“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.
Which seemed a lifetime ago. Since the thing in the van with Zack (the mere sight of a van—any van—caused rays of heat to shoot to Mel’s face), Regina had not spoken to Mel in any form, save a single all-caps text: JUST STOP. Of course, she hadn’t responded to the text Mel had sent her, on an impulse, ten minutes ago.
“Sloane?” Mel pressed. “Are you planning to answer me?”
“Um, yes,” said Sloane. “Is it okay to use bad words when it’s the best possible description for something?”
“Depends on the situation,” said Adam.
“The situation is right now. And it’s only a medium-bad word. Not super-bad, like the f-word or the c-word.”
How the hell would Sloane know the c-word? Mel wondered.
“Hmmm,” said Adam. “I guess I’d say yes, then, since it’s just your mom and me here. But only if the bad word is absolutely necessary.”
Fuck you, then! Mel shot at him, silently.
“Okay, here goes,” said Sloane. “Drumroll, please!”
Adam banged imaginary drums.
“Your dress is kind of slutty, mom. Aka, skanky. No offense.”
“Excuse me?” said Mel.
“It’s too . . .” Sloane pointed to her own flat chest. “Boob-ish.”
“Okay, that’s enough, Sloane,” said Adam.
“Megan has nailed it!” Mel heard a voice yell from the TV. She felt her temper rise. She tried to speak, “diplomatically,” as Adam was fond of recommending. Screw him, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of her getting “hysterical.”
“You know, Sloane, these boobs kept you alive for the first year of your life,” Mel said, covering the three steps from the staircase to the front door with extreme caution. “So, you might want to thank them before you get on your moral high horse.” The heels felt okay, actually. Worth every penny of the $398 she’d spent on them.
“Mom, gross!”
“Oh-kay,” said Adam. “It’s bedtime, Sloanie.”
“What’s a moral high horse?” said Sloane.
“It’s mommy feeling sensitive to criticism,” said Adam.
“Good night, you two!” said Mel as cheerily as possible, opening the door to the cool night air.
“Where are you even going?” said Sloane. “It’s a school night.”
“I told you already, dinner with some lady friends.”
“Oooooh. Sounds juicy.”
“Love you,” said Mel, blowing a kiss in the direction of her husband and daughter. It took all her restraint not to add, And only you, Sloanie. Thankfully, Sloane hadn’t asked them, again, if they were getting a divorce. Mel hoped that, for now, Sloane believed the bickering was Mel and Adam’s regular routine. But hadn’t Sloane seemed a bit anxious that past week? Mel had noticed her daughter gnawing on her fingernails more than once, and her usual sass had begun to tip over into outright defiance. The other night Sloane had stormed away from the dining table after Mel suggested she use a napkin to wipe her ketchup-coated lips.
“Love you,” Sloane and Adam sang out in unison. Like a two-headed creature, Mel thought, as she closed the heavy front door behind her.
The air was cold enough to make gooseflesh rise on her bare arms—was this “winter”?—and smelled of night-blooming jasmine.
Her phone chimed and informed her the Lyft she’d ordered was three minutes away. She felt her chest cave; why was she doing this to herself? She’d always hated “girls’ nights” of any kind, even in college. Groups of drunk, giddy women spilling gossip and confessions only made Mel feel sour and judgmental. Which then made her feel something must surely be wrong with her.
There was only one reason she was subjecting herself to this godforsaken “Minnow Night.”
She missed Regina.
Mel gripped the handrail as she walked the three steps down to the yard, and once safely on the footpath, pulled her little white pen from her purse and took a deep, sweet hit off the vape pen advertised as Bliss. The sleek packaging promised an uplifting high with its nine-to-one THC/CBD ratio (God bless Prop 64). By the time she reached the sidewalk to wait for her Lyft, she was already feeling much better.