According to a Source

by Abby Stern

  “That’s my girl.”

  “I’ll have one too,” Jess chimes in with a grin. “My blog is called Martini Olives Count as Dinner. Can’t ‘write what I know’ unless I partake.”

  * * *

  As we’re leaving the Chateau, the alcohol is hitting me all at once due to the lack of real food in my system. I wish I’d had the foresight to scarf down one of those Death Dogs last night. I was too nauseated to eat after Ethan left and I couldn’t stand to look at what was supposed to be a congratulatory snack that inadvertently turned into a parting gift. Right about now I’m regretting my decision to throw them in the trash. We walk down the driveway, and the paparazzi begin to swarm Holiday. Jessica waves good-bye and quietly dips out, narrowly avoiding the slew of photographers.

  “Holiday, tell us all about your new show!”

  “Holiday, what’s it like to be Hollywood’s up-and-coming It girl?”

  “Holiday, what’s going on in your love life?”

  She’s never been papped to this extent. She’s like a deer caught in the headlights about to be slammed into on Mulholland Drive instead of her usually composed self. I don’t know if it’s my buzz or my intuition, but my something is telling me to jump in and save her.

  “She’s really excited,” I interject. The paparazzi stop their camera clicking for a moment to see who’s speaking on her behalf. “She loves the script and couldn’t have asked for a better supporting cast.”

  Holiday regains her composure and turns it on for the cameras, but the paparazzi frenzy is diffused by hotel security, who ushers them out of the driveway as Holiday’s car pulls up. Before she leaves she turns to me.

  “Thanks for saving me. I don’t know what happened. I’ve been so focused on you that I wasn’t prepared for that.”

  “Well ‘darling,’ you better get ready because this is only the tip of the iceberg, and if you handle them like you just did I’m going to be more Googled than you.” She hugs me and proceeds to her car.

  “Get home safe,” Holiday instructs.

  Home? The home I know is gone. The home I know I shared with someone who now doesn’t exist to me. When I stumble into my apartment my stomach drops. He really did it. Ethan moved everything out. I knew he was going to, but there was some part of me that thought while he was removing everything he would have a change of heart. The only evidence that he ever lived here are the indentations from the legs of the furniture on the living-room carpet. Half of the bedroom closet is empty and the naked hangers with all of the empty space between them somehow make me feel like I’m about to become the next victim in a horror film that is now my life. It seems almost impossible to remember what it looked like only twenty-four hours ago or what it smelled like when he lived here. The feeling of emptiness overwhelms me.

  I check my phone. No texts from him saying “I miss you” or “I made a mistake.” The only thing I can do is focus on myself and my new beginning and keeping my job, which I need now more than ever. My phone buzzes. It’s Maggie.

  Hey Ella,

  I wanted to check on you. I heard about you and Ethan. I’m so sorry. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. XO

  Maggie

  PS If you can find another story before Monday I think it would help you get in Victoria’s good graces.

  I don’t know why I’m surprised she knows. She was friends with Ethan first and she works in the gossip industry. Why wouldn’t the news about my breakup travel through our circle of friends before I run out of tears?

  And then my phone buzzes again. It’s a picture of Marianna, giving me the peace sign, and then a text from Robin:

  Hey El! Don’t forget—birthday party tomorrow. You and Ethan are still coming, right? And you’re bringing cupcakes!??

  Nine

  “Aunt Ella, Aunt Ella! It’s my birthday!” I barely make it into the foyer before my rambunctious, towheaded, four-year-old niece, wearing a tiara that perfectly complements her blush-pink leotard and tutu ensemble, runs and attacks me with hugs. She grabs onto my leg as if it’s a life vest and we’re drowning.

  “Hmmmm … Are you sure it’s your birthday?” Her excitement turns to a look of worry. “I’m only teasing. Happy birthday, Miss Marianna. Such a big girl now! How old are you today? Huh?” She giggles. I hold up two fingers. “Are you this many?”

  “No!”

  “Hmm. Are you this many?” I say with three fingers this time. “Well, that can only mean one thing.” I hold up four fingers. “You’ve got to be this many!” I grab her off my leg and kiss her all over her face and tickle her. “Happy birthday, silly goose tickle monster!” There’s something about how pure and truly happy my niece is that’s beautiful, especially in contrast to the current darkness I feel inside. But Marianna’s hugs and jumping make me feel nauseated, and Robin notices as I close my eyes and breathe deeply in and out in an attempt to settle my stomach.

  “Marianna, why don’t you go in the kitchen and help Daddy with the balloons?”

  “Okay, Mommy.” She scampers off without the slightest clue that even though this house is still standing I feel like the world is crumbling on top of me.

  “I’m glad you made it. It’s been too long since you’ve been over.” Robin leans in to hug me. It’s kind of awkward. Like as if we’re acquaintances from core-curriculum classes in college instead of sisters. She sniffs me. “Ella, you reek of booze. Are you hungover?”

  I swallow a burp. “Technically I’m still drunk. I don’t think you can call it a hangover unless you’ve been to bed.”

  She rolls her eyes at me, unamused. “You didn’t drive here, did you?”

  “Of course not. I Ubered.”

  “Well, thank God for responsibility. Did you bring the cupcakes?” she asks, noticing my empty hands.

  “No, I—” She throws her hands in the air, as if I just told her I wrecked her new car, but before she can get a word out, I cut her off. “I don’t need a lecture, Robin.” She folds her arms and is all too eager to scold me for what she considers to be my irresponsible behavior, though she has no idea that there are extenuating circumstances.

  I think back to the days when Robin was out partying past curfew and tried to escape the wrath of my parents by sneaking in through my bedroom window. Mine was the only window accessible through the backyard, if she stood on the patio table. She knocked until it woke me up. Whenever she snuck in, the alcohol she’d consumed that evening seeped out of her pores, more potent than perfume, and her hair was a complete mess, which, as I figured out during my own adolescence, was disheveled from a romantic tryst. She plied me with candy to coerce me to lie and insist that she’d been home before curfew. I’ve never forgotten her reckless days, but she has.…

  “Clearly you do or you wouldn’t have shown up to my daughter’s birthday party—”

  “Robin, please don’t start with me today!”

  “I just want this day to be perfect for Marianna,” she explains as she moves her hands to her hips. Lucky for me my mother interrupts and diffuses the moment.

  “And I see my perfect daughter.” She comes over to hug me. I immediately notice that she is gaunt. Her face isn’t as soft as I remember. It looks worn but fragile at the same time. Despite that, her makeup is impeccable and her face is illuminated by a smile as soon as she sees me. Of course her caramel-brown hair has a perfect blow out. I’d expect nothing less. She looks much thinner than usual and my suspicion is confirmed when my arms feel like they’ve multiplied in length as I hug her because she’s gotten smaller. “Hi, sweetie!”

  “It’s good to see you, Mom. And also I want your diet secret. Where did you go?” I look her up and down in her black sweater dress and I briefly wonder if she’s discovered the Cocaine Game.

  She looks around. “Where’s Ethan? I want to say hi.”

  “We, um, broke up.” I can’t help it. I lose control and the tears come out in a wave.

  Robin uncrosses her arms. “Now I understand the alcohol,” she acq
uiesces.

  Mom shushes her. “I’m so sorry, Ella. Why didn’t you tell me?” She holds me close to her, and the fragrance of her Lauren by Ralph Lauren–infused clothes is comforting.

  “It just happened like a day ago,” I squeak out.

  “You’re going to be okay.” She hugs me tighter then pulls away to look me in the eye. “You are a strong, kind, charismatic young woman and don’t you ever forget it.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Jeff!” My mother calls for my brother-in-law even though he’s only a few feet away. “Will you show me where the vodka is? I need to make Ella one of my famous Bloody Marys.” My mom is famous in our family for exactly two cocktails, Bloody Marys and piña coladas, but she makes the latter only on Thanksgiving. I’m not exactly sure how piña coladas became part of the Warren tradition of giving thanks, but ever since I was a kid, a can of cream of coconut and the blender resting on the countertop symbolized Thanksgiving to me more than turkey and pumpkin pie. Even my father looked forward to them, but he was never a big drinker, hence the reason there was always leftover alcohol available for Robin to steal.

  I’m surprised that Robin even keeps alcohol in the house. She’s militant about not having any of her senses impaired, even if she isn’t on call. Calling her rigid would be an understatement. Because she’s Miss Perfect, she keeps a bottle of everything on hand for guests and for the one or two nights a year she allows herself to relax and indulge in an adult beverage. Jeff gives Robin a confused look. He doesn’t make a move without her approving it first and hasn’t since they met sophomore year of college. He worships Robin. It isn’t enough that being a doctor gives her a slight God complex—Jeff encourages it. He’s always been secure with the fact that she’s smarter, better looking, and more successful than he is. He adores taking care of Marianna and being by her side.

  “Why don’t you stay the night?” Robin offers. “The party is going to get hectic and I was thinking we can have a family breakfast tomorrow morning.” This option sounds far superior to my original plan of packing my apartment and torturing myself with the memories of my failed relationship.

  “That’d be nice. Thank you.”

  She smiles, and we stand there awkwardly. If this were a Lifetime movie, she’d say, “You don’t have to thank me, El. We’re sisters.” But it’s not and we just look around the kitchen in silence. My mother-turned-mixologist interrupts our not-so-Hallmark moment.

  “I made it extra strong,” she says, handing me a cocktail that’s almost pink instead of red due to the ratio of vodka to tomato juice.

  “Thanks.” I gulp it down as if it’s water. She takes a sip of her more pigmented drink and Robin shoots her a disapproving glance.

  “Mine’s virgin, don’t worry,” she concedes.

  “I’m going to help Jeff set up the piñata. Why don’t you guys relax and catch up?” Robin says, giving us some time alone. My mom glances at her watch.

  “Perfect! I didn’t realize what time it was. There should be a Wendy rerun on!” “Wendy” to my mother means The Wendy Williams Show, and she rushes to the living room to turn it on.

  “Come sit down with me, Ella. I love Wendy’s hot-topics segment.” I slide beside her, burrowing my head in her side as she struggles to figure out Robin’s remote. I lift my head and help her out. “Oh, the guest is Sexy Indie Film Actor. Have you ever met him?” I nod yes with my head still buried in her lap. “That’s who you should date next.” My mother pets my hair, and even with all the hectic party preparations going on in the other room, I can already feel myself starting to relax.

  * * *

  I wake up on the sofa when the doorbell rings and my mother brings me a second round. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. Has the party started?”

  “It’s okay. You’ve been through a lot and my baby needed the rest. I bet you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a long time. You didn’t miss anything. The children are arriving now.”

  “Good.” I sip my beverage and walk over to the kitchen counter, where my purse has been resting, too. I pull a napkin out of it and call my niece over before she gets wrapped up in her friends.

  “Marianna, this was Tween Superstar Actress’s napkin. I know she’s your favorite so I wanted you to have it.” Her face lights up like I told her Christmas would now be 364 days a year instead of the other way around. Robin isn’t impressed but that’s never stopped her from instilling good manners in her child.

  “What do we say to Aunt Ella?”

  Marianna’s face is still ecstatic. “Thank you, Aunt Ella!” She hugs me tightly and I’m marginally worried the compression won’t agree with all of the alcohol I’ve consumed.

  “You’re welcome, sweet pea,” I tell her.

  “Why don’t you go show your friends the bouncy castle and I will put this somewhere safe for you?” Robin suggests. Marianna grabs her friends and they run outside.

  My sister is practically glaring at me. “A used napkin? Seriously?” She sighs. “Ella. She’s a child. You couldn’t have gone to Target?”

  “It’s a memento.”

  “A memento with a smeared fuchsia lip stain and God only knows how many species of germs,” she grumbles. “Who knows where her lips have been? Besides at Ambiance,” she says, reading the club’s name off the napkin.

  “You told me how much she loves Tween Superstar Actress and I grabbed it at a club before the busers threw it away. It’s not a big deal. Besides, I’m sure the alcohol on her lips killed anything airborne or contagious.”

  Robin cracks a half smile and when she realizes I’ve noticed, she reverts to the expressionless condescension she does so well. “I don’t want her becoming obsessed with this Hollywood stuff—” She cuts herself off.

  “I thought it was a nice gesture.”

  Robin opens her mouth to speak but decides against whatever it is she was going to say and holds her tongue. Seeing as how I’m already in a fragile state, she made the right call.

  She nods. “You’re right. Thank you. I’m sure we’ll be framing it. Let’s just enjoy the party, okay?”

  Enjoy the party, it turns out, was a little bit of an overstatement. Marianna passed out an hour into it because she ate every sweet in sight. It’s one of the three days a year (Halloween and Easter being the other two) that Robin lets her eat candy, so the poor kid’s sugar high turned into an overdose faster than she could say Disneyland.

  Later, I help Robin and Jeff clean up, even though I’m almost as exhausted as Marianna looks.

  Once the wrapping paper has been bagged, the dishes loaded into the dishwasher, and the minefield of toys cleaned, I tell Robin, “I’m going to head to bed.”

  “At six-thirty P.M.?” Jeff asks. “Hollywood’s number-one party girl couldn’t handle our blowout party. Alright!” He raises his hand for Robin to high-five him and she does. They laugh together at his cheesy joke.

  “Good night, guys.”

  “Good night, El. Mom is in the blue room so take the yellow room. There are clean sheets on the bed and there are some T-shirts in the dresser drawer you can sleep in. I’ll wake you up for breakfast tomorrow.” I give Marianna a quick kiss, grab my purse, and make my way upstairs. Before I reach my room, I notice that the light is creeping out from underneath the door of my mom’s room and knock.

  “Come in,” she answers. She’s in bed reading this week’s issue of The Life.

  “I just wanted to say good night. I’m tuckered out.”

  “See you in the morning, sweetheart. Kiss, hug, squeeze,” she says, performing each action in that order. “I love you.”

  * * *

  Unfortunately, my much-needed slumber doesn’t last as long as I’d hoped. My iPhone starts buzzing relentlessly at 5 A.M. and does not stop. Whenever my phone rings early in the morning or late at night my body seizes up in terror. I know it’s The Life, I feel it in my bones. The question is, what do they want? The e-mail titles include but are not limited to: “Emergency Back Repo
rting,” “SOS,” and “Breaking News.”

  I open the first e-mail to ascertain what’s going on even though my brain is functioning at a more infantile level than Marianna’s right now.

  Uh-oh. A story broke overnight.

  Not just any story. The story. Definitely the story of the year, possibly the story of my lifetime.

  Okay, it’s not as big a deal as a terrorist attack or a presidential assassination, but everyone is going to remember exactly where they were when they saw these photos. It’s that big.

  Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star went crazy last night. And not in the “crazy” diva archetypal I-only-bathe-in-Evian celebrity kind of way—legit, needs-a-straitjacket insane.

  She left her house at 1 A.M. with a paparazzi caravan in tow, went to a bar, had a few drinks with some girlfriends, and made a detour on the way home to a barbershop, where she shaved her head. She doesn’t look drunk in the photos. Was she high? Did she have a psychotic break? According to these e-mails, we have eyewitnesses who claim she started speaking in another language when she was asked a question and locked herself in the bathroom and refused to leave until the door was kicked in by EMS. The ambulance took her to the hospital and she was placed under a 5150 seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold. Thank God Jessica happened to spot her at Ambiance the other night and gave me all of her observations. She’s been on so many assignments with me, her observations and details were as good as if I’d done them myself.

  Maggie and Victoria are beside themselves. They know people will freak out when they wake up and read the news. Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star is one of those celebrities that is universally loved, which only means people will love her meltdown even more. I admit, as a fan, I’m dying to know what happened.

  The Life is frantically trying to construct a timeline of Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star’s activities for the past forty-eight hours and Maggie and Victoria’s e-mails are asking if anyone has a source close to her, no matter how small.

  Dear Freelancers,