Page 11 of Mean Moms
An Opening Party!
Unlike her new friends, Sofia Perez wasn’t rich.
To clarify: She used to be rich. But now Sofia Perez was poor.
Not quite as poor as she’d been when she was growing up, the child of Colombian immigrants, her mother a cleaning lady for Miami office buildings, her father a mechanic at a garage in Coconut Grove.
But close. On top of that, Sofia hadn’t voluntarily left Miami for New York, this run-down city, with its rodents and robberies and smells of trash and piss.
No, she’d been banished, ruined, nearly penniless.
Atherton had been her lifeline, though she still wasn’t exactly sure why she was here.
A couple of months prior, living in a furnished apartment in South Beach while she figured out her next move, she’d received a mysterious call from Dr. Broker, saying he’d heard of her predicament (how?) and could offer two nonentry spots at Atherton to her children.
Sofia was familiar with the ways of the wealthy—her ex-husband, JP, was one of the richest men in Miami, and she’d been in that world since they’d married a decade ago.
But she’d been surprised by this call. Had a friend of a friend emailed Dr. Broker?
Someone she knew socially in Miami who also had a place in Manhattan?
And if so, why keep their identity a secret?
She’d rolled with it, though, as she’d needed an out—there was no way she could have survived in Miami, among her husband’s friends and allies.
JP was basically Miami royalty, traveling in a rarefied social set, a group of land barons and kingpins and Donald Trump’s annoying kids.
JP’s father, Jorge, had also come to America from Colombia.
But instead of fixing cars like Sofia’s papá, Jorge made it big by building high-rise condos all over the southern United States.
Sofia felt like Jorge had always disapproved of her.
She didn’t have “class.” JP hadn’t seemed to care when he’d first met her.
She was in community college then and had tagged along with a girlfriend to a gala, excited to see how the other half lived.
Sofia was beautiful. She was clever, too, but her looks were outstanding.
JP had swept her off her feet, taking her to dinners, flying her to exotic locations, buying her jewelry.
He told her he’d take care of her forever.
She never loved loved him (JP was five foot eight, with a mushy face and the charm of an iguana).
But they’d had a gorgeous beach wedding at Casa de Campo in the Dominican Republic.
Marc Anthony had played at the reception.
Who needed love when you had Marc Anthony?
Sofia thought about her situation as she walked briskly to Morgan’s Thyme & Time opening party, a few blocks from her Tribeca loft.
Her heels clicked over the uneven terrain.
She’d walked more in the short time since arriving in New York than she’d walked in her entire life, combined.
What had her legs been doing this entire time?
She’d exercised, done miles and miles on treadmills.
But had she ever really walked? She hadn’t needed to.
She even still had her chauffeur, Rodrick, but he was only there to shepherd the children around the city—he had a direct line to JP, who tracked their movements.
JP was covering the private school fees, the kids’ expenses, and he’d secured the apartment in his name.
Otherwise, Sofia was only getting a small stipend, $2,000 a month, which was about the amount that she used to spend on her hair and nails.
So Sofia was playing rich, lying about getting facials and taking expensive exercise classes while existing on the largesse of her new Atherton acquaintances, who didn’t seem to notice—and were too wealthy to care—that she never paid for anything.
“Do you have Venmo?” Morgan had asked after they all grabbed a coffee the other day, to which Sofia had feigned technological ignorance. The matter was soon dropped.
When anyone asked what happened with her marriage, she said that it had dissolved amicably, two old friends drifting apart.
In fact, it had ended with a bang, literally, when JP had found out that Sofia had been sleeping with her trainer, Michael.
Ah, Michael, the reason she was now in dirty old Tribeca instead of sunny, gorgeous South Beach.
Sofia’s heel caught on a crag in the cobblestone on Harrison Street, taking her shoe along with it.
She was learning, slowly, that as easy as Carrie Bradshaw had made it look, it was nearly impossible to walk in Manhattan in stilettos.
She hopped back to her Louboutin and slid her foot in, remembering how Michael had massaged her feet after every workout, getting into the joint of each toe, deeply, painfully, pleasurably.
She shook her head again at her own stupidity.
It had been so unlike Sofia, street-smart and resourceful, eyes always on the prize, to have made that mistake.
She should have known better. But she’d been blinded by love, as embarrassing as that was now to admit.
She focused on her new mission as she entered Thyme & Time, already filled with perfectly chic women dressed in strappy, expensive- looking tanks.
Sofia was starting to appreciate the New York look, so different from Miami, where skin, boobs, and augmentation reigned.
Tonight, she was wearing her most demure outfit, a sleek pantsuit she’d purchased for JP’s grandmother’s memorial last year.
For budget reasons, she’d cut back on dermatology needs, letting her lips deflate to their natural state.
Not being able to afford filler was a blessing in disguise: she didn’t like standing out, and she’d noticed the other moms staring at her face judgmentally.
“Sofia! You made it!” Morgan grabbed her and gave her a quick hug.
She was in a high-necked sheath dress, her blond hair swept to the side.
Morgan was a ball of energy, with endless friendliness and pep.
She was exhausting to speak with, always punctuating her sentences with “amazing!” and “awesome!” and “I love that.”
Morgan’s eyes roamed the room, finally settling on Sofia with a vaguely anxious twitch.
“This place is amazing ,” Sofia said, trying to make Morgan feel better by parroting Morgan’s own language.
Sofia wasn’t sure what, exactly, Morgan had to be worried about.
She knew that Morgan’s husband, Art, was totally loaded, and that he and his company were bankrolling this Thyme & Time thing.
Even Sofia had heard of Welly. What was the worst that could happen?
Sofia surveyed the gathering, the women chatting in small groups and saying how fabulous it all was.
She wondered what surprises they were concealing beneath their air kisses and no-makeup-makeup.
Sofia had broken her marriage vows for the first time after an early afternoon workout session at her home gym.
It had been the culmination of months of hot, building tension, Michael’s hands on her thighs, on her abs, creeping up to her breasts.
Michael had come recommended by a mom-friend, Andrea.
(“He has the body of a model and the soul of a poet,” Andrea had texted her, alongside a laughing emoji and a fire emoji.) Sofia had hired him right away, intrigued, and he’d shown up the next day, chiseled and perfect, like a character out of the romance novels Sofia was so fond of.
Three times a week, they’d stretch, work out, and then stretch again, all while chatting about their lives, getting more and more personal as time went on.
Michael’s background was similar to Sofia’s.
He’d pulled himself out of poverty, building his business with no safety net, and found a lucrative niche as the trainer-to-Miami-housewives.
He had a nice apartment in Wynwood—he’d shown Sofia pictures—and he loved cooking and his dog.
In another life, Sofia might have married Michael.
He was kind, he was funny, he was smart.
He got her in a way that JP never had, appreciating her intelligence and sense of humor instead of just her face and body.
Sofia hadn’t realized that men could be like that.
And it didn’t hurt that he was so, so hot.
Sofia came to crave his scent, his touch, the way he encouraged her to run a little faster, lift a little more, dig a little deeper.
They’d started to text on the side, and messages about Sofia’s workouts turned into inside jokes, heart emojis, selfies that showed a liiiiiittle too much of their bodies.
Sofia in a towel, which had fallen to reveal the tops of her breasts.
Michael’s hand sliding down his chest toward his pants.
Sofia knew they were playing with fire. JP, regardless of what he was up to on the side, wouldn’t stand to have a wife who cheated on him.
No sirree. Nunca, nunca. Sofia knew this.
But she was a woman obsessed. Maybe even in love. She’d never been in love before.
Then, one fateful day, Sofia, not knowing (but knowing) where it would lead, invited Michael to stay while she’d hopped in her sauna.
“You can cool down while I steam,” she’d said to him offhandedly, the danger of the situation making her body tingle.
She’d undressed swiftly, leaving her sweaty clothes in a pile on the floor, and stepped into the steamy box, waiting on the damp wooden bench, already near orgasm from the anticipation of it all.
Thirty seconds later, the door opened, and Michael had entered, naked, floating toward Sofia in the red-cedar room, his mouth flexed into an amused, sexy smile.
She went to him, not thinking about the consequences of her actions, but rather pleasure, pleasure, pleasure .