Chapter 46 I can get a composting toilet and embrace a simple life.
I can get a composting toilet and embrace a simple life.
Josie
THE BUS RIDE from San Francisco to Hollywood is eight hours and twenty-six minutes overnight, and I sleep on the way.
I use the word sleep lightly. It’s more accurate to say I lose consciousness repeatedly over the course of the trip, waking long enough to acknowledge the pain in my lower back and wipe the slobber from my headrest.
I arrive at the house, and after Emmy finishes hugging me for, like, a full three minutes, she brings me up to speed.
There’s still no sign of Sean or Miguel.
Sean’s private jet did log a flight to San Antonio, and the pilot said Sean and someone matching Miguel’s description were on it, but no one has any idea where they went from there.
“San Antonio?” I ask. “What’s in San Antonio?”
“I was hoping you might know.”
While we’re talking, Peyton comes out of her room, ready for school. She shrieks when she sees me and throws her arms around my neck. “Tía!” she cries.
I squeeze her tight. “Hey, munchkin.” It feels good to be home, even if it’s just for a little while.
Once Peyton’s on her way to school, I turn to Emmy. “I feel like we should check Sean’s house for clues.”
Emmy rubs her swollen abdomen, which has gotten even bigger in the six days I’ve been gone. “The police have already looked.”
I’ve never felt so helpless. “We’ve got to do something!”
Emmy’s arms come around me. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
After how I treated her, she still comforts me. I squeeze her back. “I can’t believe you don’t hate me.”
She pinches the fleshy part of my arm, hard.
“Ouch!”
“There. That’s for keeping secrets from me for our entire friendship. Now forget about it. We need to be sharp. We need to think!”
“You said this happened after Sean saw my video.” I grit my teeth.
It took a lot out of me to make that video for Emmy.
Being open about who I really am and all the ways I’ve screwed up wasn’t easy.
“If this is my fault… If they thought maybe I was in San Antonio, and something happened to them while they were looking for me—I couldn’t handle that. ”
“No!” she shouts at me in the same Tony Robbins-esque way I’ve been known to do to her. The shock does keep me from breaking down completely. “This isn’t your fault, Josie. And they’re gonna be so happy when they hear you’re safe.”
“But they’ve been gone for days!”
Emmy’s phone rings. “It’s Jason! Hey, hon! What’s up?”
I wring my hands as she listens and then reports to me. “Sean and Miguel are both at the studio!”
I gasp. “Are they okay? What happened?”
“He didn’t say. Just that they’re back.”
Emmy grabs her keys from the hook in the kitchen, and I follow her to the car.
My old trailer is still there in the side yard, glaring at me like it’s judging me for leaving it.
We’ll have to talk about that later, trailer.
But all my regular worries evaporate when we arrive at the lot.
A throng of news crews has gathered just outside the main door of Studio 11.
My heart takes a dive, and I turn a quick one-eighty. San Francisco is looking better and better. Who needs a hot plate or a bed? I can get a composting toilet and embrace a simple life.
“Emmy, let’s get out of here! We can find out what happened over the phone.”
“Oh, no you don’t!” Emmy grabs my arm. “We are not leaving until we have answers.”
“I can’t face them,” I tell her, indicating the media.
Emmy takes a deep breath and bends forward, hands on her knees. Alarm bells go off in my head.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s just Braxton-Hicks contractions. It’s been happening a lot. Don’t worry about me. Let’s just figure out a way to get us inside without the news crews seeing you.”
I spot Yesenia with her roller bag, headed for the side door. “Come on! I’ve got a plan.”
I tow Emmy by the elbow while she sashays to try to go faster. But before reaching Yesenia, I stop short behind a building. What if I ask for her help and she won’t help me? What if she’s angry about Chuy or upset that I never told her who I really was?
But Sean and Miguel are inside, and they’ve been missing for four days. I need to know what happened. I need to make sure they’re okay.
I take a deep breath. “Yesenia!” I stage-whisper.
She stops and gives me a funny look rather than her usual happy greeting. That doesn’t bode well. She approaches, and I brace myself for whatever it is she has to say.
“?Es cierto?” she asks in Spanish.
Heat spreads across my face and neck. Every cell in my body wants to flee the scene, jump in a runaway car, and get the hell out of Dodge, but I anchor myself and reply in Spanish, “Yes, it’s true.” I wince, and my next words come out hesitant. “Were you a Chuy fan?”
“I watched the show a few times with my niece.” She tilts her head, studying my features. “I never would have recognized you.”
Relief overwhelms me. She’s not mad. We’re still friends, at least I hope we are. “Will you get us in?”
“Claro que sí.”
I duck down and try to use Yesenia and her roller bag to block me from the view of the news crews as we scurry toward the side door, but, at five foot three, there’s only so much blocking she can do.
Not to mention, a pregnant woman about to pop draws a lot of attention.
A camerawoman looks our way just as I poke my head out.
Her arm comes up, finger pointing straight at me.
Even if I couldn’t hear her, I’d know what she was saying just by reading her lips.
“Josie Days! It’s her!”
Shit.
The throng stirs and then flows toward us. Cameras and microphones bombard me. Questions echo in my ears.
“Josie Days, is it true Sean and Miguel are back?”
“Do you know anything about their disappearance?”
“Why would Sean kidnap Miguel?”
“Did he exhibit any other criminal behavior?”
I grit my teeth against the onslaught. It feels like the scene in that Alfred Hitchcock movie except I’m being pecked to death by reporters instead of birds. But I find myself more angry than terrified. They’re going after Sean, not me.
Hells, no. Not on my watch.
I grab a mic. “I don’t know anything about their disappearance, but Sean would never kidnap anyone.
As for criminal behavior, that’s ridiculous!
He’s the most kind and caring person I know.
If I had to bet, I’d say Sean was going out of his way to help someone.
That’s the kind of person he is.” I glare right into the camera lens.
“And anyone who says anything different will have to deal with me.”
Someone shouts from the back of the pack. “What are you going to do? Burn them up like you did with that puppet?”
Oh, so we have a heckler. “Why don’t you come find out?”
He doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t come find out, thank goodness, because I have no follow-through.
“Anybody else have questions about the kind of person Sean O’Sullivan is?” I growl into the mic.
No one answers. I may be high on adrenaline and righteous indignation right now, but apparently no one wants to press their luck with the unhinged puppet assassin. Thank you, Savannah Bateman. I’m not sure Josie Days could’ve pulled that off without you.
“Oye! What’s going on here?” The voice comes from behind me, and Miguel winds his way through the crowd.
“Miguel! Are you all right?” I seize his shoulders and study him, searching for signs of injury. “What happened? Where’s Sean?”
“He’s fine. He’s inside.”
“Thank God.”
The back door bursts open. My heart leaps, and I whirl, expecting to see Sean emerge, safe and gorgeous and blasé as a men’s underwear ad.
But it’s not Sean. It’s Lupe, a cigarette balanced between her fingers in that elegant way of women who actually learned how to smoke.
We lock eyes, and this time, there’s nowhere for me to run to.
She looks so different, and still the same.
Beautiful and confident and in charge in her Beyond the Stars captain’s uniform.
My old insecurities rise up and shake off the dust of the years.
New ones emerge as well. What will she say after all this time?
What will she do? Did my reappearance ruin things for Castillo Studios again? If so, how badly?
A hush falls over the media. I’m not sure if it’s one of awe and reverence because here is the person who was hurt most by my actions come to exact her revenge or if they’re just admiring her astonishing, four-inch platform boots.
She saunters up to me, hips swinging. Her jaw is still square and challenging.
Her hard gaze still misses nothing. Lupe was always the smarter one.
“Sábana.” A smile plays on her black-lipsticked lips, which may or may not have received some professional help over the years, along with her cleavage.
“Loopy,” I reply, my nickname for her.
She pulls me into a hug, and I almost don’t believe it’s happening. Like, even as she embraces me, I expect her to slide a hidden knife between my ribs, Shakespeare-style.
But her hug is real, if short. She ruffles my short purple locks. “Your hair!”
“Your boobs!”
She laughs out loud. “I can refer you to the doctor. She’s amazing!”
The newspeople murmur around Miguel and Lupe, jockeying for their attention. But one reporter’s voice cuts through the chatter.
“Lupe Castillo, are you really going to let your sister off the hook just like that? After she derailed your career?”
Lupe appears to ponder the question as she lights her cigarette. “My career is doing just fine. Besides, I was pretty mean to her back then. And jealous.”
What? “You were jealous of me?”
“Papi indulged you so much. Poor little Savannah. Be nice to her. Help her fit in.” She rolls her perfectly made-up eyes.
“But those interviews and that photo of you crying.” I’m not sure how to say this without sounding like a jerk. “You played it up. You didn’t take any of the blame.”