“REGINA, OVER HERE!” JESS FABIAN WAVED FROM THE BAR OF CANYON Rustica, a dim, cavernous space lit by bare bulbs extending on pendants from the ceiling. Regina made her way past tables crowded with sleekly dressed diners toward the gleaming redwood bar, where a cluster of John Wayne moms stood holding cocktail and wine glasses. Country-tinged indie rock played in the background; Regina tried not to let it remind her of Zack. She scanned the bar area for Mel and was relieved not to see her among the group.
She’d probably chickened out, Regina thought, glad she hadn’t responded to Mel’s rambling text.
“Wolfie, yay!” Lindsey Leyner’s sharp manicure closed around Regina’s forearm. “It’s about time. Our table should be ready any minute. We’re getting that giant booth in the back.”
“You look amazing, Regina,” said Kylie Dupree, a tiny, aggressive woman who reminded Regina of the sort of yappy dog celebrities tucked under their arms. Kylie ran the John Wayne PTA with a blend of shrill enthusiasm and a relentlessly guilt-inducing approach to fundraising. Thus Regina, who had yet to make her first of two expected annual donations (suggested contribution per family: $2,000), strategically avoided her. “I mean, look at your body, look at your skin! Are you doing Kybella?”
“Am I doing what?” said Regina.
“Oh, come on, Regina’s a purist,” said Lindsey. “She doesn’t do injectables. Not even Botox! Nothing but diet and exercise for the Wolfe. Old school.”
“I officially hate you,” said Kylie to Regina. “Do you know how much I have to spend every month?” She zigzagged her index finger through the air in front of her face. “Just to keep from looking like a basset hound?”
“Five hundred?” Lindsey guessed instantly. “No, wait. Seven-fifty?”
“Basset hounds are cute,” said Regina, wishing she’d stayed home.
Jess Fabian, the improbably nice redheaded mother of two menacing redheaded fifth-grade twins, Tyler and Torrance, swiveled around from the bar and extended a highball glass with a lime on the rim to Regina.
“Here, Reg! I got you a vodka soda.”
“Thanks.” Regina had been planning to have no more than a single glass of white wine with dinner, but accepted the cocktail. Jess was easily offended. Perhaps this somehow fueled the entitled, greedy vibe of her ten-year-old boys, though Regina wasn’t sure how. Kaden called them the double demons, and Mel had once referred to them as next-gen-#METOO.
“How are those handsome boys of yours?” Regina asked Jess.
“Oh, you know,” Jess said, a bit helplessly. “Already . . . tween-ish. I’m terrified to send them to middle school next year.”
“Your table’s ready, ladies.” A handsome male server with sculpted cheekbones and shoulder-length dark hair—hadn’t Regina just seen him on some commercial?—appeared and beckoned the group toward the restaurant’s main floor. “One of your friends is already waiting at the booth for you. The lady in the green dress. She looked a little lost on her way back from the restroom so I took the liberty of seating her.”
Regina instantly knew he was referring to Mel. Who else would get lost between the bathroom and the bar? Mel had a terrible sense of direction and was probably stoned to boot. Regina took another sip of her vodka soda, feeling her empty stomach flutter at the prospect of seeing her ex-friend, the traitor. The drink was strong.
“Wait ’til you see how amazing Mel looks tonight!” said Jess to Regina as they followed the server toward the back of the restaurant. “She must have lost at least twenty pounds, right?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Regina.
“Oh, I thought you two hung out all the time?” said Jess.
“I’d say Mel’s lost eight to ten pounds,” Lindsey cut in. “It shows more on short people. But still, it’s definitely a step the right direction. And I see her at Color Theory all the time now.”
“She does love Zack’s classes,” said Regina.
“Uh-oh,” said Lindsey. “Is someone else after your boyfriend, Reg?”
“Shut up,” said Regina. Then added a smile.
The server rounded a corner leading to another crowded dining area. Regina saw Mel sitting on the edge of an enormous U-shaped banquette, looking at her phone.
“Melissa, there you are!” screeched Lindsey. “We heard you got lost.”
“Hi, guys.” Mel stood up from the booth, wobbling a little on her feet.
“Regina, hi!”
Mel was not wearing her glasses, Regina noticed, and had put on a good amount of makeup, including liner applied cat-eye style and red matte lipstick.
“Good evening,” said Regina, with as much cold formality as possible. Mel did look noticeably slimmer, and was wearing an uncharacteristically flattering wrap dress that exposed her cleavage.
In fact, she looked great. Far too heavy, still, but glammed up in a way that suited her.
The Zack effect, Regina thought darkly.
Regina drained her drink and watched the server set a stack of menus on the table. She waited to sit until the other women had arranged themselves before taking a seat on the edge of the booth, as far from Mel as possible.
“I’ll let you ladies get settled,” said the server, “and be right back to take your order. My name is Brandon, by the way.”
Lindsey tapped a fuchsia nail to her wineglass. “Could we get another round? And a few orders of those buffalo cauliflower thingies?” Regina smiled to herself; Mel loathed cauliflower.
“Certainly!” Brandon flashed a smile. “Let’s see, we’ve got two pinot grigios, two vodka sodas, and for you, in the green dress—?”
“The green dress will have a Coke,” said Mel.
“Diet, or . . .”
“Or not,” said Mel, “Just regular Coke with shitloads of corn syrup.”
“You got it,” said Brandon, looking perplexed.
When he was gone, Lindsey snort-laughed and jerked her thumb toward Mel, seated beside her. “How funny is this one?”
“Right?” said Kylie. “You’re such a firecracker, Mel!”
Mel shrugged. “Sometimes men need a little extra help. Often, actually.”
“Oh, do they?” said Regina, feeling suddenly loosened by the vodka. “What kind of help?” It was all she could do not to add, Like fucking-in-the-van help?
She did not typically drink vodka so quickly. Or at all.
“Oh, ah,” Mel fumbled. Regina hoped to God she was blushing. “You know. Just basic . . . guidance.”
“I was just telling Regina how smoking hot you look, Mel,” said Jess. Regina could practically feel Mel cringe at the compliment.
“Smoking,” Regina repeated.
“Speaking of smoke,” said Kylie. “How terrible are things in Malibu right now, with the Woolsey Fire?”
Jess nodded vigorously. “It’s atrocious. I watched a slideshow on the LA Times website earlier. Almost a hundred thousand acres burned up.”
“I saw that, too,” said Kylie. “Heartbreaking. I was thinking the PTA could start a donation campaign at school, for victims of the fire. We could just suggest that all families tack on a little extra to their usual spring contribution, and I’ll stick it into a GoFundMe.”
Was it Regina’s imagination, or did Kylie shoot her a pointed look?
Fuck the PTA, she imagined blurting.
“Let’s do it!” Lindsey squealed. “It’s the right thing.”
“I don’t know,” said Mel, “I’m not all that sorry about Whatserface Kardashian’s house burning down.”
“What?” Lindsey clapped her hand to her mouth. “You can’t say that, Mel. Just because she’s rich doesn’t mean—”
“She deserves to burn to death?” offered Regina. “Is that what you meant, Mel?” God, the drink had been strong. She should probably eat something.
“No!” said Mel. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t apologize,” said Kylie. “I love your honesty, Mel. And you’re right. The Kardashians are not the people we need to worry about. Do you know how many domestic workers there are in Malibu? Thousands.”
“Right?” Jess shook her head sadly. “And lots of them are undocumented. So, when their bosses’ big houses burn down, they’re left with nothing. Nowhere to live, no insurance, no way to make money, just”—she snapped her fingers—“zilch.”
“Ugh,” said Mel. “And that’s on top of the Big Cheeto already trying to deport them and break up their families.” Regina watched her lift the glass of Coke Brandon had just delivered into the air, as if waving a flag. “These people are already living in fear, hour to hour. When they’ve done nothing more than try to make better lives for themselves and their kids. It’s sick and malicious to start a national campaign against them. My friend Leticia was just telling me—”
“You mean your housekeeper?” Regina cut in, unable to restrain herself. Mel, the activist! Mel, the kindhearted friend to undocumented workers! Regina had known Lettie for years before she’d introduced her to Mel. Regina had been the one to pick Lettie up in the middle of the night to rescue her from some violent asshole. Regina had co-signed for the financing on Lettie’s car. Regina had paid for physical therapy after Andres’s accident.
Mel, the selfish, stealing slut.
“Leticia is my friend first,” said Mel, narrowing her eyes at Regina.
Regina fought the urge to extend her middle finger. Mel had stolen Lettie. Not that Regina had ever thought of Lettie as hers. But for years she’d had fond feelings and a comfortable (generous!) relationship with the timid Mexican woman, until Mel had horned in and made Regina feel guilty for the way she treated Lettie. As if Mel were the good employer, the one who truly cared, and Regina was merely someone who wrote Lettie checks, just another out-of-touch privileged white woman who didn’t really want to know her housekeeper.
First Mel had claimed Lettie. And then she’d helped herself to Zack. Regina’s head swam from the vodka, and for a moment, she let herself miss him. The feeling rippled through her, a dislocating current of sadness. She’d never had Zack either, but Mel had taken away Regina’s vague hope of having him at some fuzzy point in the future—the only thing that had gotten her through the punishingly anxious days of the last year.
And now, thanks to Mel and her stubbled vagina (oh God), Regina’s hope was gone.
Feeling woozy, Regina pressed both palms into the soft leather of the banquette to steady herself.
“Ready to order, ladies?” Brandon and his blinding smile materialized again.
The women rattled off requests for salads and grilled fish (even Mel, usually quick to bypass a healthful meal, ordered salmon, Regina noticed); Regina said she’d already eaten.
“So, ladies!” Kylie Dupree jumped in as if calling a PTA meeting to order. “I say we make this fundraising campaign really targeted. Maybe we don’t involve the PTA. Maybe we just tap all of our personal networks really hard, specifically raise money for domestic workers in Malibu displaced by the Woolsey fires. Not to sound, uh, elitist, but it’s just a fact that we all know people who know people with, well, resources. God knows my husband could stand to give back more. He writes one check a year to the Democratic party and another to the ACLU and thinks he’s some kind of philanthropist.”
“I don’t think my husband contributes anything to anyone,” said Mel. At the mention of Adam, Regina detected a new edge in Mel’s voice, as if she were more awake, firing up. “Except maybe his goddamn jiu-jitsu academy and Sloane’s soccer team. Then again, we’re new to this whole having-money thing.”
Regina cringed. Mel, the shameless over-sharer.
“Ha!” said Kylie. “You’re right, Linds, she is hilarious.”
Regina was sick of everyone’s endless amusement with Mel.
“Sloane is so gifted!” said Jess. “Tyler is a big fan of hers. He says she’s the coolest kid in fifth grade.”
“How sweet,” said Mel, though Regina could imagine her preferred comeback—something like, Aw, and Sloane says Tyler is the biggest douchebag in fifth!
Mel was pretty funny.
“I do love this fundraising idea,” said Jess, whose husband, Regina knew, was an executive producer of the Avengers franchise. “We could blow up a GoFundMe!”
To avoid chiming in—how could you get excited about a plan to give money when you had none?—Regina busied herself downing the fresh vodka soda she hadn’t wanted and discreetly glanced into her purse to check her phone.
Then, before she could stop herself, she texted Zack: Hey.
A single word, nothing more. Still, her heart rate zoomed. She turned her phone off.
“I don’t know,” said Lindsey, spearing a hunk of cauliflower coated in a purplish-brown glaze. “Not that I don’t have total sympathy for the immigrant situation, but I can sort of see both sides.”
“Both sides of what?” said Mel.
“Well.” Lindsey tipped her (third? Regina guessed, or fourth?) pinot grigio to her lips. “I’m all for doing a fundraiser for the Woolsey Fire victims. And I love Lettie, too, Melissa. She’s been like family to me for years.”
“Has she?” Regina asked.
Lindsey ignored her. “Also, let me state that I am one hundred percent against the Wall.”
“What?” Mel looked as if she’d been stung. “I would hope so, Lindsey. I mean . . . Jesus.”
“But, it doesn’t mean that there isn’t some risk in welcoming . . .” Lindsey paused. “Foreign workers.”
“Oh, Lindsey, come on,” said Kylie. “Don’t get started on that Halloween incident again. It’s over.”
“Let me remind you that my husband was assaulted, Kylie.” Lindsey set her empty wineglass down hard on the table. “It doesn’t just become ‘over.’”
Regina closed her purse and sat up straighter, glad for a change of topic. “Assaulted? What do you mean?”
“Yes!” said Lindsey. “This little Mexican boy showed up on our doorstep on Halloween. I was out trick-or-treating with the kids, but Trey was home. The boy was really young, like four or five, and Trey could tell he was handicapped. Or, challenged, or whatever. He was rooting around the front of our house all by himself. It seemed like he was trying to steal the floor vase on our front steps, you know, the giant glass one I got in Venice last summer.”
Kylie nodded. “It’s gorgeous.”
“That vase weighs like a hundred pounds,” said Mel. “Why would a kid try to lift that?”
“Like I said, he seemed to have problems,” said Lindsey. “Anyway. Trey was very gentle with him. He just called out, like, Did anyone lose their kid? and when he did, the dad and mom just charged in off the street and the dad—or whoever—attacked Trey. Like just started shoving him and then punching him.”
“That’s rather extreme,” said Mel. “Almost hard to believe.”
“Maybe if you had seen Trey’s black eye and fat lip you’d believe it,” said Lindsey. “Thankfully, the guy’s wife broke it up, before Trey got killed.”
“Oh my God!” said Jess. “Did he call the police?” Regina watched Mel; one of her eyebrows had arched and her eyes were squinting, the way she did when she was getting upset.
“And get this,” Lindsey added, “they were wearing Stars Wars masks. Can you believe it? My husband was brutalized by Darth-fucking-Vader and his Chewbacca wife.”
“Very disturbing,” said Jess.
“Sorry to interrupt the story,” said Mel. “But what on earth does this have to do with undocumented workers?”
“They were Mexican illegals,” said Lindsey. “Trey just knew it. And this is a man who does not have one racist bone in his body.”
Now Regina spoke up. “How does one just know?”
“Thank you, Regina,” said Mel. She met Regina’s eyes. Regina felt herself almost smile, then looked away. No. She would not let Mel be her ally tonight. Not tonight, or ever again.
Lindsey sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I brought it up. The Mexican immigrant thing, it’s just become a . . . a trigger for me. Trey was so beat up when I got home. I still have PTSD from the way his face looked. But no, Jess, we didn’t call the cops. We didn’t want to get those people in trouble, even though the guy obviously had rage issues and deserved it. We didn’t want a little boy to get sent back to Mexico, to who knows what kind of life.”
Regina glanced at Mel, who had angled herself toward Lindsey and looked pissed.
“I’m sorry Trey got hurt,” Mel said. “But, Lindsey, connecting a random squabble to someone’s race and country of origin is just utter, pardon my French, fucking bullshit.”
Regina watched Lindsey’s pointy face squinch at Mel in disbelief.
“I’m sorry that my husband’s so-called squabble, aka, trauma, offends you, Mel,” said Lindsey. “Why don’t you pick a new topic? But first, I want Kylie to know that Trey and I will be the first to contribute to a fundraiser for fire victims. Regardless of their ‘race’ or ‘country of origin.’” She hooked her painted nails into air quotes.
“Not if Adam and I beat you to it,” said Mel. “Kidding!”
“Amazing!” said Kylie Dupree.
“You love that word,” said Regina, draining her vodka soda.
“I’m in, too!” said Jess. “I’ll even ask Larry if we can match other contributions.”
“I’ll inform Adam that we’re matching,” said Mel.
Now Regina wanted to scream.
Lindsey went on, “And I’ll do heavy promo for it on my Insta. We just need to come up with a good hashtag. I have over three thous—”
Regina could no longer take it. “Oh-kay! Can we please move on? We’ve agreed we’re doing a fundraiser. Yay. But we’re all in our forties here—can we please leave Instagram out of it?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Regina,” said Lindsey. “I didn’t realize you were above social media.”
Mel piped up, defensively. “No, it’s just that Regina has this insane self-control. Like she can just leave the Instagram app on her phone and never open it.”
“Because social media is boring and stupid,” Regina snapped. “They’re all just big bragging platforms.”
“Well, I guess the rest of us are just weak-willed braggers, then,” said Lindsey.
“Braggarts,” corrected Mel.
“Whatever,” Lindsey went on, her voice tight and icy. “All two-point-five billion of us.”
“Perhaps we should cease and desist with this topic,” said Kylie.
“Wait!” said Jess, stirring the ice at the bottom of her glass with a cocktail straw. “I have one more question. Who’s the hot trainer guy all over your Insta, Lindsey? Like in all your workout posts and stories. I tried to find him but his account’s private.”
“Oh, that’s Regina’s boyfriend,” said Lindsey gaily. “Zack. She can tell you all about him.”
Regina stood up and took an unsteady step away from the booth. “You know, I’m suddenly not feeling great.” This was true; the vodka was sloshing acidly in her stomach and her knees felt unstable. “I’m going to head home.”
“Sheesh, Reg, I was just joking,” said Lindsey. “Can we call a truce? Sit back down.”
Cautiously, Regina took another few steps, managing not to fall. Perhaps she could make it out of the restaurant, after all.
“Regina, wait!” she heard Mel call. “I’ll go with you.”
But Regina was already hurrying toward the restaurant’s doors.
WHEN REGINA GOT home from Canyon Rustica (after a minor struggle with unlocking her front door—she was even tipsier than she thought), Gordon was sound asleep on the couch in his office, still wearing his glasses and snoring heavily, a half-full tumbler of bourbon beside the lamp on the end table. The sight of him came as a relief; Minnow Night had left her feeling achingly empty—devoid of friends, of money, of the pleasure of fantasizing about Zack—while also brimming with a hot, restless anger toward the women at Minnow Night and the luxurious cocoons of their lives. In this condition, she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to say good night to Gordon without falling apart.
She covered him with the blanket draped on the back of the sofa and then, on an impulse, took a long drink of his bourbon. She hadn’t been this drunk in years and was not quite ready to sober up. The bourbon almost made her gag going down, searing her throat. Once she’d absorbed the shock, she switched off the lamp and made her way out of the office in the dark. Then she went upstairs, checked on the girls, and went to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She pulled off her top and dropped it on the floor, then sat on the edge of her bed to wriggle out of the faux leather leggings. As she pulled them off, her phone fell from the back pocket and bounced off the hardwood floor.
Down to her bra and underwear, she picked up her phone and lay in the center of the mattress, facing the wrong way, toward the mound of pillows. She tucked one arm under her head and propped her feet up on the headboard, telling herself she’d just rest for a minute, then get up and wash her face and change into her pajamas. But as she lay on her bed, a gnawing, desperate urge to make contact with Zack took hold of her, zapping her will to move. She closed her eyes and imagined him standing before her: shirtless, muscles standing to attention, hair tousled over his tanned forehead, his blue-green eyes dancing with amusement and understanding.
“Hey, Echo,” she called out to the smart speaker on her nightstand. “Play Mumford and Sons.”
Mumford & Sons was Zack’s favorite band.
Acoustic guitar chords started.
She eased one hand beneath the lace border of her thong.
It was stupid—she knew—but she’d really believed Zack had gotten her. That they’d gotten each other. And that feeling of being understood by him was far sexier than his muscles or pretty face. Was the glacier that had formed between them really necessary? Yes, he had hooked up with Mel, but should that single incident erase everything Regina had built with him over the last two years? The hundreds of hours of sweating together at Color Theory, the confessional conversations, the bantering text exchanges, their business ventures?
She moved her hand down, pleased with the smooth feel of her Brazilian. Waxing was her single cosmetic indulgence, and she’d felt guilty every time she’d shelled out sixty bucks to an esthetician at Bare Bar in the last year, aware of how unjustifiable an expense it was given the state of her finances.
Still, she’d kept going, month after month.
Now, as she traced the pad of her index finger over the silky, stubble-free (take that, Mel Goldberg) skin between her legs, she was glad she’d kept spending the sixty dollars she didn’t really have.
There was dignity in keeping yourself up. An embedded optimism. All those bikini waxes had, in a way, kept her hoping that one day, somehow, she and Zack might . . .
She pushed two fingers inside herself and stifled a groan.
Regina had been a good friend to Zack. Hell, she’d been better than good—she’d handed over thousands of dollars to him in cash, just for his willingness to click a few buttons on the Color Theory laptop.
She did not deserve a glacier.
Maybe Zack considered the incident with Mel a huge mistake. Perhaps she’d had a fight with Adam and thrown herself at Zack, along with a dose of her neurotic charm, and maybe Zack had just gone along with it. He was a red-blooded male, after all.
Regina flexed and unflexed her wrist, accelerating the rhythm of her fingers.
Maybe he was ashamed to have done it. Wildly embarrassed. Perhaps his shame was the reason he hadn’t bothered acknowledging Regina’s Hey text—or the second one she’d sent on the way home in her Lyft—So, you don’t even bother saying hi back to me now? I guess Mel was all you ever needed????
Abruptly, she pulled her hand from between her legs, her mood suddenly shifting. Whatever Zack’s reason for ignoring her, she needed to get to the bottom of it. With her other hand, she tapped *67, to make her number private, and then called Zack. Distantly, she was aware of her heart pounding, but the whiskey dulled her nerves.
He picked up on the third ring, sounding sleepy. “’Lo?”
“It’s me. Regina.”
Long sigh. “’Sup?”
“Nothing. I’m just calling to . . . say hi. We haven’t said hi to each other lately.”
“Yeah. It’s been a minute. Did I mess up the schedule?”
“What? No. I’m not calling about business.” The schedule was how they referred to the transfers. “I was just calling as a friend. Because we’re friends, right?”
His voice softened. “Of course we’re friends.”
“And friends keep in touch, don’t they?”
“Yes. They do.”
“So, can we keep in touch? That’s what I’m calling about. To ask if we can keep in touch.”
“Are you moving or something?”
“Moving? No! I’m not going anywhere. I just . . . miss you. You didn’t answer my text tonight.”
Silence. Then: “I’m right here, Regina. And I didn’t answer your texts because I was sleeping. I have to get up to teach the five thirty in the morning.” Did he sound irritated? Regina wasn’t sure.
“Are you and Mel having a thing?” she blurted.
A pause. “Are you drunk? Because you sound sort of, like, slurry.”
“No! You know I hate being drunk. Just answer the question. Are you and Mel having a thing, beyond whatever the fuck that was I saw in the van? Which, by the way, totally traumatized me. And is that why—”
“Regina?” he cut in, almost gently, as if interrupting a child. “I’m going to hang up now.”
“Don’t hang up. Not yet. I’m playing Mumford and Sons.”
He chuckled. “I thought I heard that. Love those guys. But I’m still gonna get off the phone now. I need to sleep. I’m still your friend, but I’m hanging up.”
“No! We’re not done yet.” She knew she was being too loud, but didn’t care.
“We are.”
“Zack! No. Just two minutes! I need to talk to you.” She couldn’t remember exactly what she wanted to say; only that she felt a primal, desperate desire to keep him on the phone with her.
“Good night, Regina. Sleep off whatever’s gotten into you, ’kay?”
“ZACK, DO NOT HANG UP!”
Silence.
“ZACK!” she yelled again.
But he was gone.
She dropped her phone, laid her arm over her face, and sobbed into the fold of her elbow.
It was after her tears finally subsided and she’d pushed herself up on one palm and cleared the damp strands of hair from her face that she noticed the door. It was open six inches, letting in a slice of darkness from the hallway. She blinked, feeling the mascara heavy on her lids, trying to remember whether she’d left it open.
No. She hadn’t. Yes, she’d been drunk—was drunk still—but she distinctly remembered the clicking sound it made when she’d closed it.
She pulled herself into a seated position and wrapped the bedsheet around her body.
“Gordon?” she called out softly. “Honey, are you awake?”
There was no answer.