Lord’s living garden.

  Sunday, March 24, 2019

  39

  Zack

  ZACK’S SUNDAY HAD BEEN LONG AND UNPLEASANT.

  Usually, he looked forward to the end of the weekend. He never worked on Sunday mornings, so that he could take Andres and Lettie to mass at St. Monica’s, then across the street to Reed Park for a picnic, usually tamales Lettie had made the day before and wrapped in foil. Reed Park had been one of the few public places Zack felt comfortable appearing with his half-sister and nephew, due to its popularity with the local homeless population and other riffraff. The park’s grunginess virtually guaranteed they’d never run into any of Zack’s clients or Lettie’s employers. Not that it mattered anymore. They all knew who Lettie was to him now.

  Which was a huge relief. And made him regret hiding their relationship in the first place.

  Those picnics at the park he’d shared with Lettie and Andres were often the most relaxed hour of Zack’s week, lazing in the grass, under the sunshine, getting up periodically to toss a ball with Andres (who was just starting to get the hang of it), or kick into handstands, while Andres counted by Mississippis. The boy went giddy with excitement when Zack broke his own handstand records, squealing Yay, Tío! and pumping his skinny arm in the air.

  But this Sunday, Zack had gone to Mass alone and straight home right after, skipping Reed Park. Now Lettie was days away from her move to a detention facility, an hour south in Santa Ana, a fact he still couldn’t quite accept. When she left, Andres would continue to stay with Mel and Adam—Zack tried not to burn with envy and self-disgust over this, reminding himself that Andres probably felt like a prince in the Goldberg castle.

  He’d thought going to Mass might help, that he’d lose himself in the sweet, holy voices of the choir, in the wisdom of the sermon, but the service had done him no good. In pew after pew, it seemed, Zack caught sight of some child or another who bore a small resemblance to his Andres. A boy with gel-stiff hair. A girl hiding a Pokémon toy in her lap. It was torture.

  Mass had not helped, nor had the barbecued cauliflower burger from Paprika, which he’d Postmated to his house and eaten on his sagging couch while trying to read Saint Thérèse, sipping water straight from a gallon jug because all of his glasses were dirty. He’d barely done dishes or laundry since that terrible morning at Burn for Malibu!

  At some point in the afternoon, he switched from reading Thérèse to watching TV, though nothing appealed to him and he ended up wasting an hour sampling garbage on Netflix.

  Then he’d fallen into a black, dreamless sleep.

  When he woke, it was dark. His phone read 10:32 P.M. He’d slept for four or five hours. His mouth was fuggy from the sandwich he’d eaten, its sauce-streaked wrapper lying on the floor by the couch. Zack sat up and rubbed his eyes, instantly disgusted with himself. His apartment was filthy, complete with trash on the floor; he’d slept through the day, and hadn’t exercised in nearly a week. It’d been all he could do to show up and teach at Color Theory, never mind putting in extra hours for his own workouts. His body felt sluggish and soft, unrecognizable.

  He stood up and went to his bedroom and took off the rumpled white button-down and black pants he’d worn to church and napped in. From one of the many piles of dirty clothes scattering the floor, he found gym shorts and sniffed at several T-shirts before settling on one with a tolerable smell. It was one of his many that read Eat Pure, Train Filthy.

  He needed to exercise. To clear his mind by running until his lungs screamed, by lifting iron plates so that his muscles burned and throbbed. To push himself to limits where there was no room for thinking. No room for Andres, or Lettie, or the fact that Zack had failed them both, or for Melissa Goldberg, whom he could not stop thinking about in bed at night, no matter how many months had passed since he’d touched her.

  No room for anything but the pain. Which was also beauty.

  A real cross is the martyrdom of the heart, the interior suffering of the soul, Thérèse had written.

  On Sundays, Color Theory’s last class ended at six P.M. The studio had been closed for hours. Zack was sure to have the gym to himself. Jensen encouraged his staffers to help themselves to the equipment after-hours, as long as they cleaned up.

  In his truck, Zack drove with the windows down, taking the long route along the beach so he could breathe the briny air, energize himself before his first workout in a week. He blasted Waylon and sang along.

  Then he turned onto Main Street and parked in the lot of Color Theory. It was empty but for one other car: a white Porsche, gleaming in the glow of the dim streetlight.

  “Z-MAN?” JENSEN RELEASED the fly press with a clang and flashed a double thumbs-up. “No shit!”

  “Dude!” said Zack, faking enthusiasm. He’d assumed he’d have the gym to himself. Jensen was the last person he wanted to train with—except maybe Regina. But Zack’s cravings to feel his muscles burn, his lungs ache, to sweat out the shitty feelings of despair, trumped his disappointment at not having the gym to himself. And, in the weeks since Zack had stopped the transfers to Big Rad Wolfe, he’d gradually gotten comfortable around Jensen again, who was chummier with Zack than ever. Color Theory Malibu was set to open at the beginning of June, and, true to his word, Jensen had officially hired Zack as head trainer. The compensation hadn’t been as much as Zack hoped, but it was quite a bit more than he was earning now, plus benefits.

  Regina had been right—Jensen had not noticed the money they’d moved. He was far too wealthy to miss a measly fifty grand. Still, Zack avoided his boss. He no longer had the energy for Jensen’s incessant bro-banter. He’d been weirded out by Jensen’s pushy vibe during the Porsche drive his boss had practically forced on him. He hadn’t realized just how needy Jensen was until that terrible night Mel had dumped him, and while he felt sorry for the guy—Zack knew how crushing loneliness could be—he was in no shape to be someone else’s savior, no, siree.

  Plus, Mel had hated Jensen, called him a douche and a bigot, among other unflattering things, and although Zack didn’t really agree, her opinion had worn off on him.<
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  As had so many things about Mel.

  God, he missed her.

  “Perfect timing, bro,” said Jensen. “I’ve only done one set. Wanna hit a circuit with me? Keep each other honest?”

  “Actually, I was gonna keep it short,” said Zack. “Maybe just lift. I’ve got . . . stuff to do tonight.”

  “It’s eleven P.M. on Sunday,” said Jensen. “How much more can you do with your night? Other than take a shower and jerk off in bed?”

  “Ha,” said Zack flatly.

  “Joke, man. Joke,” said Jensen, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Seriously, at least stick around to spot me for a few sets? I’ll return the favor. Let me just put on some tunes.” He tapped his phone and Bruno Mars’s silky voice started on the sound system.

  “Um. Okay.” Zack had the intense urge to turn and walk out the gym’s front door. Instead he followed Jensen to the bench. Jensen loaded his plates—the same weight Zack benched—and lay down on the padded platform. Then he gripped the barbell and hoisted it off the stopper. Zack stood behind him, counting as Jensen lifted. After three sets, Zack saw veins jumping out from his boss’s temples and sweat pushing up from his scalp into his salt-and-pepper buzzcut. He thought of his father, who’d set up a bench in the family garage in Florida, and liked to scream profanities as he lifted weights early in the morning, so that his vulgar outbursts were often the first thing Zack heard when he woke, sending him into instant low-grade panic.

  Midway through the fourth set, Jensen began to struggle, and Zack pressed his palms under the barbell to help him.

  “No, man, no,” Jensen panted. “I’m good. Not yet.”

  He groaned and winced through the rest of the set, his biceps and delts puffing with exertion.

  Finally, he finished eight sets and sat up on the bench, breathing hard.

  “Nice job, dude,” said Zack.

  “Your turn.”

  Impulsively, Zack added a twenty-five-pound plate to each side.

  “You always go that heavy?” said Jensen.

  “Yup,” Zack lied, and lowered onto the bench.

  Halfway through his first set, he realized he’d made a mistake. The barbell was too much. His muscles were already on fire. Jensen noticed and tried to spot him.

  “No,” said Zack, his voice strained. “Don’t.”

  If he was going to cut his workout short, he at least wanted to make sure it hurt.

  He made it through the set, and started on the next.

  “Six, seven, eight. Atta boy,” said Jensen.

  “Argh,” moaned Zack, resting for a minute, his delts hot and pulsing. Then he lifted the barbell again. And again. And again. As his muscles protested and pain seared through them, down into his bones, Zack closed his eyes. He pictured Andres, eyes lit behind his crooked glasses, his ruined leg dragging as he ran to catch the ball his tío Zack had tossed high above the green grass at Reed Park.

  “Two, three, four,” counted Jensen, as Zack swung into his sixth set. “You’re killing it, Z-man.”

  Six sets, with an extra fifty! And Jensen had not even touched him yet. Zack continued to pump, letting his mind rove from Andres to Mel—how she squinted one eye at him when she was embarrassed, or tugged at her bangs as if she could lower them over her sweet, rosy face—finding strength.

  But then, midway through his seventh set, his arms quit. The weight was too heavy. Jensen reached out to support the barbell, and Zack let him. With Jensen assisting him, he made it through his eighth set. His tenth rep nearly shattered him. He lowered the weight back onto the stopper, then found he was too spent to move. Could not even sit up on the bench. So he continued to lie there, back flat on the padding, feet resting on the floor.

  At last, Zack’s mind was blank. A whiteboard and black screen at once. Sweat streamed from his face into his hair. The muscles of his arms were utterly shot. He could not move them.

  This is what he’d come for. To wreck himself, in order to find peace.

  “Uh, Z-man?”

  Zack opened his eyes. Jensen was still standing behind the bench, but had leaned over, so his tanned, creased face was nearly touching Zack’s.

  “Yeah?”

  “That was a heroic set.”

  “I might’ve overdone it a little,” said Zack. “Haven’t lifted in a week.”

  “You looked fucking intense,” said Jensen. Zack could feel his boss’s breath on his cheek. He scooted out from under the barbell and sat up.

  Jensen stepped around the bench and grabbed a blue resistance band from a hook on the wall.

  “Here,” he said, handing it to Zack. “Stretch yourself out before you seize up.”

  Zack took the band but was still too weary from his set to move.

  Jensen sat down next to him on the bench.

  Too close.

  “You’re up,” said Zack, standing. He tossed the blue band onto the floor.

  Jensen picked it up. “Let me stretch you out.”

  Zack shook his head. “Let’s keep going. I’ll stretch later. I’m fine.” His arms felt like twin stones at his side. Definitely, he’d overdone it. But he wasn’t sorry. He deserved the pain.

  Thérèse: A great serenity will follow the storm.

  “Hang on,” said Jensen, grabbing Zack’s forearm.

  “What is it, man?”

  Without letting go of Zack’s arm, Jensen rose to his feet. Sweat still glistened over his face. Zack could see it collected in the crow’s feet lining Jensen’s eyes.

  Jensen clasped Zack’s other arm with his free hand, and closed the small gap between their bodies.

  Then he lifted his face to Zack’s and kissed him on the lips.

  Zack shoved the older man’s shoulders, hard, and Jensen stumbled backward.

  “S-sorry, dude,” Jensen stammered.

  “What the fuck?” said Zack. His mind flashed to the night in the Porsche; how Jensen kept crossing into his personal space. Zack had hardly given it a thought; gym guys were a touchy bunch, himself included.

  Now, he was giving it thought. He eyed the front door of the studio. All he would have to do is bolt through, past the empty reception desk, and onto the street. Never look back.

  But he was too stunned to move.

  “I just—it seemed,” Jensen said. “Like you gave me the green light. Like you were asking for it. The look on your face, during your reps . . .” He trailed off.

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “I am?”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely,” said Zack. He wiped the back of his hand over his lips, disgust seeping through his body.

  “Don’t lie to me, Zack. Or to yourself. It’s okay. I read your vibe that night, on the drive.”

  Zack froze. “What?”

  “Don’t act like you haven’t felt it, too. All these months. All our talks . . .”

  “It wasn’t like that.” Zack’s hands curled into fists. “You dragged me out on that drive. I didn’t even want to go. I was . . . waiting for my girlfriend.” He cringed as he spoke the lie, as if Mel could somehow hear him.

  Jensen erupted in laughter. “Your girlfriend? Puh-lease. When’re you gonna give up this boy-toy-to-the-cougars act?”

  “Jensen, cut it out. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’ve got it totally fucking wrong.”

  “Well,” said Jensen, “I guess I misunderstood. Even though you were giving me every clue under the sun. Beaming them to me. Hell, our legs even have the same haircut.” He laughed and touched one finger to his own smooth-shaven leg. Then he reached and pressed the pad of his finger to Zack’s shin.

  Zack kicked him away. “Because I shave my legs, Jens? You thought I was a faggot because I shave my legs?”

  “That, and about a million other reasons,” said Jensen. “If I weren’t so sure, I never would’ve let you get away with it.”

  “Get away with what?”

  Jensen gave a short, bitter laugh. “With stealing from me right under my nose.”
>
  Zack felt dizzy. “What . . . what do you mean?”

  “Cut the bullshit,” said Jensen. “You’ve been transferring money to Regina Wolfe’s business for months. Every other week. Somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty grand. How you planned to weasel the cash out of Regina, I have no idea. By fucking her, I guess. The same way you’ve gotten every single thing in your life.” Jensen thrust his hips forward and back, humping the air.

  “I never . . .” Zack faltered. His body began to tremble. Everywhere. He could even feel it in his face. “She . . . It was Regina. It was all her idea.”

  Jensen barked another laugh. “Regina Wolfe? Embezzling from me? A measly fifty grand? Please, Zack. You keep getting dumber. She’s as rich as all the other bitches shaking their asses in this gym all day.”

  “I swear to God,” said Zack. “I have proof—”

  “Give it up, Doheny. I already talked to Regina. She clearly had no idea. Never even noticed the money was there. Paid me back like—” Jensen snapped his fingers.

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “You’re lucky I haven’t filed criminal charges yet. I’ve known about this for weeks.”

  “No.” Zack felt an electric current come to life inside him. Hot and buzzing, starting in his legs and shooting up into his chest, into his mind.

  “Just admit it,” said Jensen, casual now, practically gloating. He twirled the blue resistance band so that it spun a blurred circle in the air. “You’re a thief. A thief and a faggot. I can’t believe I just offered you a goddamn primo job.”

  The current in Zack’s body sparked and caught fire. He lunged at Jensen, threw him to the ground and pressed his knee into the center of his boss’s chest, pinning him down. Jensen groaned and thrashed but could not get away. Zack slid both hands around his neck and squeezed, fingers latched in a vise grip, compressing skin and tendons, muscles and veins. As he squeezed Jensen’s neck, Zack heard deep guttural roars rise from his own throat, drowning out the music, the whir of the studio’s fan, Jensen’s pleas for help. Zack was stronger than Jensen. But his arms were clumsy from the weights he’d just lifted, and his mind was wild with rage, blinding him to the fact that Jensen, despite his flailing limbs and strained yowls of terror, was still clutching the blue rubber strap like a lifeline.