The Truths Behind the Life of Maeve Sun Lively

5

WE'RE PICKING UP OUR LUGGAGES in a private baggage carousel only for the first class, which I am very thankful for because the more attention there is the more I'm going to feel sick. And adding on to the fact that I no longer look good after that long and exhausting plane ride with my barfing, I'm a disaster. On the other hand though, Rosalie remains beautiful and she looks like she just came out of a spa salon, her skin glowing along with her glamorous smile that I've now learned she puts on only for the public. Which does not include me.

There weren't many others seated in first class with us. Now, as we wait for our luggages to come, a few others wait with us. Most of them look like important people, but some look just like me, ordinary and plain, civilians. But none of them cast Rosalie and I any attention, they focus solemnly on their own business which I'm pretty glad for.

When I see my suitcase, I quickly go get it. And then a few minutes later, Rosalie's suitcase shows up.

"Okay, let's go now." I'm already walking off when Rosalie stops me.

"There's one more."

I frown at her but I don't ask, since I know she'll probably just ignore me.

A big cardboard box with protection foam taped all over it rolls over on the baggage carousel and I see Rosalie going to go get it.

Without asking, I go and get a cart to put the big box on.

When we're walking again, I finally ask her.

"What is that? I don't remember this box when we were checking our luggages in together."

She smiles at me, and it's a lopsided smile, which for some reason makes her still look good. "It's Maeve's life story, all of it.

"What?" I frown so hard I think it might set wrinkles.

She laughs at my reaction, but then she only says; "You'll know soon enough."

I'M ASTONISHED BY THE view of Beijing. Tall buildings, apartments, and impressive work of technology. Except the air quality isn't exactly one you can compare to back in Los Angeles, that's what I'll say.

A self-driving van awaits us in a quiet parking lot. Not a lot of people are here and Rosalie, which I now notice, has tucked her auburn hair into her Yankees hat instead of letting it down. Not a lot of people notice her now, which thankfully means no more paparazzis and flashing cameras.

Rosalie, on her phone, sets in our destination and connects it to the van when we get in. Fifteen minutes into the drive, she finally says something.

"Do you have everything ready? Laptop, notebook, all that preparation to write the story?"

I nod. "So, are you going to tell her story to me?"

She laughs and it annoys me, how she laughs at some of my questions when I don't see what's funny in it at all.

"I'm serious, Rosalie." I look her dead in the eye.

"Sorry," she still laughs. "Except the fact that you think I'll tell you her story is just funny, that's all."

"Well what am I supposed to think? She's dead I mean, the dead can't talk."

"Hey, never doubt the dead." She goes back to scrolling through her phone.

After a few minutes she says, "We're going to Maeve's penthouse. She wanted the story told specifically there."

"Why?"

"Because."

I wait for her to continue but she never does, so I don't ask at all. I think I'm starting to realize that's how it worked with Rosalie. And maybe even Maeve too, even though I never knew her in person. They say what they want to say, and when you ask them questions, they only answer you when they want to. And they either say as little or as much as they are willing to give. No matter how hard you push, they'll only say what they want to say, and it's never enough for you to fully understand everything.