“SLOANIE, YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE FOR SOCCER!”
Adam’s voice carried through the second floor of the Goldberg house as Mel, holding an armful of clean sheets, reached the top of the stairs, her sore thighs burning (damn that stupid exercise party). Adam was at the end of the hall, rapping intently on the door of Sloane’s bathroom, clad in his thick black gi. Mel’s bitterness surged at the sight of the uniform; how could she be sure he actually went to the jiu-jitsu class he claimed to attend on afternoons he wasn’t needed on a set, or at a meeting, or in an editing room, or however the hell he spent his days?
How could she know he wasn’t banging a hot young actress instead of pinning sweaty guys to the mat?
She thought of the texts and felt sick.
Sloane yelled back, “Privacy, dude! I’m constipated!”
Mel almost laughed. Instead, she called down the hall to Adam, “Give her time.”
“Oh, hey, hon.” Adam looked away from the door and smiled. “I didn’t see you there.” He tipped his head toward the bathroom. “Maybe we should still be giving her MiraLAX?”
“I heard that!” yelled Sloane.
“I thought you blamed her diet,” said Mel to Adam, walking away from him toward the guest room at the far end of the hall.
She dropped the bedding on the chair in the guest room and stood still for a minute, catching her breath. She’d been racing around as she did every Tuesday afternoon, up and down the stairs, transporting piles of crap—clothes, books, and toys—to stash deep in the closets so Lettie wouldn’t have to bother with them when she came to clean tomorrow. Mel thought the ritual—pre-cleaning before Lettie came to clean-clean—might burn off some of her rage, help her ignore Adam and Sloane who, it seemed, were taking their sweet time leaving for soccer practice and “jiu-jitsu class.”
But instead, the pre-cleaning (okay, rearranging) was making Mel feel more worked up than ever.
Every one of Adam’s belongings had taken on an ominous glow since she’d discovered those repulsive texts, and as her arms filled with her cheating husband’s things, she had the wild urge to stuff all of it down the kitchen sink and flip the switch to the InSinkErator, the restaurant-grade garbage disposal Adam had been so excited about when they’d first moved in. She imagined the sound of the grinder shredding Adam’s silly patterned socks (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, really?), devouring the cotton man-scarf he wrapped around his muscled neck in the mild West Coast winters, the Viagra he ordered online, those pastel V-neck tees he wore now that he’d had his chest hair lasered. All solid proof he was showing off for someone, Mel thought. Maybe that new production assistant with the frayed jean shorts and tattooed mandala peeking out from between her high breasts. Miss PA had risen to the top of the list Mel had been compiling and then revising nonstop since she’d found those texts on Adam’s phone. It was easy to imagine that skanky little bitch’s perpetually glossed lips sliding down Adam’s . . . No! Mel stopped herself.
In just a few days, Mel’s entire view of her marriage had upended. All of Adam’s goodness, his perfect-husband-and-father act, seemed a front for the double life he was apparently living. How many clues had she missed since he’d transformed from Brooklyn peon to LA mogul? How many late nights had he claimed to be working, or wining and dining some movie star or power-agent at the Sunset Room or Soho House, seducing them into his next movie?
How, Mel asked herself, as she scrolled over the vulgar texts again and again, had she been so naïve as to believe he was different than other men? That precious Adam was somehow immune to the temptations delivered by power and prestige? Hadn’t he told her, more than once, that women were better than men? She had actually believed him. He was that good.
What sort of la-la land version of her life had she been inhabiting all these years, as her husband became hotter and richer, and Mel fatter and further removed from her past accomplishments, maintaining the delusion that Adam would never cheat? She’d allowed herself to drift toward obsolescence, while Adam’s star kept rising, fast and bright, his net worth and pec muscles continually growing. Duh, of course he could now have his pick of hot, eager mistresses.
In the past three days, she’d imagined a romance novel’s worth of sex scenes involving Adam and every single woman in his life. Even those on the periphery. Like the freshly divorced mom who’d moved in a few doors down and who Mel had caught flirting with Adam out on the sidewalk, leaning over to stroke Sloane’s red-brown curls, the neck of the neighbor’s loose tank top revealing A-plus fake boobs. Had Adam stared? Mel had been unsure. She was now unsure of everything, and hated herself for ever thinking otherwise. What a fool she’d been. She’d never be that gullible again. The first thing she did each morning was reach for her phone. Force herself to look at the proof of Adam’s philandering, a screenshot of those texts stored in her Google Photos.
To make her loss even more cruel, Mel was losing her husband to someone who used UR twice in the same text thread. Someone probably born in the nineties, she thought. How many gorgeous twentysomethings had traipsed in and out of Adam’s office that past year—interns and PAs and script-readers, the office manager who looked just like Jennifer Lawrence, whom Adam had claimed was a lesbian. They came fresh out of midwestern colleges, or from godforsaken places like Kissimmee and Toledo, smiles sparkling, though Mel knew lavalike ambition flowed beneath their wholesome American sweetness.
Mel had spent every morning since she’d found the texts crying her face puffy in the shower after Adam and Sloane had left for work and school. There wasn’t enough eye gel in all of Santa Monica’s bathroom cabinets to erase the swollen bags under her eyes.
Today, Mel had no time for a tear-filled pity party. She wanted the house to be extra ready for Lettie, who’d been complaining of pain in her heels, and who, despite Mel’s urging, refused to go to the doctor. Plus, Mel was feeling extra guilty about having Lettie clean tomorrow. Early that morning, Lettie had texted, asking if she could clean Saturday instead of her usual Wednesday.
Something come up. Is ok if I clean Saturday?
The text had nearly retriggered Mel’s tears. She’d been looking forward to having Lettie clean, needed her to scrub away the scent of Adam, especially the fuggy scent of his jiu-jitsu gi.
Mel had texted Lettie back with the extra-sad emoji face, the one with tears streaming down the emoji’s fat yellow cheeks. Hoping Lettie got her not-so-subtle hint.
Oh no! I was REALLY looking forward to it. And we are having guests over both days this weekend.
This was, of course, a lie. Mel hated herself for telling it, but she hated the thought of not seeing Lettie even more.
She sent Lettie one more text. This time, going all out, including the prayer hands emoji, a kissing-face emoji, plus that cute angel-face emoji, all the while trying not to think of those emojis she’d seen on Adam’s phone.
So sorry to be pushy but I REALLY hope you can make it tomorrow!
Usually, Lettie texted back right away. This time, twenty minutes passed. Then thirty.
The unease had morphed into a smothering dread that had Mel wanting to lock herself in her bedroom, toss back two Ambien, and call it a day. Then Lettie had texted.
Ok. I be there tomorrow. Just had to move a few appointments.
Thank you, thank you, thank you! Mel had texted back. You are a lifesaver. What would I do without you?! She made a mental note to give Lettie an extra twenty dollars to make up for the scheduling change. It was the least she could do. Who knew how difficult the life of an undocumented Mexican single mother was these days?
“Boo-boo!” Mel heard Adam call to Sloane again. “The clock’s a-ticking! Daddy’s going to miss his class.”
“God forbid,” Mel mumbled to herself as she headed back down the hallway toward the stairs.
“It’s my body!” Sloane yelled to Adam, a line Mel knew her daughter had learned at the doctor’s office last year. “And right now, my body is pooping!”
“Stop hovering,” Mel said to Adam. “And why are you talking about yourself in the third person? You know who you sound like.” Certain he’d think instantly of the Big Cheeto—they joked often about Trump’s habit.
There it was—the look of surprised hurt she’d hoped her jab would accomplish. Serves him right.
“Um, I’m sorry,” Adam began. “But why are you—”
Mel cut him off. “Not right now. I’m prepping for Lettie.”
“Why are you so worked up about the cleaning situation? You’re beet-red, honey. And sweating. Go take a walk. It’s gorgeous outside.”
“It’s always gorgeous out,” snapped Mel, thinking, It’s not the cleaning situation, you asshole. It’s your slut-screwing situation.
“I just want you to take care of yourself.”
Just. She nearly snorted at the ludicrous suggestion that her care was all he wanted.
“You know I hate it when you say that.”
Adam shrugged. “What did the doctor tell you at your last visit?”
She felt the momentum in her anger, like a train barreling forward.
But then—no. She gripped the banister tightly, forcing herself to hold back. Let him wonder.
She’d resolved to wait to confront Adam about the texts on date night / couples’ therapy night, when Sloane would be off at a sleepover and Mel would have the soothing presence of Janet, there in the room for what would certainly be the worst conversation of Mel’s life. In the meantime, she’d have a full three weeks of bottled rage to contain, as she and Adam had cut down to a monthly “maintenance” (ha!) session. They’d begun making an evening of it—the six P.M. appointment at Janet’s home office, followed by Paprika, the vegan restaurant Adam insisted on going to even though he knew Mel loathed the cauliflower-heavy cuisine.
“Why are you so sweaty, Mom?”
Sloane emerged from the bathroom and stood next to Adam, crossing her arms across the chest of her white-and-black tracksuit in silent judgment. A matching headband was tugged over her bowl cut. “Like extra sweaty.”
Mel heard the silent ew in her daughter’s voice.
Ten going on forty! Mel joked to mom-acquaintances.
She felt the sweat—dampening the crotch of her thin black palazzo pants, trickling down her back, the side of her face, caught in the clutch of her weighty breasts, and thought suddenly of Pokémon. How, at the height of Sloane’s obsession with the never-ending Japanese franchise, she’d begun calling Mel and Adam by the names of Pokémon characters. Mel had been assigned Jigglypuff, a round, pink blob of a creature. Adam got to be Xerneas, a majestic elk-like thing with antlers, while Sloane herself was Zigzagoon, a fur ball with a sweet raccoon face.
Fucking Jigglypuff, thought Mel. She’d laughed when Sloane had announced the name—they’d all laughed, but it had hurt.
“I’m sweaty,” said Mel, hearing the tightness in her own voice, “because I’m doing some cleaning. And this is a big house.” She took one step down the stairs, feeling her extra weight shimmy and roll around her.
“We do actually pay Lettie to clean,” said Adam. “A lot.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Sloane said, her head cocked in confusion, “if maids are supposed to clean, like, why are you cleaning?”
Mel bolted back to the landing and strode toward her daughter. “Don’t ever—ever—call Leticia a maid, Sloane Ruby Goldberg!”
Sloane flinched.
“Lower your voice,” hissed Adam.
“But look at what you’re teaching her!”
“Are you in a mood, Mom?” asked Sloane.
“What?” said Mel. “No! I’m just trying to get things done!”
Adam gave an exaggerated sigh. “Maybe Mommy should rest first,” he said, hardening his eyes on Mel. “Does she need a nap? Or maybe some medicine?”
The words hit Mel like a slap, and she blinked to hold back tears of disbelief. Just last week, he’d promised he’d never say those words again, after she’d wept while explaining to him how demeaning it was to be dismissed like that. Especially in front of Sloane. Nap time, Mommy! Medicine time, Mommy! Meaning, Go to your room, Mel. Smoke some pot. Get lost.
Oh, no, Mel thought, he wasn’t going to break her. Not today.
She summoned the biggest artificial smile she could muster.
“Actually,” she said to Adam and Sloane brightly. “I’m signed up for a class. An exercise class.”
The lie had left her lips without a thought.
“Really?” Adam asked, not trying to hide his surprise.
“For real?” Sloane’s head peered out from under Adam’s elbow.
“Yep!” Mel tried to imitate the endless chirpy positivity she heard from the Santa Monica moms. “And I’ve got to hurry if I’m going to make it to class on time. You know how Regina is—she’s meeting me and probably expecting me to be late.”
Now she was telling lies on top of lies, adding Regina into the mix.
“’Cause you are kinda always late,” Sloane said quietly. Mel pretended not to hear.
“Wow, Mel, I’m so proud of you,” Adam said. As if she was a feeble child, Mel thought. But she kept smiling.
“Way to go, Mom!” Sloane ducked under Adam’s arm, raising her hand for a high five.
“Go get your cleats on and meet me in the garage,” said Adam to Sloane. “Two minutes.”
“Why?” Sloane arched a brow. “Because you and Mommy need to have a private talk? Are you getting a divorce?”
“No!” said Adam and Mel together.
“Sloane. Go.” Adam pointed to the stairs.
Mel grabbed her daughter and planted a kiss on her cheek, letting her lips linger. “I miss you already, my super soccer star. And you haven’t even left yet.”
“Alrighty then,” said Sloane, detangling herself and bounding for the stairs.
“Sweetheart,” Adam said to Mel when Sloane was out of earshot. “We can’t keep going like this.”
“That’s for sure,” Mel mumbled.
Adam reached for her, the coarse fabric of his gi rubbing Mel’s side. She recoiled.
“What is going on with you?” he whispered. “I know something’s wrong. Please. Talk to me.”
“Jesus,” she said, “this isn’t some corny scene in one of your movies.”
She’d hit the mark. His hewn jaw dropped.
“I’m not ready to talk about it,” she whispered, aware Sloane was all ears. “I need to wait for date night.” Knowing he’d get the gist, that she’d meant wait for therapy. “And please stop trying to coerce me into talking before I’m ready . . . It devalues my suffering.” A phrase Janet had used in their last session.
“Coerce you?” He sounded hurt. Then again, Mel wondered if there was a man on earth more skilled at feeling sorry for himself. “I thought things—between us—were good. Almost great.”
“Congratulations.”
“You’re so confus—”
“Stop, Adam. I’m not ready.”
“I guess I won’t ask ready for what.”
“Thank you,” said Mel.
For a moviemaker, he was a terrible actor, she thought. Could he really hide an affair from her? The man could barely keep a secret, or stop himself from giving her birthday presents a few days early.
“I can be patient, Mel. It’s just that”—Adam lifted an arm and let it fall back to his side—“I miss you.”
His eyes went unfocused with that faraway look, the same distant stare he wore right before he climaxed. In their new life out west, Mel’s desire for Adam had rekindled. It was after sex, lying in the blotted glow of dawn with her head on Adam’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, that Mel had felt the deepest sense of optimism she’d ever known: that together, they could do anything. They were like the pioneers who had ventured west to strike gold, and wasn’t that what Adam had done? She had been sure Adam felt the unlimited possibility, too.
Of course, now she knew the truth. He’d been thinking of someone else. For her, he’d felt nothing.
“I need to get to the gym,” she mumbled.
He looked defeated. “What gym?”
“Um. Color . . . Theory.” What a stupid name, she thought.
Adam nodded approvingly. “Circuit training. Nice.” He leaned in quickly and brushed his lips to her cheek. “I better get Sloanie to practice.”
He stepped around her toward the stairs and seconds later—finally—was out the door.
Mel went downstairs and grabbed her phone from the table by the front door, looked up Color Theory, and, before she could chicken out, tapped Call. As the phone rang, her eyes rested on the gold decal she’d stuck to the back of the front door on the day they’d moved in. It mocked her. Happiness Lives Here!
“Thank you for calling Color Theory!” chirped a female voice. “How can we help you?”
Where to fucking start? Mel thought.
“I’m, um, hoping to take a class today. Like, your most beginner-ish class. Do you have any openings?” She paused, then continued. “And I hear great things about one trainer specifically. Zack? Yeah, I think that’s his name.”
“Sad!” the voice sang. “Zack’s done teaching for the day. Sorry to bum you out!”
“No problem,” Mel mumbled.
“But I do know Zack would highly recommend Bri. He hits her 4:15 class all the time.
“Great! I’ll sign up for that one.” Was she too quick? Desperate-sounding?
“Lucky you! There’s one spot left. Yay!”
Mere minutes after she’d booked the class at Color Theory and was searching her dresser drawers for the sports bra and leggings she’d worn at the Version Two You! party—Mel’s phone pinged with a text.
Hiya, Mel! It’s Zack, your fave trainer. Thx for the epic party. Hope it was a little bit fun??? Are you ready for more . . . maybe a one-on-one?
Was this kismet? A coincidence? Or had the cheerleader-chirpy Color Theory receptionist informed Zack of Mel’s call?
Mel’s face flamed.
A one-on-one?
She told herself to calm down, that Zack could not possibly be flirting with her over text, and even if he somehow was, well, Mel was married, for God’s sake.
Then again, she thought, fresh tears burning her eyes, so was Adam.
Suddenly, her fingers were flying over her phone.
Not sure if I’d call it “fun” but thanks for inspiring all the ladies! I almost died but am ready for more. I think . . . Ha!
Zack texted back a few emojis. A bulging bicep. A guy lifting weights. Then a girl lifting weights. Not that she looked anything like Mel. Still, staring at the boy and girl side by side, Mel hoped there was a hidden message there.
She hesitated, then, and before she could talk herself out of it, texted: Actually . . . I’m signed up for a Color Theory class today at 4:15. GULP.
She added the cringing-face emoji and: Regina talked me into it. You know how convincing she can be. LOL.
She was lying again. Worse, Brooklyn Mel would never have typed LOL. Maybe, she thought, this was what a midlife crisis looked like.
Rad! Regina texted me about taking the 4:15. Yes she can be quite persuasive! How fun would it be for all of us to take a CT class together? Bri is a blast.
Fun, indeed, Mel thought, forgetting how her thighs had only just recovered from the backyard sweat-a-thon.
Mel replied: I’m in! DOUBLE GULP.
See you real soon! Zack texted back, adding a flexing-bicep emoji. Studies have shown people who work out with friends, partners, and/or significant others have a higher chance of success with a workout program.
While it sounded like something he’d copied and pasted off the obesity page at WebMD, she liked his tone, as if they’d known each other much longer than just a few days.
Looking forward to it! If I can get myself there on time. Self-control isn’t my strong suit. But I am still hoping to rise from the ashes as Mel 2.0. (She added the googly-eyed, tongue-hanging-out emoji to show she was joking, when, in fact, she was dead serious).
LMAO, he texted. Self-control can be overrated.
Oooh, intriguing, she thought. Maybe there were some brains under all that brawn.