I searched fruitlessly on LinkedIn, Twitter, and Snapchat. I wasn’t a member of anything else, so my social media search stopped there. Google wasn’t helpful either, turning up only advertisements for a Felicity Fox who was apparently a successful hair stylist in Bethesda, Maryland. I even went as far as to pull up the picture of her ID, which Francisco had sent me (issued two months ago, showing an address in Echo Park that turned out to be a charming blue fourplex), to search her driver’s license number. Nothing.
The absence of her presence online was almost more alarming than if I’d found evidence she was…What? What did I think I was going to find, and why was I fixating on this? Sure, I was jarred by the fact that she’d slipped under the radar (after the business with Rory, I was a fiend for a tight budget), but the girl hadn’t done anyone any harm.
I sighed, and feeling like a teenager, turned my attention to Rick. He wasn’t hard to find. The website of the resort told me his last name was Hamilton and led me to all of its social media pages, on which he was featured heavily. He didn’t seem to be on Twitter, and his Facebook page was locked, but his Instagram was open. The first picture was from a few hours before, of the conch he’d just given me resting on a white sand beach. Next were pictures of the fishing trip he’d taken the crew on, followed by him flying a small plane (God, he looked hot flying a plane), a group of guys in a bar, a girl he referred to as his niece graduating from elementary school, more fishing trips, dolphins at sunset…all totally kosher, confirming he was exactly who he said he was. My finger hovered over the “follow” button, but I held back. I didn’t want him to think me too eager. Instead, I clicked on the page of tagged photos.
The top few were from fishing trips, but the next row down was a picture of him with his arm around a pretty light-skinned Black girl with long magenta-tinted hair, her head resting on his shoulder. I clicked on it. The caption was only a red heart, and it was dated six days ago. Shit. I stared at the picture, willing it to disappear, then clicked on her profile. @JeanieBabie24, tagline “keepin’ it hot in the sun” had 1,476 followers, and her feed featured multiple pictures of her flaunting her figure in various skimpy outfits, interspersed with pictures of Rick. One of him shirtless on a dock with a fishing rod (“love that pole”), another a selfie of her kissing his cheek at what appeared to be a party, a third of the two of them smiling with a group of people at the beach (“beach daze r the best daze”), the same picture he had on his page of him flying a plane.
Two and two added up to he obviously had a girlfriend he’d failed to mention. My brain balked; he’d seemed so nice, so not an asshole. Had I misinterpreted his gaze? Had he only wanted to be my friend? But then why not mention the girlfriend? I thought back over our conversation. I’d run my mouth most of the time. So maybe he hadn’t had a chance to mention her. It was true he’d done little more than ask questions—but that was also a classic player move. And it didn’t bode well that he didn’t have any pictures of the girlfriend in his feed. I could just imagine that conversation: Sorry, honey, he’d say. I need to keep it professional for my job. And having a hunch he might be acting shady with the hordes of horny girls on holiday he was likely to meet, she’d tag pictures of him to show up on his profile in case any girl he hit on happened to check his feed before diving in.
Like me.
I cringed. I felt so incredibly stupid for revealing myself to him, for feeling seen by him. Stupider than if I’d slept with him. I’d been so desperate for real human connection, I’d made myself vulnerable, and he’d played me like a fiddle.
No wonder I’d been attracted to him. He was an asshole.
July 22, 2013
Industry Standard:
Stella’s River of Wellness Runs Dry
Stella’s River of Wellness has been canceled by WTV. The docu-follow series, which centered around actress-turned-spirituality-advocate Stella Rivers’s attempt to open wellness center WelLife, selling crystals, life coaching, psychic readings, guided meditation, juices, and various dietary supplements, aired only seven episodes of a planned twelve-episode season.
The troubled Rivers found spirituality during her latest stint in rehab, after a string of incidents that included physically attacking a paparazzi, throwing pickle jars at a fan, assaulting the ex-wife of her boyfriend, and driving under the influence. From the beginning, production on Stella’s River of Wellness was plagued by protesters supporting the neighborhood taco joint the spiritual center displaced in the hip Eastside Los Angeles community of Silverlake. But the bigger problem was Rivers’s lack of business acumen and the public’s distrust of her as a guru after her checkered past. One of the terms of Rivers’s contract was that she would fund the spiritual center with her own money, and Rivers has filed a suit claiming the producers of the show intentionally sabotaged WelLife for ratings, causing it to go belly-up and leaving her nearly bankrupt.
Felicity
Thirteen Years Ago
I’ve been sweating under the blanket in the trunk less than five minutes when Iris gets in the car and starts the engine. Thinking of how grounded I’ll be if she finds me, I almost lose my courage and reveal myself, but decide not to. I have to know what’s going on.
Trying to stay still as the car bumps over potholes and sloshes through rain puddles, I lose track of the turns she’s making after a few blocks, but when the road smooths out and she hits the gas, I figure we must be on the highway.
After what feels like forever but is probably only ten minutes, she exits and makes a few turns on roads noticeably more even than the ones in our part of town. She stops and lowers the window, and I hear her keying a code into a security box, then a gate opening. She pulls through the gate, parks the car, and gets out.
I count to one hundred before daring a peek out the window.
It’s twilight, and we’re parked in the driveway of what I immediately recognize from the picture in Celebrity magazine as Cole’s house. It’s sleek and modern, all white and glass, surrounded by tall white walls and lush greenery. Relieved she wasn’t lying, I carefully push back the blanket and lift the hatchback just enough to roll out onto the pebbled driveway.
The carport is empty; my mom’s car is the only one in sight. Terrified that Cole will drive up at any minute, I dart around the side of the house and flatten my back against the wall, panting. What if she decides to leave? Then I’d be stuck here. This was a bad idea. But I’m in now, so I might as well carry through with my plan. Only, I don’t have a plan. I didn’t think this through.
Okay. Think, Phoenix.
I want to see what’s going on. That means I need a window. I move away from the wall to check out the side of the house. It’s nearly all windows. The entire back of the place is like a greenhouse. I crouch behind a row of palms just taller than I am and inch toward the backyard. A wide deck extends off the back of the house with steps down to a rectangular pool, and beyond that a narrow bay channel with what looks like a park on the other side.
The sliding glass door that leads to the kitchen is open; my mom is spotlighted under the bright lights over the island, chopping vegetables. I creep closer, fascinated. I’ve never in my life seen her do more in the kitchen than make spaghetti from a jar. But here she is with a glass of red wine (since when does she drink red wine?), humming along to something that sounds like jazz, and when she tucks a wisp of blond hair behind her ear, I can see she’s smiling.
It’s the weirdest feeling, watching her. It’s like she’s not my mother at all, but some happy rich lady in the movies.
She puts a pot of water on the stove and turns on the burner, then checks her phone and darts from the room as though she’s forgotten something. I track her across the dark living room, but lose her once she goes into the part of the house where I’m guessing the bedrooms are. The curtains are all drawn on that side, but I figure she’ll be back; she left the water boiling and her phone on the counter.
I hear the gate open and a car with a deep thrumming motor drive
in. After a minute, Cole enters the kitchen. My heart flips, seeing him in real life. He’s even more hunky than he is on-screen, just being himself in ripped jeans and a black T-shirt. He notices the pot of boiling water, the vegetables, takes a slug of wine. “Honey?” he calls out.
Honey. That’s what people in love call each other.
He turns off the water and moves in the same direction Iris disappeared. “Hello?”
It’s dark now, so I don’t have to worry as much about hiding as I scurry around the pool in search of a window with a view of Cole and my mother. But the curtains at this end of the house remain drawn, and the glass must be thick because I can’t hear anything. I crack my knuckles, frustrated. I’d wanted to see them together for peace of mind, and now I can’t see either of them. But they’re probably having sex, and I don’t want to see that anyway. I got what I wanted: I know she’s been telling the truth about coming here to Cole’s house. I still haven’t seen them together, but at least they looked happy.
I slink back to my hiding place with a view of the kitchen and sit behind an azalea bush to eat my protein bar.
“What are you doing in my yard?”
I spin to see a scrawny, dark-haired boy about my age towering above me. He pushes his glasses up on his nose and crosses his arms.
“Shhhhh!” I put my finger to my lips and pull him down beside me. “Are you Jackson?”
He jerks his arm away. “Yeah, so what? Why are you in my yard?”
“My mom’s dating your dad,” I whisper.
He looks confused. “Stella has a daughter?”
I shake my head. “No. My mom is Iris. The car that’s parked in the driveway is hers. I’m a stowaway.”
He tilts his head and squints at me, then laughs. “That’s pretty crazy.”
“So can you please get out of sight? She’ll kill me if she catches me.” He crouches next to me. “Your dad hasn’t talked about my mom?”
He shrugs. “I live with my mom in South Beach. She just sent me over here because she’s having a party tonight.”
“Did your dad know you were coming?”
Again he shrugs. “Stella said it was okay.”
My eyes go wide. “Stella’s gonna be home tonight?”
“I think so. I mean, she told my mom she’d watch me.”
“Oh shit.” I panic. “My mom’s up there having sex with your dad right now, and Stella’s gonna come home and find them. This is bad. We have to stop them!”
He cocks his head. “I don’t think—”
“I can’t go. My mom can’t know I’m here. But you have to. You have to go stop them before she gets here.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “You want me to go bust up our parents having sex?”
I grab his hand and drag him to his feet. “Just—I don’t know, knock on the door until they answer and warn them.” I push him in the direction of the open door.
“What are you gonna do?” he asks.
“I’m gonna go get in her car so that when she takes off, I don’t get left. Please,” I beg, shoving him over the threshold. “Go.”
“Okay, crazy.” He laughs.
“Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone you saw me!” I whisper.
He flashes the thumbs-up and jogs off in the direction Cole and my mom went. I dash through the dark yard to my mom’s car, where I once again crawl under the blanket in the back, proud I’ve saved my mom from the wrath of the famously jealous Stella Rivers.
I haven’t been in the back of the car for long when I hear the gate open and headlights sweep the driveway. I peer out the window to see Stella step out of a white Range Rover and rush into the house. Shit. This is bad. My mom is still in there. But what can I do? I wait on pins and needles, praying that Jackson at least had time to tell them she was coming so they didn’t get caught in the act. Surely he had time.
Unless he chickened out.
Finally the front door opens back up and light spills down the wide steps. But it’s not Iris. It’s Cole, and he’s—no. It’s Cole and Stella, and they’re carrying my mother.
My heart stops. He’s holding her under the arms, and Stella has her feet. She’s not moving. Oh God, what’s happened? Is she sick? Is she hurt? Did Stella do something to her when she caught them?
Stella and Cole are arguing as they carry her down the walkway, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. She’s hysterical, sobbing and yelling, dropping my mother’s feet, and he’s frowning, trying to get her to shut up. Suddenly the car door opens. I duck as they place Iris in the back seat, arguing about which hospital to take her to. She’s a foot away from me, on the other side of the seat. “Mom?” I whisper. No answer. My breath is shallow. What do I do? Should I show myself? But what if they won’t let me go with her to the hospital? I need to go with her to the hospital.
Cole slams the door, and for a brief moment I’m alone in the car with my mom. I listen for her breath, but the car is eerily quiet. “Mom?” No answer. “I’m here. I love you.”
I peek over the seat and gasp. Her skin is ashen, her eyes open and unblinking. Rivulets of blood run from her bruised and swollen nose; the back of her hair is matted and red. My heart crashes. “Mom!” She doesn’t move. I reach over the seat and touch her face. It’s warm, thank God. But maybe it’s not as warm as it should be.
What did Stella do to her? I grab her wrist, trying to feel for a pulse. Her hand is limp, and there’s a new hole in her arm, but I can’t find a pulse.
A spear of ice in my heart. I can’t breathe; I’m numb, outside my body, watching as Cole opens the driver’s door, and I duck under the blanket. He backs out of the driveway fast and hits the gas as soon as we’re on the road.
I reach my hand around the side of the seat and find the top of my mom’s cooling head, stifling a scream. I silently sob as I stroke her sticky hair, knowing she’s gone by the gaping hole in my heart.
Part III:
Turbulence
Taylor
Saturday, June 22
The last place I wanted to be on my day off was aboard a boat with my narcissistic boss, his delusional ex-wife, and the guy I had a crush on who had a girlfriend, but it was unavoidable. Things could have been worse, I supposed: the boat could have been smaller than the fifty-foot sportfishing yacht from which we were currently admiring the sunset. Well, they were admiring. I was hiding in the kitchen.
I’d tried to convince Francisco to come, but he’d begged off. He wasn’t exactly Cole’s biggest fan, and his darling Ben was spending the afternoon at the pool, so that was where he planned to be. “You do love a challenge,” I’d teased him.
“Nearly as much as you love an unavailable man,” he’d returned.
I snorted with laughter at that. Learning the truth about Rick had confirmed it: I only fell for unavailable men. “Oh, I don’t love them; I just make love to them,” I quipped, though it wasn’t true. “Big difference.”
“Touché.”
I tilted up the remainder of my Kalik Gold, tossed it in the trash, and grabbed another from the refrigerator. Hiding in the kitchen had its advantages.
“You like Kalik?” I turned to see my personal-hero-turned-villain Rick, sporting a wide grin. I was dying to ask him about JeanieBabie24, but obviously I couldn’t let him know I’d been stalking him online—which also meant I had to act normal around him. He clearly wasn’t bothered by juggling women; he looked more relaxed than I’d felt in my entire life. I hated that I was so pleased he’d come down to say hello, if that was in fact what he was doing. I would not be the other woman ever again.
I nodded, struggling with the cap. “May I?” He held his hand out, and I placed the beer in it. In one swift motion, he knocked the bottle against the counter, sending the top spinning.
“Thank you.”
“Imported from the Bahamas.” He grabbed another one from the fridge and gave it the same treatment, tapping the label against mine. “How’d the rest of your week go?”
I shrugged. “Good.” Truth be told, it had been tough in spots but nothing I wanted to discuss with him anymore.
“Not a very convincing performance,” he noted.
“Yours?” I asked, ignoring his comment.
“Great. With you guys working all week, I didn’t have any tours, so I took my nephews fishing and looked at a couple of boats for Cole.”
I bit my lip, recalling my argument yesterday with Cole about his refusal to pay for the additional Steadicam operator our cinematographer had urgently requested. “What kind of boat?” I asked, hoping it was a fucking canoe.
“Pleasure yacht. You should see the ones I’ve been looking at.” He let out a low whistle, then cut his eyes to me and abruptly dropped it. “But I can tell that may be a sensitive subject for you, so I’m gonna stop right there.”
I swigged my beer, wondering if he’d taken JeanieBabie24 with him to see the yachts. “Thanks.” I was beginning to feel a pleasant hum beneath my skin and was happy I’d tossed my no-drinking-on-the-job rule out to sea. “Sorry. He’s been stressing me out, but I can’t really get into it right now.”
“Gotcha.”
I indicated his beer. “Are you allowed to do that?”
“What?”
“Drink alcohol while driving a boat?”
He laughed. “We’re not in the States, and I won’t get drunk.” He knelt next to the sink and opened the cabinet below, fiddling with one of the drainage pipes.
“What are you doing?”
“Sink’s been draining slow,” he said as he unscrewed the pipe.
It was really hard not to be turned on by a man who could fix things with his hands. Most of the men I knew were more helpless than I was. I hopped down from my perch on the counter and squatted next to him, watching as he deconstructed the pipe into three pieces. I was a homeowner now, and I should know how to do this kind of thing. “Show me.”
The Siren Page 13