Chapter 102
Kirsten
@Kaiathecatlady, TikTok
Everyone gets drawn to the glitz and glamour of Vegas, but trust me, I spent five years there, and what you see isn’t what you get. #findMaple
I love Los Angeles! Why have I never been here before? Why have I wasted my life in puritanical Provo when the City of Angels is just two hours away? I mean, there are karaoke bars here that never close! Basement speakeasies with disco balls and microphones. What more could a girl want?
I’ve sung Beyoncé, Ariana Grande, Rhianna, even Madonna. If I didn’t need to replenish my drink, I’d still be on stage now. Well, that, and those plastic women in leopard print telling me I was hogging the mic.
But I can’t help who I am, a natural performer; of course the stage is like a magnet for me. It reminds me how much I loved singing at Kilby Court, back when I didn’t have anyone’s happiness to think about except my own.
Just like now, as Ella pointed out this afternoon; or maybe yesterday, it’s hard to keep track of time down here. Because being alone is just negative speak for doing exactly what you want.
I pick up my – seventh? Eighth? – mojito and say a silent toast to Ella, a thank-you for pointing out my new beginning, my chance to be blissfully in charge of my own destiny and not responsible for anyone else’s. Because those days when I was single, they were the absolute best days. No question.
And now I am free to do it again. Lucky, lucky me. I take a gulp.
‘Hey, I heard you singing up there. You’ve got a great voice.’
I turn toward the compliment, like a sunflower opening to the sun.
‘Why thank you.’ The man isn’t gorgeous, not like that gate attendant from Ella’s apartment block, but he’s not bad-looking.
And I need to celebrate my newfound freedom somehow.
‘I’m just taking a break,’ I purr. ‘But I’ll be going back up soon; I love to sing. ’
He nods. ‘Well, it’s good to see you looking so happy. It feels like that doesn’t happen often enough these days.’
Ha! Even this stranger can tell that I’m on top of the world.
‘You know, you look kinda familiar,’ the man continues, tipping his head. ‘Are you a regular here?’
‘Not me, I’m a Utah girl,’ I say proudly, which is weird because I’ve never been particularly proud of that. Except for how damn good we all are at social media, of course.
‘Huh,’ he says, still staring, still trying to figure it out.
The warning bell screeches in my head at the exact same time that he gets it.
‘Hey, you’re that girl’s mom!’ he exclaims, tensing up like a surprised cat. ‘The one who’s gone missing. What the fuck are you doing in here singing? Oh my God, what is wrong with you?’
I twist off the barstool, drop onto my feet. Damn, the floor is slippery. I stagger, find my balance.
‘Jesus, I was feeling sorry for you, all that online abuse being hurled in your direction. But you deserve it all, and a hell of a lot more!’
I turn away, drop my eyeline, push through the crowd.
I need to get out of here before anyone else recognizes me, or that guy stops shouting long enough to get his phone out.
I trip on the first stair, so take the rest on my hands and knees, shame licking like flames as the doorman watches on.
He pushes open the front door for me, but I recoil, screw my eyes closed.
It’s so bright. What time is it? How the hell can the sun be so high in the sky?
I skitter onto the sidewalk, try to make sense of my surroundings, how different it looks without the dark sky and neon signs. But then my phone starts dinging and buzzing like its own electronic orchestra. It must be finally picking up a cell tower after hours spent underground.
Panic grabs me. Maple. My beautiful Maple. I miss her so much! I grab my phone out of my bag, swipe and scroll, check for anything important.
How could I have spent the night in a bar when my daughter is out there, in trouble? But I’ve been under so much pressure! And that Xanax stopped me thinking straight!
My stomach lurches. There’s a message from Garrett.
When it lurches again, I realize I’m going to be sick.
I race into the Starbucks opposite, head straight for the restroom, and throw up in the sink.
Liquid vomit that swills down easily, thank God.
A woman walks in – mid-thirties, smartly dressed – and I freeze, pray she can’t smell sick, or white rum.
But she ignores me, the best outcome for once, and disappears into a cubicle.
I splash my face with cold water, dry it with paper towels, and open Garrett’s message.
Maple spotted in Vegas on Friday p.m. Main bus station.
Met a man there and left with him.
Also, friend Coco is a fake. FBI on it.
Maybe a pedo with two fake profiles. Maybe two pedos.
Either way, ONE SHIT MOM
My hand trembles. The phone slips from my grasp. And I listen to it smash on the tiles.