Page 87 of Filthy Little Regrets
ADALIE
Absolutely. She’s terrifying.
Smirking, I lock the device and hold it up, wading through the water toward the stairs. Another bang comes from the gym. I eye the pool room door. Can I shower and leave before he’s done? Imagining the irritation on his face when he finds out I’ve slipped out without saying goodbye has me scurrying upstairs. Mace deserves a little torture.
Elliot pulls into the clubhouse parking lot. Women clad in designer tennis skirts and tank tops congregate around the entrance of the tennis club. Their hair is all glossy,skin perfectly moisturized, teeth gleaming white. Is this some type of Stepford Wife processing plant?We’re not in the middle class anymore, Toto. Thank fuck I own one pair of running shorts. They’re not designer, and the loose band tee is definitely out of place, but it is what it is.
I’m not here to impress anyone. Still, nerves flutter in my stomach, the familiar anxiety that accompanies socializing buzzing through me.
Mace’s sisters inch toward the car as it rolls to a stop at the curbside. Adalie is wearing tight purple shorts and matching crop-bra. She’s so lithe and fit. Melody is wearing a black skirt, a neon pink tank, and a bright smile as she opens the door before Elliot even has a chance.
“I’ve always wanted a sister,” she says, resting her arm on the top of the door and stepping to the side so I can get out.
Adalie swats her. “Asshole.”
Melody giggles. “I meant another sister. I’ve always wantedanothersister.”
The summer humidity presses down on me. With a clear sky and temperatures in the low nineties, my skin is already begging for another layer of sunscreen. I’ll be lucky if I don’t turn bright pink by the end of the day.
“Uh-huh,” Adalie says, rolling her eyes and then glancing at me. “Ready to get your ass kicked?”
Their easy banter loosens the tension between my shoulders, and I lift my eyebrows. “Is this some type of hazing?”
“Oh god, no,” she says quickly. “Melody has no sense of mercy, that’s all.”
Melody tips her head and grins. “I promise to play nice.”
The clubhouse is outlined in well-maintained shrubsand copious amounts of vibrant petunias in just about every color imaginable. We head to the entrance, bypassing a cute coffee stand and the rich and bitter scent of roasted beans, and I can’t help noticing the glances cast in our direction. None of the other women seem particularly happy to see Adalie, but they look at Melody like she’s the bane of their existence.
Oh, good. There’s drama. This is just what my anxiety needs. Luckily, today it’s leaning more toward anger than debilitating panic.
“So, why do those ladies hate you?” I ask.
When Melody glances over at them, her features smooth and a serene smile appears. She twinkles her fingers at them. “There was a falling out last year.”
“Meaning,” Adalie begins, scanning us in and hooking her arm in mine, “that Chelsea’s husband tried to force himself on Melody at a Christmas party, and when Mace found out, Mace broke his jaw.”
“Jesus.”
We pass court after court. A black chain-link fence separates each one. The blue playing area is outlined in pristine white lines and surrounded by lush green turf and tall lights that allow for after-dark play time. Behind the courts is the main clubhouse and restaurant, which has a bar and seating area, but each court has its own table and pergola for the less sociable players. These courts are way nicer than the ones I played at in high school.
“Oh, he definitely deserved it. Chelsea lied and told everyone that Melody threw herself at Sean, called her a few choice words, and the rumors spread like wildfire.”
A guy grunts and dashes across his court to get to the ball, barely hitting it back toward his opponent in timewith a solidsmack. His shoes squeak as he jogs back to center position.
“Whatever,” Melody mutters, shaking her head. “They may call me a slut, but I can still beat them in tennis any day.”
Adalie glances at me. “She acts like it doesn’t bother her, but it does.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Melody snaps, tossing an annoyed look at her sister. Frowning, she rolls her eyes and sighs. “Fine. Maybe a little bit, but they’re assholes. I don’t need them.”
“Because you have us,” Adalie says as Melody stops in front of a court.
Two attendants rush over; one has glass water bottles at the ready and the other has rackets for us.
“We pay to store ours,” Melody explains, handing one to me, and it’s only then I notice her biceps. She’s not ripped, but those are some big guns for someone so lithe. “This is one of my older ones. How does it feel?”
I test out the weight, adjust a few strings, and take two practice swings. Perfect. Beyond perfect. It’s really nice, but I don’t want to embarrass myself, so I simply say, “It’ll work.”
