Page 10 of Mean Moms

Feeling light-headed, Morgan closed her eyes. Fucking Wegovy. A blackness came over her, and then she was falling, falling, falling, back to the pavement.

“ Dios mio , Morgan, are you awake?” she heard someone say into her ear a few seconds later, helping her up with a strong arm around her back.

“I fainted,” said Morgan. Her eyes readjusted to see Sofia standing next to Frost. The two older women had left, likely not wanting the curse to spread to them.

“Frost got hit by an e-scooter, which was totally out of control, and then I went down,” said Morgan. “It must have been the sight of all that blood.” Sofia patted Morgan’s arm sympathetically. She handed Frost another tissue to put on her face, and Frost dabbed her cheek, wincing in pain.

“Everyone’s crashing and bleeding and falling and getting spit on,” said Sofia, chuckling darkly. “Why are all these things happening? I hope I didn’t bring bad luck to you all.”

Sofia guided Morgan and Frost across the street, one arm locked in each of theirs.

“What are you doing here?” said Morgan. “I thought you lived in Tribeca and were going straight home.”

“I do,” said Sofia, “but I like to walk around after I have drinks. I find it helps take the edge off the alcohol and allows me to sleep better.” Morgan hadn’t had a drink in months, since she’d started on the weight-loss drugs.

It was as if the chemicals had erased that desire entirely.

She’d heard that they messed with the pleasure center of your brain, and in addition to alcohol, people who took them reported that they lost interest in sex, too.

Luckily, Morgan had had no such side effect.

“You should definitely see a doctor,” said Sofia to Frost.

“Yeah, my arm is really starting to hurt,” said Frost, cringing.

“And you, too.” Sofia motioned to Morgan.

“Morgan, have you eaten anything today? Maybe that’s why you fainted.

” Morgan didn’t reply. They were nearing Morgan and Art’s place on Grove Street, between Bedford and Bleecker, a lovely block filled with leafy trees and historic town houses.

Outside of their home was Art, climbing the steps to the door.

He glanced back and saw them. His face registered confusion and then alarm, and he hurried down to meet the women.

Morgan was struck, as she often was, by her husband’s handsomeness; he’d only gotten better-looking as they’d aged, his jawline cut with masculinity, his full head of dark hair reflecting the late summer light.

“What happened?” he said, breathless, taking in Frost’s face and arm and his wife’s disheveled state.

“Someone hit me with a scooter,” Frost said shyly, looking down. A single tear slid from her face onto the pavement.

“Who?” said Art, his voice full of rage. Frost shrugged.

“We didn’t see. He was in a mask. Then he just took off,” said Morgan. “And then I fainted.” Art scrunched up his mouth, the way he did when something wasn’t making sense.

“I texted Tim, he’ll be here in a minute,” said Frost. “He’ll take me to the hospital—we have a friend who’s a doctor at Mount Sinai, so I can cut the line at the ER there.”

Sofia cleared her throat.

“I’m sorry: Art, this is Sofia,” said Morgan. “We had drinks earlier, then she found us on the sidewalk and helped us home.”

A car pulled up and Tim jumped out, in ratty shorts and a JOHN’S OF BLEECKER STREET T-shirt.

Tim was good-looking in a scruffy, artsy way, always in narrow jeans and a vintage T-shirt.

Earlier in their lives, they would have referred to him as a “hipster,” but Morgan didn’t think that term existed anymore.

“Holy shit,” Tim said, giving Frost a gentle hug, careful not to squeeze her injury.

“Thanks for taking care of her.” He took Frost’s right hand to lead her to the car, and for a second Frost hesitated before following him.

“Thank you so much, Sofia,” said Morgan now, wanting to shoo her away without actually shooing her away. “I can’t wait to see you at the Thyme & Time opening party!”

“Same here,” said Sofia with a smile. “You get a good night’s rest and remember to eat something!”

Morgan waved goodbye as Sofia swished away. Morgan noticed she’d swapped out her heels for fashionable, flat gladiator sandals. It gave Morgan comfort that Sofia was too beautiful to possibly be very smart.

When they were inside, Art tried to interrogate Morgan about what had happened, but she waved him off, blaming nerves and trauma and the need for silence. Later that night, after Gertrude was asleep, Morgan’s personal doctor, Dr. Bossidy, a kind man in his sixties, came and checked her out.

“Wegovy doesn’t agree with everyone, and fainting can be dangerous,” Dr. Bossidy said after Art was out of earshot. “You don’t need it, Morgan. This is ridiculous.”

“Oh, please, I bet half the moms at Atherton are on it,” she replied. “It’s not going to kill me, right?” He shook his head, knowing she planned to ignore his advice.

Morgan was now snuggled into her bed, alone, scrolling through Instagram. The Charys’ house was a masterpiece of function and design, and Morgan particularly loved her bedroom, with its harmonious textiles and a 1930s Venetian chandelier. Art was in his home office, working.

Morgan pulled up Sofia’s profile, which she often did, noticing she hadn’t added anything new since arriving in New York.

There were pictures of the kids in Miami, swimming in a pool at an enormous home, shots of Sofia wearing tight designer dresses, standing next to an unremarkable man who Morgan assumed was her ex-husband, JP.

She zoomed into Sofia’s face, studying its symmetrical shape, Sofia’s smooth skin, small waist, and exaggerated hips.

Morgan then flipped back to her text messages, shooting off responses to some of the typical mom questions she got nearly every day. Ask Morgan was on the case.

Tribeca Pediatrics isn’t for everyone—they’re very stingy with antibiotics.

The Bulldog baseball league meets on Saturday mornings at Asphalt Green. I’ll send you the names of the best coaches.

No, that’s not poison ivy, that’s fifth disease. After the rash appears, it’s not contagious anymore.

Go to Dr. Shafer for Botox, he is the absolute best. Don’t even think about anyone else.

That done, it was time for Morgan’s nightly presleep meditation.

She put down her phone and closed her eyes, repeating her mantra over and over—“I’m a monster on the hill,” her favorite Taylor Swift lyric.

She zoned out for her allotted fifteen minutes, feeling peaceful and calm.

She opened her eyes, and images butted into her brain.

The shape of Frost’s body outlined against the Manhattan sky, about to smash into the sidewalk.

Gertrude’s tearstained face as she recounted being bullied.

Sofia tumbling down Atherton’s stairs. Morgan stabbing Frost with a knife.

Bashing Belle’s head in with a hammer. But then Morgan pushed the intrusive thoughts away, using a trick she’d learned from a prominent mind-body practitioner, visualizing them being swept under a rug, a pile of dirt no longer in her sightline.

She turned off her light and pulled the covers over her head. She put her phone to her ear and pressed play on her voicemail.

“I’m in my apartment, thinking about you,” a raspy male voice said.

“I’m thinking about your face. About your body.

About your lovely neck. Your mouth. Thinking about the next time I’ll get to see you.

I can’t wait to touch you everywhere. To feel you.

To squeeze you until I can’t.” There was the sound of ruffling, then unzipping, and then a few loud breaths followed by moaning.

Morgan listened to it again and again, pressing her cute, pink, egg-shaped vibrator against herself as she did. She fell asleep easily after that.