Bad Mommy(44)

A few weeks ago, in order to get in shape for the summer, a few of us had jumped on the Fitbit train. Jo and me, Amanda and Hollis, Gail and Luke, and, of course, Fig. We competed in challenges together, logging our steps into our phones at night before bed. That way we could see who was ahead and well … take more steps. At the end of the week the person with the most steps would be announced. We’d all congratulate the winner, some of us more begrudgingly than others, and try harder to win. It was working—I’d lost five pounds since I put the thing on my arm.

Jolene, a perpetually busy person who never sat down unless it was to write, was shaming the rest of us, doubling our steps before we’d even had our lunch. Her only competitor was Fig, who’d dropped thirty pounds since we’d met her. It was during the first challenge I noticed that every time Jolene logged her steps in the app, Fig would log hers seconds after. Like she was checking to see how far off she was. If Jolene was up in steps, the light in Fig’s spare bedroom would turn on and she’d hop on the treadmill until she had a lead. If she fell behind Jolene in steps later that day, she’d go for a run around the neighborhood, grim determination on her already pinched face. I saw her go on four separate runs in one day, all to beat Jolene. It became my private amusement. Everyone knew women were competitive, but Fig took it to an admirably psychotic level. Not that I blamed her. Jolene’s lack of competitiveness was infuriating. While everyone was trying so hard to win, she was barely putting in any effort. It was me who informed her when she won the weekly challenges, and instead of gloating or fist pumping, she threw out a detached “Cool” and went about her business.

Surprisingly, after downing the rest of her wine, she’d complied without asking any questions.

“Now go in the group chat and tell everyone you’re going to bed.”

She did.

I’d dragged her to the window, her cold fingers intertwined with mine, the Malbec we’d been drinking on her breath.

I held the shades open with two fingers, as she leaned forward, peering out with concentration. I could smell her, the rose perfume she wore and her skin. When I smelled her skin I got hard, it had been like that since the day we met. I kept shooting sideways glances her way to monitor her expression. She’d see it. In a second she’d see it. Then I’d be right.

“There,” I said. “Ha! I told you!” I let go and clapped my hands.

Her lips folded in and she blinked, disbelieving. Then, with a sigh, she leaned forward again and peeked through the blinds. I was excited. I didn’t care what I was right about, it felt good even if it was about something as sick as this.

We watched quietly as Fig stepped out of her front door, her running shoes on, her short hair pinned away from her face. She leaned down for a moment to double knot her laces then straightened, stretching her arms above her head in a stretch. She glanced toward the house. Jolene squealed, and we both ducked, sliding down the wall, and collapsing on the carpet in fits of laughter. Jo’s eyes were bright and happy when she looked at me. We just shared a moment, and as I stared at her I thought, I’ve never loved anything so much. I smiled and grabbed her fingers, pressing my lips against them. She stared down at our clasped hands, her brow furrowed.

“So, you’re saying that ever since we started doing these fucking Fitbit challenges she’s bent on beating me? Me—not Amanda, or Gail, or you?”

“Well, yes, sort of. She likes to win, but you’re the most important person to beat. She’s obsessed with trying to one-up you. I mean she’s obsessed with you in general, but one-upping her obsession is definitely priority.”

“That’s so fucking weird.” She looked away, and I could tell how uncomfortable it made her. Jolene wasn’t in a competition with anyone but herself. That was the annoying thing about confident people: they didn’t play your games.

She turned back to the window. There was nothing out there now but the rain.

“How often does she do this when I’m ahead in steps?” she asked.

“She waits until you log your steps, which is usually pretty late—around nine or so. Then she either jumps on the treadmill or goes for a run. Every time.”

“But, I still beat her.”

“Yeah, that’s the funny thing.”

As soon as Fig disappeared from view, Jolene left the room. “Where are you going?” I called after her.

“Are you kidding me? I’m going to whip her ass.”

A minute later I heard the treadmill power on, and Jolene’s feet beating down in a steady rhythm. I smiled to myself. Life was a game. It was fun when you were an active player.