Chapter 3
Chapter Three
TINSLEY
I ’d like to say my friends and family have called to check in on me. Instead, I get a telemarketer or prankster with a bad connection. With my brother staring me down like a stray dog he’d like to remove from his property, I finally hang up and give John a sassy little snarl followed by a, “Woof.”
Without so much as a flinch of recognition or remorse, he closes himself inside the estate, sealing me off from my family.
I have no idea what’s in the cardboard box printed with my name, but I may as well take it. All of my belongings, including my favorite Christian Louboutin Desert Silk ankle-tie high-heel sandals are scattered all over the country with my so-called friends. Ones who still haven’t called or texted. Did the events with Puma make them afraid to catch trouble like I’m contagious? A social pariah?
I gaze skyward. “Okay, fine. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never date a musician or celebrity again. Definitely not a bad boy,” I mutter.
I pick up the box and walk to the car. Without a backward glance, I wind down the long driveway and onto the road. I just have to lie low. But where? How? With what?
I go back the way I came and drive until I see the signs counting down the miles for New York City.
I’ve spent years being the guest at friends’ houses along with their second and third homes in faraway locations, accompanied them on trips as part of an entourage, and spent more time than seems reasonable in hotels.
I could use one right now...or a friend. But as the exits skip by and the reality that I’ve skipped from friend to friend takes root, I realize I don’t truly have any—certainly not a ride-or-die bestie for life or one who’d ask, Where do we bury the body ? if I appeared with one. Not that I would. As mentioned, I am not a criminal.
I mentally catalog who I could call right now. Unless I’m looking for a good time or know where to find one, I don’t think my sob story would be welcome. The people I associated with aren’t the long-term, meaningful, memory-building kind that know much more about me than that my last name is Humber and there is a significant amount of money associated with it.
Money my father earned with my mother’s support. Money that I spent without thinking. Money that I believed would someday be mine. Money that is no longer available. Well, except for my credit card.
A bottomless account. Unfortunately, I’m the one who feels like I’ve fallen into a pit. One of loneliness and misery.
I stop and get gas as commuters flurry to work, as kids go to school, as people carry on with their lives and as mine slips out of my hand like a dog’s leash.
But who was walking who?
I thought by living my carefree, celeb lifestyle, I was free, but I was tethered to the whims of my so-called friends. I’ve repeatedly confirmed that my phone is charged and has service, yet no one checks on me. Not even to gossip. Then again, the connection at the estate was lousy.
Turns out that the roots of friendship aren’t just shallow, they’re nonexistent. The people I’ve spent the last decade with were superficial, players in a production I thought I starred in. But as usual, I’ve been forgotten. In all honesty, I wasn’t a very good friend either. How many people floated in and then out of my life? All of them. Truth is, I did the same.
Whatever happened to Tasha? Did she get married and move to the countryside? Did Tabitha end up starting her business like she said she would? What about Taylor? He’s no longer in PJ and the Oakbrook Boys, but I hear he’s still playing music...and happily married.
I let out a long sigh that turns into a gasp when a little girl with pigtails wanders into the lane next to the gas pumps for cars to pass through. A semi-truck, whose driver likely can’t see the child over the broad hood, is only a few feet away. Waving my arms, I rush into the lane and pick the little girl up as the truck driver slams on his brakes.
The little girl, staring wide-eyed at the chrome grill of the truck, starts crying. I’d like to as well.
The truck driver hollers out his window, “Sorry about that. Everything okay?”
I nod and wave him off, no need to make a scene since I’m already plastered all over the internet. Trying to quell the panic in my voice, I ask the little girl, “Where are your parents?”
She points at the same time a woman rushes over, frantic, and takes her daughter into her arms. “I told you to wait in the car.”
“I told you that I wanted to pick flowers.” With tears tracking down her face she points to the trash-strewn median with a few weeds growing in it.
She reminds me of me when I was a little kid, precious, willful, and wanting nothing more than to be outside.
What’s changed? I’m no longer the outdoorsy type...and usually have the sense to look both ways before I cross the street.
The mother lets out a choppy breath, thanks me, and then goes on to gently scold her daughter while hugging her close.
When I get back in the driver’s seat, my limbs feel wobbly from the close call and quite frankly I feel like the truck struck me—the lack of sleep, the upheaval of my life as I knew it, the travel, and general lack of direction...
I have nothing except this car and what’s in it. But I am in the driver’s seat. I may have flushed my life away like John so kindly pointed out, but that doesn’t mean I can’t change.
That I can’t have the life that I want. But what do I want? To get to the top. And on the way, I’ll make meaningful relationships to start. And sleep. After I get some of that, perhaps I’ll be able to sort out the details.
As a sign welcomes me to New Jersey, my thoughts turn foggy and distant as I recall receiving the lifetime achievement award in my diva dream before the cops woke me up. The brutal truth is I’ve done nothing with my life. Unless you count a bit part in a Hallmark movie and the diva dream about the lifetime achievement award. Though I have to admit the Hallmark movie was all swoony romance and none of the drama in real life.
I could go for that with whipped cream and a cherry on top, please. However, I have yet to be bitten by the true love bug which is about as depressing as sitting down on a damp toilet seat, which happens after I pull into the first rest stop off the turnpike. After using the facilities and rubbing the remnants of the hand sanitizer I find in the glove box on the backs of my legs, I lock the car doors. With a sigh, I recline the seat, close my eyes, and finally get some sleep.
When I wake hours later, I forget where I am until I recall the license plates went from bright mustard yellow to a softer buttery yellow. That must mean that I’m in New Jersey.
If I were to consult a “Magic Eight Ball” and ask, “Am I hungry?” It would answer, “Probably.” The follow-up, “Would I eat rest-stop food?” It would reply, “My sources say no.” Fun fact: we share the same sources.
It’s as if my thoughts pick up exactly where they left off even though I’d hoped that sleep would wipe the slate clean, like being exonerated for crimes not committed.
The agents seemed to believe my innocence as evidenced by the fact that they let me go, but that doesn’t change public opinion. My phone remains quiet. No calls. No texts. Nothing other than social media posts about Puma and the Pariah.
That would be me.
I toss my phone onto the passenger’s seat and get back on the road and fail not to think about the questions posted online about whether I was involved criminally or romantically with Puma.
Ew. No. His hands reminded me of a used towel on a hotel room floor and he went a little heavy on the hair gel.
But there goes my life in the spotlight. Now, I’m in the limelight. The difference is the spotlight follows the actor on the stage. The limelight sounds less pleasant with its greenish hue. Which is how I feel. Sick from the lack of a normal night’s sleep, from being rejected, from not knowing where I’m going...and from what I’m seeing online. Or not seeing as the case may be.
People I thought were friends abandoned me. My family practically disowned me. My career is forgotten like yesterday’s headlines except I’m now known as being Puma’s Gal Pal.
When I stop to get gas again just over the North Carolina border. I go inside to get something to drink. A flatscreen television broadcasts the news while people wait in line. For once, I try my best to go unnoticed.
Not only am I used to traveling with chauffeurs, thanks to living that entourage life, but I also can’t remember the last time I came to a place that sells pork rinds. What is a pork rind anyway?
The guy next to me in line must know because he holds a bag. He also has a thin, slick mustache like Clark Gable. Smelling like pizza onion sweat, he leans into my personal space and says, “Nice dress.”
I adjust my position so all he sees is my back.
Behind me, two girls whisper about the artisanal water in my hand followed by giggling.
“Hey, that girl on TV is wearing the same dress as you,” Clark Gable’s Mustache says.
“Must be a trend,” I mutter.
“No way, that’s you. You’re Puma’s Gal Pal. The one that was there during his arrest.” This must be revenge for giving him the cold shoulder.
“I just have a pretty face.”
“It’s totally her,” a woman says, flashing an image on her phone.
The two teenagers continue to whisper while looking my way and then indiscreetly snap selfies with me in the frame.
“I hear you got into a little hot water. I have a pool down the street if you want to cool off,” Clark Gable’s Mustache says.
“Uh, didn’t bring my bathing suit, but thanks anyway.” My voice is a pitch too high.
“Does that really matter?” he asks, getting closer to me.
As the small crowd closes in, thoughts from when the police led me away from Puma’s hideaway crash into me.
I’ve never been called smart, clever, or anything other than pretty. Not beautiful or gorgeous. Certainly not a bombshell. Just pretty as if my okay looks are all I’ve got going for me.
As for discernable talent, I won’t lie, that’s in short supply. I don’t have anything to offer an audience and Victoria got all the musical talent. But if I’m not an aspiring celebrity, then who am I? What good am I?
As the crowd asks me questions, the officer’s words echo in my ears. If I’m smart...
I had the sense not to say or do anything stupid while under interrogation, but what about now? Should I declare my innocence? Explain myself? Sign the requested autographs?
Thing is, I didn’t do anything heroic or worthwhile. I was just in a few photos, my name tossed around the tabloids, and am still wearing yesterday’s dress...or was it the day before? Time resembles the Slushie in a spindly guy’s hand as he gives me a once-over.
Unless you can turn back the clock, keep moving, buddy.
Maybe I no longer want to be the queen of Tinseltown. I’m not sure why I was other than the fact that I never turned down an invitation and had an endless supply of funds to keep the good times rolling.
Money my father started earning when I was busy calling my brother Baldy, pranking my sister by cutting her dolls’ hair, and following Andrew around like his shadow. That was because I wasn’t ever allowed a moment in the spotlight. It was always John, Victoria, and Andrew shining like a trio of gold stars with no attention paid to me. I’m by no means dumb, even if I acted like it. Academic perfection even failed to get Mother and Father’s approval.
After I pay for my water, with little more than a friendly if not tentative wave at my new fan club, I rush back to the car.
The last time I was in North Carolina, I visited the set of an action thriller shot on the Outer Banks.
I could go there or take a right and head to Nashville. What if I keep driving until there’s no more road—all the way to Miami? I know some people who live in South Beach. But my phone is still quiet. News probably traveled across the country while I was in flight and I am officially on the banned list.
Persona non grata is right.
Or more like persona forgot-a.
Persona ignore-a? Avoid-a? Brush off-a?
This would be the part of the movie when the main character turns up the music and sings the song of freedom.
Free from my family who doesn’t understand me. Free from Puma and his illegal activity. Free to be me.
I probably ought to take a vacation. No, a man-cation. A vacation from men. It’ll be me lounging on the beach with a frilly drink and no actors, musicians, or bad boys from now on.
I turn on the radio. Wouldn’t you know it? A song by PJ and the Oak Brook Boys echoes. Naturally, the guitar player and #TaylorsGeorgiaPeaches come to mind. He and I sort of had a thing. Or more accurately, I wanted a thing and in so many words he told me to get lost.
It went something like this: I showed up uninvited to a shindig he was playing solo at. Granted, it was open to the public so it’s not like I was a gate crasher. I thought (er, hoped) the love song was penned with me in mind. Then I kind of insisted it was, blew up what turned out to be Taylor professing his love for someone named Mae, who, I later insulted by being super catty and calling her, Meh as in not much to look at.
Totally not fair of me because it was dark so I didn’t get a good look. She was holding a chicken in her arms, which, upon reflection was an interesting sidenote.
But she was no shrinking flower because she had a comeback suggesting that I’m a meanie.
Then I practically pled with Taylor to take me back. When he didn’t, I threatened to tell everyone how he misled me and then broke up with me. Which was a manipulative lie if there ever was one.
Shame over that little scene won’t be making it into my memoir.
It was not my proudest moment and encapsulated what John referred to as a Tinsley Tantrum.
Then I sped off. I didn’t make good on my threat because I moved on to...I don’t even remember. Jackson? Jesse? Jasper? It was toward the end of my Nashville phase.
As I drive into the night, the last words Taylor said to me finally catch up. He said, “ Tinsley, you’ve created a story in your head. I’m sorry. We were never together so there’s nothing to end .”
Why does the truth have to hurt so much? It’s not because I was particularly in love with Taylor, though there is nothing wrong with #TaylorsGeorgiaPeaches. More like something must be wrong with me. I have made up a story in which I’m the star, and it doesn’t matter who I shove side stage or out of the frame to get the perfect shot of my good side.
After I get yet another tank of gas, I pull out my phone, tempted to call Taylor—and not with the hope of getting together. Rather, to ask what he meant. How he knew. What I should do.
Seems like his life wasn’t going the way he wanted so he made a major change and took a risk. I wonder how that’s working out for him. What it could mean for me.
When I get to the T section in my contact list, I can’t find Taylor’s name. Then I realize I labeled his number with the words DO NOT CALL as in don’t get weak and reach out under any circumstances. There are twelve numbers with the same label. Probably including Jackson, Jesse, and Jasper.
Instead, I keep driving. However, I can’t go fast enough to escape the regrets, the manipulation, and the deception. Not to mention that I was high maintenance. I guess this is my version of going into the desert, only it gets increasingly humid the farther south I go.
And I get increasingly tired the longer I drive. I pull off the highway with a blue sign for food and lodging.
After several more miles, I cruise past Fortuna’s FunWorld , an abandoned amusement park. The structure of a splintered wooden rollercoaster looks ready for a bonfire. Carts in dull rainbow colors hang precariously from a small Ferris wheel. As I pass, a vandalized carousel horse leers at me.
Ahead, a red neon sign for the Amusement Motel flickers with the word Vacancy beneath.
Hard pass.
I’ve had bit parts in a variety of movies, but I’m not going to volunteer for a horror film. No thanks.
Where are my federal agent bodyguards when I need them? I didn’t notice any of them wearing wedding bands. Then again, that’s probably prohibited while on the job for security reasons. I wonder if Southern Agent was available? He had a well-dressed tough guy look that I could really use right now.
But maybe what I need to do is be single for a while and do all those things the social media influencers say about going on a retreat to find themselves. My man-cation, as it were.
Well, I’m exhausted and may as well be lost here on the side of the road, so surely before long, I’ll find something. The GPS on my phone freezes and while I try to get it to work so I can figure out how to get back to the highway, my phone rings. The top of my bun bonks the roof of the car.
“Sienna!” I say into the phone.
“Hey, Tinsley.” Her voice is tentative. “I, uh, wanted to let you know that the trip to Cannes for the film fest was canceled.”
“They can’t cancel the film festival,” I say, shocked.
“No, just, uh, the trip.”
“But your boyfriend is in one of the films...wait, did you guys break up? I’m so sorry. I’ve been so caught up in—” See? I need to be a better friend.
“No, we’re still together. It’s the trip. We, uh, we think that considering circumstances, that it’s probably best...”
“Oh.” She doesn’t want me to go with them anymore. “Oh. Okay. I understand.”
“Well, um, good luck.”
I manage to croak a pathetic, “You too,” and get off the phone. I feel like I just plummeted to the bottom of the rickety roller coaster except instead of a thrill, my heart remains in my stomach. I’m on the side of the road long enough for the shadows to get long, for the sun to fade into the distance, and for me to realize I just received the final buh-bye of my career and social life.
As an aspiring actress, I’ve had my fair share of rejections, passes, and times I didn’t get a callback. But it’s like a door just closed and Sienna bolted the lock.
I turn around and drive back to the intersection for the highway. The yellow glow of a dingy convenience store is the only light around. It certainly isn’t a beacon to guide me in any particular direction. I could turn around and go back to NYC. Find the nearest airport and head to LA. Return to my old life.
Instead, I dig through my bag and pull out a sun hat and my sarong, intended for my day with Sienna. I’ll use it to attempt to be incognito so I can go inside without drawing attention to myself. A young couple stands in front of me in line. They hold hands as if they can’t bear to be apart while paying for their pretzels and sodas.
She stumbles slightly when they get to the register and he crouches down to tie her shoe. When he stands up, she rubs his nose with hers and then kisses him.
They’re as sweet as the cinnamon buns warming on the counter next to the hotdogs. Sadly, I’ve never had that kind of a relationship or a real boyfriend period. I’ve dated, but it’s never been official...and it’s been a long time since I’ve had a cinnamon roll.
When it’s my turn to pay for my water and a granola bar—the healthiest thing I could find in this place riddled with sugar-laden Big Gulps and pork rinds, which definitely come from questionable origins—I give into the temptation to get a cinnamon roll. I lost my social standing and probably can’t afford to gain weight given my drive to get to the top—I’ll make a comeback yet, I tell ya!—but if I can’t have true love, I’ll take something sweet all the same.
I slide my credit card and the machine beeps harshly. The word Declined flashes on the screen. I try again.
After the third time, the clerk says, “Do you have another card?”
I pull out my wallet and try the other one my parents pay for. It doesn’t work either.
Apparently, I really can’t afford the cinnamon roll.
When I get back into the car with this useless plastic rectangle, the tears that pierced the corners of my eyes while in the store spill over.
This isn’t a Tinsley Tantrum. More like loss...and it’s my fault.
My parents don’t owe me anything especially when I’ve done nothing but take from them. Neither do my brothers and sister. As for my friends, what friends?
This is a good pity cry.
John was right. I had opportunities. What I lack is humility. But where can I find that?
Maybe in Miami. I’ll make a new life there. I have connections.
What I won’t do is cavort with people like Puma. I won’t flirt or catch a crush or have a fling.
I was with guys because they were someone , which was better than being with no one, making it so I was never alone. But here I am, driving solo anyway.
And away I go. I crank up the music and sing along, hardly noticing when lights spin and flash behind me. A siren blares. I don’t remember that being part of the song.
I glance in the rearview mirror. A police car tails me. I think I’m supposed to pull over to the side of the road.
Did the feds change their mind and catch up with me?
My breath freezes in my chest as I come to a stop. The officer takes a long time to come to the window.
“Sir, you really brought the club vibe.” I bop a little in my seat.
He peers into the car and his gaze is unamused like metal, like steel. “Miss, please turn off the radio.”
I swallow thickly and do as told.
“Do you realize you were going thirty miles over the speed limit?”
I shake my head, blurring the letters printed on his uniform Officer Henley.
“Do you understand why legal rates of speed are posted?”
“So we follow the rules?”
Somehow his mustache frowns at my response. It’s more of a Robert Redford situation than the slick Clark Gable mustache from the gas station. “For public safety. I have to write you a speeding ticket and...” His words trail slowly from his lips. “And I have to place you under arrest.”
“Sir, I was cleared. I was not involved in the thing with Puma. I swear.”
He inclines his head. “Miss, have you been drinking? Are you under the influence of alcohol? Coming from the club by any chance?”
The answer to all of his questions is a resounding no, however, the way he says club so stiffly makes me want to giggle. Perhaps my friends have been ignoring me as people do before a surprise party so the tension builds and everyone thinks their friend forgot. Then boom ! They bounce out of their hiding places and shout, Surprise!
But no one appears from the darkness beyond the road. My headlights beam into the distance as the police officer’s lights spin on the roof of his patrol car.
This situation suddenly seems so absurd that I want to laugh.
But I don’t. I know better.
“You’ll have to come with me,” Officer Henley says.
If you’re smart... The federal agent’s words come to me, but this time I don’t heed them. “Sir, why are you arresting me?”
“For driving a stolen car. New York plates. Reported missing yesterday.” He clicks his tongue. “Not only that but you do not have a valid driver’s license...unless it’s 2015. I’m sorry to say this one expired quite a while ago.”
I bite my lip. “I usually use my passport for identification.”
“Can’t help you here. Please come with me.”
I am handcuffed and put into the back of the police car. My eyes tingle with tears, but I blink them back as we pass a sign that says Welcome to Butterbury: a small town with a big heart.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
“I’m afraid not, Miss,” Officer Henley says.
I want to explain that I was here for the Fall Festival but keep quiet because now I don’t have a car, am stranded here, and will have to answer for my crime.
Fear trickles slowly over my skin and sticks like a spider’s web as the vague memory of Butterbury takes shape with its quaint Main Street. We pass a diner, a few shops, and the headquarters for the HLTV show Designed to Last. Looks like I can’t escape my past or show business.
The next minutes are a blur as I’m unceremoniously booked, am tested for alcohol, and have my mug shot taken—it’s not half bad even though my makeup has all but melted off.
Officer Henley locks me in a jail cell like a common criminal. Like Puma. I let out a long breath and then drop onto the wooden bench along the wall.
Maybe Taylor can bail me out. Or the feds. They can attest to my innocence. I would not object to Southern Agent either. He would’ve been incredibly handsome if not for the glare cast in the general vicinity of all criminal activity. He had cheekbones that would be the envy of any aspiring Hollywood Hunk, and lips that would’ve been delicious if he weren’t in what appeared to be a permanent scowl. His hair was tousled and brown with the slightest hint of red. I wondered what color his eyes were.
From across the room, the guy didn’t even notice me. Now, I’m a far cry from Malibu.
With a long sigh, I peer through the bars into a second cell. A manly, well-groomed man with an intense gaze glances at me and then away.
Now I know the answer to my question. Southern Agent’s eyes were blue. My stomach does a swoop. Shockingly, he’s in the cell next to mine.