Page 20 of Mean Moms

Frost’s bladder was about to burst.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. “But I want you to stay right here.” Ryan nodded enthusiastically.

“Bluey, I’m going to pee,” said Frost, poking Sofia, forcing her to come up for air.

“Okay! Come back soonest,” she said. Frost then stumbled to the ladies’ room, feeling like she was twenty again, out with a best friend, having fun, flirting with guys, her whole life ahead of her. Just because you’re forty-two, does that mean you’re dead? Frost still dreamed of so much.

The bathroom was down a winding, dim hallway, lined with individual stalls, all occupied.

One cracked open, and Frost walked toward it, waiting for the occupant to leave so she could go in.

A man came out, in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black baseball hat, and it dawned on Frost that she’d seen him before.

He strode down the hallway in the other direction, and she turned and followed.

“Hey,” she said, calling after him, walking faster, trying to catch up.

“Wait, hey! You hit me with a scooter!” It was the guy who’d crashed into her, she was sure, she’d seen his face while she was lying on the ground. It was burned into her brain.

She ran back into club, the music pumping in the packed room, and looked everywhere for someone in a black hat.

But there were too many people, and the scene was too chaotic.

Had it really been the same guy? Was she just imagining things?

When she got to the table, Sofia was still nuzzling with Nick, and Ryan was checking his phone.

He looked up at her expectantly, but she shook her head. The night was over.

“Bingo and I must be going home now,” she said, taking Sofia forcefully around the shoulders and dragging her away from her partner.

“Hey, I thought you were Bingo,” said Ryan, trying to get her to sit back down.

“Noooo,” Sofia groaned as they made their way out of the club and into the cold night.

ZZ’s was in Hudson Yards, all the way on the West Side, and the women had exited onto Eleventh Avenue.

Though the neighborhood had been built up enormously in the past ten years, it was still desolate in the middle of the night, the surrounding buildings staring at them like goblins. Something didn’t feel right.

“Hey, hey you two.” Frost heard a male voice in the dark, but she couldn’t see where it was coming from. Both women froze.

“I’m going to get you, pretty ladies,” he threatened. Frost grabbed Sofia’s hand and started to run, pulling her across the street, her heart pounding.

“I know allllll about you!” sang the man, putting on some kind of fake British accent, clearly trying to mask his real voice. It sounded like he was right next to them, though he was nowhere they could see. “I know who you’re fucking! You slut!”

“Oh no, he didn’t say that,” said Sofia.

“Are you calling me a puta ? My friend a slut? Fuck you!” She shook loose from Frost and started running toward the voice, Frost watching her in shock.

“Where are you? Where are you?” Sofia yelled out into the darkness.

Frost had no choice but to follow her, sprinting down Eleventh Avenue all the way to Thirtieth Street, under the High Line, Sofia fueled by alcohol and an anger that Frost hadn’t seen before.

“I see him!” called Sofia.

“Sofia! Wait!” Frost yelled after her, nearly out of breath, her high-heeled boots cutting into the sides of her feet.

Sofia turned east on Thirtieth, and as Frost rounded the corner she saw who Sofia was chasing—the same man she’d seen coming out of the bathroom, in his black hat, gaining distance on them.

Frost put her hand against the building next to her, the concrete cold to the touch, pausing to catch her breath. She saw Sofia finally peter out as the man faded east, Sofia collapsing against the locked entrance leading to the High Line steps. Frost limped over to her.

Sofia was breathing heavily, trying to compose herself.

“What was that about?” said Frost.

“He called you a puta ,” said Sofia with a shrug. “Men shouldn’t get to say that to us.”

Just then Frost’s driver, Jesus, zoomed around the corner in the Escalade, and the women hopped into the warm, safe car.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” said Frost, her body slowly coming down from the fight-or-flight adrenaline rush.

“Maybe it was just another crazy person. Like the guy at Atherton,” said Sofia, resting her head back on the seat. “New York is scary. It’s not like this in Miami,” she said. “We have crime, lots of it, but this city is something else. Robberies. Bad men everywhere.”

“The weirdest thing happened tonight,” said Frost. “I could have sworn I saw the guy who hit me with the scooter coming out of the bathroom. And I think that’s who you were chasing. That’s impossible, right?”

Sofia sat up so quickly she nearly bonked her head on the back of the passenger seat.

“Really? I couldn’t see him from behind. So many strange things are happening, no? I haven’t told anyone this yet, but…” Sofia trailed off.

“Sofia, you can tell me anything, you know that, right?” Frost leaned in closer to her friend. Maybe she was finally going to tell Frost how she’d gotten into Atherton.

“I thought I knew the man with the gun at Morgan’s party. I recognized his voice. But maybe I didn’t.”

Could this man be following them all? She’d have to alert the private detective.

Frost knew a mom who’d been stalked by a random guy who’d seen her on Instagram.

He kept popping up wherever she was, in restaurants, outside her tennis club.

She’d finally been able to get a restraining order after he’d appeared at her kids’ school. Was this something similar?

“Jesus, please put on Enya,” said Frost now, closing her eyes and leaning her head back on the black leather seat. They were bathed in “Orinoco Flow.”

“It’s so nice that you like your driver,” said Sofia. “Rodrick is such an ass.”

“Why don’t you just fire him?” Frost asked.

Sofia shrugged and dropped it. Frost let the music wash over her.

If she had a stalker, she’d deal with it tomorrow.

She was excited about Ethel and the possibility that her art might be sold in a real-life gallery.

That’s what she’d focus on. But who had sent Ethel pictures of her work?

Art had seen them, but why would he do that?

Then there was Tim, who’d always been lightly dismissive of her creative drive.

Her children? No way. And her mother didn’t even know they existed; Frost was way too frightened of her reaction to even dream of it.

It was too much to deal with at once, too many mysteries to solve.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Sofia. The music, plus the copious amount of vodka she’d ingested, was lulling Frost to sleep.

“I’m thinking about how pissed Tim is going to be when I stumble into bed,” said Frost. It wasn’t what she’d been considering at that moment, but it was true.

“It’s not so bad being divorced,” Sofia said now.

They were crossing town on Fourteenth Street.

The city was still fully awake, with groups of young people roaming the sidewalk, congregating outside of bars.

Frost never loved New York more than after midnight.

She’d spent so many years in the cover of Manhattan’s darkness, cabbing from club to club, from a penthouse party to a VIP back room.

She missed it more than anything, but that was life. Her boys got up at 6:00 a.m.

“Who do you talk to at night?” asked Frost, curious about this aspect of Sofia’s life. She barely ever mentioned her ex, and Frost suspected there was more to the story than a friendly parting. That was the part of divorce that scared Frost the most: loneliness.

“I don’t talk to anyone. It’s perfection,” said Sofia. “I put on the TV, pour a glass of wine, and enjoy the entire couch,” she said.

“That sounds amazing, but I think I’d get sick of it,” said Frost.

“Do you know anyone who’s in a bad marriage?” asked Sofia, digging. “What about Morgan and Art?”

“They’re fine, I think,” said Frost carefully. Why had Sofia led with them?

“Something seems broken about it to me,” said Sofia. Frost shrugged. “Or maybe it’s just that Morgan is so… I don’t know. Fake?”

“I don’t think Morgan is fake,” said Frost. “I’ve known her forever.

She’s always been the same. But I do think Belle is kind of sick of Jeff,” she said, offering it up to avoid talking about Art.

“But that seems pretty standard for our age.” Neither Morgan nor Belle had answered Frost’s text from earlier in the night, which had been a relief. She hadn’t really wanted to see either.

They’d gone up to Twenty-Third Street and were crossing over Park Avenue, just a couple blocks from Frost’s house.

“Is it okay if Jesus drops me off first?” asked Frost. “I’m beat.

” Sofia nodded. Frost was starting to sober up; her head was now aching, and she was in desperate need of a large glass of ice water.

“How about you and Tim?” said Sofia gently, placing her hand on Frost’s shoulder.

Frost felt her eyes start to water. She tried to think about something else to stop the tears—Ethel’s call, her artwork, her sons—but it was impossible.

She’d had just the right amount of alcohol and was with just the right person (a new friend whom she trusted, who’d been through something similar).

Frost then collapsed into sobs, burying her head in her own lap, the seat belt pushing into her chest uncomfortably.

“ No llores ,” said Sofia, rubbing Frost’s back soothingly. They’d pulled in front of Frost’s house, which looked both alluring and foreboding at this hour, with its brick exterior and large, paned windows. Frost finally sat up, wiping the tears and snot that now covered her face.