I remember feeling relieved to get home before Nathan arrived so I could pee and brush my teeth. Then the rush of shame when I saw Jordan with that huge bouquet of flowers. I remember thinking red roses were an odd choice for an offering of friendship, and that maybe that was all they had? But then I took them from him, and he fell to one knee, and the trickle of shame became a tidal wave as I realized I had betrayed him in the worst possible way.
After sending Nathan away, I remember the minutes feeling like hours as I waited for Jordan to come home, because even though I didn’t want to marry him, he was still my best friend. And when you hurt your best friend, even by accident, you have to do anything and everything to try to make things right.
Lying in bed that night, feeling equal parts elated and horrified, I reminded myself that things happen for a reason. But, as I was about to find out, not always for the reason that we think.
CHAPTER 51
* * *
LOUISA
My alarm was set for 6:00 a.m., but I woke up two minutes before it went off. I had an uncanny ability to do that, always have. I only had four days until the real Silvia Hernandez would reappear and let the cat out of the bag, so there was not a minute to waste.
I got out of bed and went through my checklist. The will was revised and notarized. Fake Silvia’s message was edited and ready. The funeral home was on notice. My plot was chosen and paid for. The cellar was stocked with food and clean sheets and towels. I’d even tidied the house for my upcoming visitors, because I had pride and wanted them to know that even though they’d abandoned me, I still kept it all together.
I felt remarkably perky for a dead woman. Must have been the thrill of my long-gestating project finally going into production. There’s no better feeling than seeing the thing you’ve been working on for weeks or months （or in this case, years!） finally taking flight. It’s what I missed most about my job: the satisfaction of watching your hard work finally pay off. It always gave me a natural high, even better than the champagne we kept on hand to toast our successes.
I made my bed, then showered and dressed and put the kettle on for tea. I would have one last cup before I settled into my bunker to watch the show. The tea was not just for pleasure—it was also a prop. I drank about half the cup, then set it by my chair in the study, next to my book and my favorite afghan, as if I’d died in that chair. Because that’s what fake Silvia （played over texts by me） was going to text Nathan, and I wanted it to be credible.
It was almost seven now. I had to time this just right. I couldn’t risk Nathan being awake when I phoned, but I also didn’t want it to be so early that he could beat traffic and catch me in the act of not dying. If I didn’t do it today, because of my treatment schedule, I’d have to delay it for a whole week. So I waited until a few minutes before seven, then dialed his number. And voilà! It went straight to voice mail.
“This is Nathan Lake. I’m sorry I missed your call, but if you leave me a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
People often asked me if I used to be an actress. I was certainly pretty enough. And I knew what it took （ingenuity, tenacity, hard-earned connections）， and I had all those things in spades. But I also had mouths to feed. An actor’s life is grueling. It requires sacrifice and late nights and long days running to auditions. Actors just starting out either have to take a low-paying day job or have a trust fund. My husband was a cabinetmaker. We couldn’t have raised a family in LA on what he was making. One of us needed a real job. And while I might have eventually broken through （and I believe I would have）， without a way to support my family, I never got the chance to try.
So instead of acting, I devoted my life to discovering actors. I scoured the town to pluck young talent out of obscurity, then put my reputation on the line to turn them into stars. I can’t tell you how many of my discoveries grew into household names, but there were more than you could count on one hand. And once they got what they wanted, they never called again. Never said thank you. Never asked what they could do for me. Just like my children.
While these discoveries of mine were buying their directors and agents new cars, I got nothing. Except the opportunity to do likewise for the other ingrates in my life. I gave and gave. And then I got sick. And no one gave back.
So at the sound of the beep, I played fake Silvia’s message. I am very sorry . . . Tu tía está muerta. Your aunt is dead. I had been pushed aside long enough. This was my show, and it was my turn to be the star. I was going to go through with this if it was the last thing I did. Which it turns out it was. Because sometimes the ending is not what’s in the script, and the characters have secrets even the writer doesn’t know.