CHAPTER EIGHT
After a long hard day at work, Margarita entered the front door of her modest two-bedroom condo in the even more modest Sawtelle neighborhood just east of Santa Monica, hoping to God her daughter, Jessica, would not notice the residual guilt plastered on her face.
For as long as Margarita could recall (and it was age appropriate), Margarita had told her daughter to always use care. Not only with her body, but with her heart. “Men are not in charge of protecting you—you are.” Margarita’s ex, Mike, had taught her the lesson. When they’d met seventeen years ago, she’d been working as a manager at a twenty-four-hour fitness chain. He’d been one of those guys who’d turned every woman’s head in the gym. Ripped from head to toe, gorgeous, completely cocky.
At first, she didn’t give him much attention—she was far more into competing with herself than with another woman for a guy—but after a few months, he began asking her out. She’d said no. Then he asked her out again. And again. No turned into maybe. Maybe turned into yes. Fast-forward a few months, and she’d allowed one night of superficial lust to overcome her sense of responsibility. Nine months later came Jessica and big changes in Mike. Looking back, however, the changes started happening the day she told him she was pregnant.
By day, he’d worked as a car salesman, but on weekends, he competed in bodybuilding competitions. Perhaps it was the pressure of knowing he would have to support them while she took time off with the baby, or maybe he simply felt trapped, but he’d started taking performance enhancers, pushing himself to the limit. Then he snapped. Literally. His hamstring tore, and Margarita found herself taking care of a new baby and her damaged new husband while trying to make ends meet with not two, but three part-time jobs and a lactation schedule. Somewhere in that sleepless nightmare, he began drinking and hitting.
She never knew where she’d found the will to leave him, but she had, and it was the toughest time of her life. Worse than being hit. Worse than being eighteen and telling her Amish parents and two sisters that she—officially known as Margaret Miller at the time—wanted to live a different life with “the English.” Worse than trying to adapt to a world she didn’t understand, but desperately wanted to be a part of for the simple reason that she felt her calling was elsewhere.
Alone with a new baby, living in her car because Mike refused to leave the apartment she was paying for, Margarita was terrified. Absolutely terrified. So she’d prayed like she’d never prayed before. She begged for the strength not to go back where there was a warm bed and roof for her and her child. She prayed for the strength to face the unknown.
Then something unexpected happened: She hit emotional rock bottom. And the funny thing about rock bottom was that there was absolutely nowhere else to go but up. Suddenly, the mountain she’d been destined to climb became crystal clear, and that rocky bastard was one she became determined to conquer. That night she went to a shelter and began figuring out what it would take to climb high. From there, she didn’t stop. Years later, it had cost her everything she had to do it—tears, pain, sweat, food stamps, donated clothes from churches or anywhere she could get them, and secret handouts from her estranged older sister—but she’d scraped together a living for her and Jessica. They’d shared a one-bedroom apartment in a run-down building in Sawtelle, but she eventually saved enough to move them to a slightly better place and open her own gym.
Why a gym? It hadn’t really started out that way. Her idea had been to offer single working moms a place to come and exercise while their kids were supervised. It sounded strange, but at her lowest points, those days when she barely had anything to eat because there was only enough money to buy food for Jessica, or those days where she only slept two hours because she needed to work, she remembered being grateful that she had her health. It had saved her and Jessica. Because as long as she could work, there was hope for a better life. Her wish became wanting to give that same hope and health to as many struggling mothers as possible.
But soon, word started to spread. People liked the laid-back vibe and the classes she gave. From there, the gym kept on growing and she eventually qualified for a loan to expand her business. It took Margarita sixteen years to pull her life back together a piece at a time after Mike, but Jessica had been her motivation every painstaking step of the way. Now, she finally made enough money to pay off her debt, save for Jessica’s college, and put a little bit away for retirement. In LA money didn’t go far, but Margarita’s life was tied to her business. She could never leave unless she sold the gym, and it wasn’t worth enough. Not yet.
Please let me get that second loan. Please… With it, she would open two more locations and be impressive enough to franchise.
Yet you risked it all for sex with some horrible strange man in your office? What if word got out? Everyone would see her as a fraud. Her gym had been built on her reputation for living a clean, healthy life where fitness was at the center. If her customers knew she’d cavorted with a drunken slob who clearly did not believe in caring for one’s body, they’d all think she was a giant hypocrite.
God, I hope he doesn’t have any diseases. Really. What had come over her? It was so unlike her to become overwhelmed with so much…well, hard hot lust.
She shook her head. Stress. It’s got to be stress. Or perhaps her hormones were messing with her?
Margarita threw her keys and purse down on the small glass entryway table of their very modest condo overlooking a sushi restaurant. “Jessica! I’m home!”
No reply.
“Jess?” The lights in her daughter’s room were out and her school backpack wasn’t on the bed—its usual place.
Margarita went for her purse, dug out her phone, and dialed Jessica’s cell. Voicemail? Dammit, Jess. Don’t do this to me again. I can’t support us and be home to babysit you, too.
She looked up at the ceiling, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. This was the third time this month that Jessica had decided to do as she pleased, ignoring the rule to come home after school and to always tell her where she was. LA was a big, big city and no place for a young woman to be running around. If anyone knew that, it was Margarita.
Why? Why would she do this to me?
Margarita sat on her brown, secondhand couch and pushed her palms to her eyes, trying her best not to cry. Jessica meant everything to her, but it felt like everything she sacrificed meant nothing to her daughter. Every day they grew further and further apart.
Margarita clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. “Dear God, please help us get through this.”
“Gods, not God. Either way…you rang and I’m answering,” said a snappy female voice.
Margarita shot up from her couch. “What the…” She found the room empty. Holy shit. What was that? Her blood chilled.
“I think I need a vacation.” She picked up her phone and started calling Jessica’s friends. It was going to be another dramatic night. And yippy. I’m going crazy.
The next morning, Margarita got up early, opened the gym and rushed home through the insane traffic to make sure Jessica was up in time for school. They’d spent two hours last night, after Margarita picked up Jessica from the mall, going around and around about the fact that Jessica was grounded for breaking the rules again, to which Jessica responded, “You’re never here, so what are you going to do if I go out with my friends? Huh?” Margarita had pointed out that every day she wasn’t working her butt off put them further away from finally having enough money to buy a house or to have more money available for Jess’s college. But Jessica just didn’t care, and she was right. Margarita couldn’t do much to physically force her daughter to obey.
Dammit. Teenagers were so tough, and even tougher on single working mothers. She had to keep Jessica on track, away from any paths of recklessness that would lead Jess down a path as hard as hers. So from now on, she’d be picking Jessica up from school—forty-five minutes each way in traffic—and bringing her back to the gym to do homework and study. Hell, maybe Jess would see how hard she worked to support them.
For the time being, though, Margarita had to rush to the salon to get her hair touched up—always had to look her best. And in LA “best” meant looking young and hot.