This Story Might Save Your Life(26)
“Not yet. We were hoping one of you might know the passcode.”
Luna and Mallory both look to me. I shake my head.
“Have you pinged it?” Luna asks.
Keller nods. “It hasn’t been moved.”
“And Xander’s?” Mallory asks.
“Last cell tower it connected to was Mount Washington, but that could mean nothing if location services were turned off.”
Luna bites her lip. Mallory sinks back into her chair. I’m so lightheaded my vision begins to cloud. I search for something to ground me and settle on the potted geraniums along the edge of the patio. They’re starting to wilt, and this of all things sets me into motion. Joy wouldn’t let them die. My chair scrapes across the concrete; I stand too quickly and have to catch the table for balance.
Luna grabs my arm. “You okay?”
“The plants are dying.” I grab Joy’s watering can and fill it at the nearby spigot.
“And the car?” Luna asks as I drench the pots. “Any sightings?”
“Not a one. And that includes the seven thousand leads you sent our way.” Keller says this last part to me, then heaves a sigh. “I have to get back inside, but before you go—we haven’t found Joy’s computer yet. She didn’t happen to leave it with any of you, did she?”
I stop watering and flash my eyes at Mallory behind Keller’s back. I’m not ready to give it up just yet. She frowns, and I hold my breath, exhaling only when she shakes her head.
Joy Moore
EXCERPT FROM UNTITLED JOINT MEMOIR WITH BENNY ABBOTT
Eight Years Ago
Xander and I honeymooned in Costa Rica. For three weeks, we held hands on beaches, soaked in hot springs, and sipped wine at the base of active volcanoes. We bird-watched in the cloud forest. Hiked in the rainforest. We got caught in thunderstorms, and splashed through waterfalls, and ate gallo pinto until our stomachs burst. It was perfect, and we were perfect, and I never wanted to leave.
Back in Los Angeles, we tried to keep the magic flowing. We laced arms walking down the street. Lounged in bed long after it was time to get up. We danced in the kitchen, kissed in the laundry room, and revisited the details of our wedding ad nauseam.
But gradually, eventually, our lives took on their usual rhythm. Grocery shopping, bills, emails, doctor visits. We cleaned our house and folded our clothes. I filled my days with graphic design, and Xander read scripts. Everything returned to the way it was before our wedding.
Until, one day, Xander came home waving around a sheaf of papers.
“I found it. This is it.” His cheeks were pink, blond hair in disarray. “This is the script.”
“That’s great, honey,” I said without enthusiasm.
“I think perhaps you didn’t hear me correctly.” He waited for me to look up. “This is going to change our lives.”
“No, I did. It’s great.” I forced a grin. My computer had been glitching all day, and I was going to miss my deadline. I was frustrated, and stressed, and this wasn’t the first time he’d said this. I didn’t have the wherewithal to feign excitement for yet another life-changing script that probably wouldn’t change our lives. “I’m so happy for you.”
I wasn’t convincing enough. He visibly deflated. And so I withheld my sigh, saved my project, put my computer to sleep, and faced him. “Tell me more.”
It was a paranormal romance. “Like Ghost, only the Demi Moore character is pregnant. So imagine the pottery scene, only Demi Moore is giving birth.”
“Wow, that’s…” I searched for the right word. “… intense.”
Xander gave me a play-by-play of the entire script. I could’ve read it faster, but that was beside the point. Xander was beaming. By the time he was finished, I was, at the very least, happy that he was happy.
Wrapping my arms around his waist, I said, “What happens now?”
“Now…” He looked down at me with his deep blue eyes, smiled his perfectly imperfect smile, and said in his mellifluous voice, “We have a baby.”
I laughed. “You’re talking figuratively, right? The ghost’s baby?”
“No.” He bent down to kiss my forehead. My nose. My cheek. His lips tickled their way down to my collarbone.
“You’re not saying what I think you’re saying,” I whispered.
He kissed my neck. “What if I am?”
The room felt hot. My heart fluttered so rapidly it made me cough. “But we just got married.”
“So?”
“So, we don’t have the money.”
He grazed my jawline with his mouth. “Yet.”
“We also don’t have room.”
He kissed the groove in my upper lip. “Yet.”
“But.” I pulled back a little and pressed a hand to his chest. He was acting like the film had already won an Oscar, but I knew how these things went. He would shop the script around, get a celeb or two attached, and then spend the next few months, probably years, seeking funding. He had a revolving door of scripts in all stages of preproduction, none of which had made us any money yet. To diversify his portfolio, he’d begun making small equity investments in various brick-and-mortar businesses he’d met through local investor groups. Breweries, donut bars, cannabis-growing operations, that kind of thing. I didn’t want to be kept abreast of the nitty-gritty details, but whenever I asked how all that was going, generally speaking, he smiled and reminded me he was playing the long game. Which meant that, for the time being, my income was keeping us afloat. Which was fine. I was down for the long game. What was marriage if not a long game? Only, children were a different kind of long game. “Can’t we wait until those things aren’t a yet?”