Page 14 of Mean Moms

“I love that dedication to your hot bod,” said Gabby, Sofia hanging back as they left, waving goodbye. Frost gave Sofia the “call me” sign, and Sofia felt her cheeks warm with the glow of a burgeoning friendship.

Then there was a hand on her shoulder, and Sofia turned to see Art, his forehead shiny. His face was very close to hers and she could feel his breath, which was warm and wine-y.

“Did everyone else leave?” he asked.

“Yes, they just did,” said Sofia. A piece of his hair fell over his eye, and Sofia had the satisfying feeling, not unlike an orgasm or sneeze, of having reached a thing she’d been grasping for.

She’d trailed Frost home during the first week of school, or at least to where she’d thought was Frost’s home, to a new-looking building on Twenty-Second Street near Park Avenue.

She’d googled Frost beforehand and had been impressed with all she’d found: she’d been an It Girl with famous parents.

She was exactly the type of person who could introduce Sofia to the other wealthy women of New York.

So later that day, Sofia had waited outside Frost’s building before pickup, hoping to run into her, which she had.

Looking again at Art, the straight line of his nose, his full, sensual lips, it all clicked.

Right before Frost had exited her building that afternoon, a well-dressed Indian man had come out, passing Sofia, who’d turned her back toward the street so as not to attract his attention.

She’d only gotten a glimpse of him, of his profile and the back of his head, but she was sure that the same man was now standing right in front of her—Art, Morgan’s husband.

“I’d better go home, I have to put the kids to bed,” Sofia said pleasantly to Art.

He smiled at her, but not with his eyes.

“I hope Morgan feels better and that Gertrude is okay. I’m glad we got our jewelry back.

” He nodded and patted her back, his hand lingering for just a split second too long before moving on to a group of nubile young beauty editors.

What had Art and Frost been up to? Nothing good, clearly.

Sofia knew about the risks of extramarital affairs, and she hoped it didn’t blow up in Frost’s face the way that it had in hers.

She thought back to that Saturday, six months after she’d started sleeping with Michael.

The kids were already out of the house, Carlos at soccer, Lucia at a birthday party.

Sofia had been sitting in her bedroom, just out of the shower, thinking about Michael, as she often did.

What was he up to? Was he missing her? JP and his father, Jorge, had been downstairs, about to leave for their weekly golf game at La Gorce.

All seemed calm and normal. And then she’d heard JP yell her name.

Then yell it again. “SOFIA,” he’d roared.

She’d sat for just a moment longer, her heart sinking, sensing that everything was about to change.

She’d walked down the stairs to the front foyer, to find JP in his best Nike Golf outfit, wearing those stupid Oakley sunglasses that she hated, holding a piece of paper.

Next to him was Jorge, glaring, the wrinkles on his forehead almost comedically furrowed.

JP threw the paper at her, passing her coldly on his way out, Jorge whispering “ puta ” as he slammed the front door in Sofia’s face. She’d read the note, her hands shaking.

“Sofia. I love you. You are my everything. I want to be with you. Love, Michael.” She’d blinked back tears, seeing her pink Birkin open on the console. Sofia still kept the note in her wallet, next to her two faded sonograms, a sad reminder that someone out there had once cared deeply for her.

Sofia went out to Reade Street now, wondering if Michael was thinking about her.

They didn’t speak; one of the conditions of her pathetic alimony was that she cut off communication with him.

The last time she saw him, right before she’d moved, he’d offered to come with them, to build his business in New York, to make a life together.

But she’d been scared that JP would use Michael as an excuse to take away the kids, so she’d said no, sobbing.

He’d understood. But Sofia second-guessed that choice every single day.

It was still hot outside, though the sun was setting.

Her mind wandered to the man with the gun, and she reached back into her memories, trying to pull his voice out of everything that was jumbled up inside.

But there was nothing. She stopped in front of the Jacadi next door, pretending to window-shop for tiny blazers while using the glass reflection to size up potential targets.

A well-dressed Asian couple passed by. They were around Sofia’s age, likely Tribeca locals heading out to a date night.

Boring. Next came two teen girls, their long straight hair swinging, in matching baggy pants and tops that ended way above their belly buttons.

Sofia shuddered to think of Lucia in such an outfit, but also knew that times had changed since she was a girl, when her father would send her upstairs to change if her bra strap was poking out of her tank top. “ Puta ,” Jorge had called her. Whore.

Sofia let the girls walk by. Then she saw two twentysomething women in evening gowns, their makeup carefully done, chatting with each other about something juicy. Perfect. They continued toward the subway stop at West Broadway. Sofia teetered off after them, careful to stay out of view.