Page 78 of Off Script

“Where’s your dad,hermanito?” Rafe asked.

“Probably just busy upstairs.”

Rafe’s mom gave him a worried look. “Maybe we should go up to the writers’ room. See what’s taking him so long.”

Tristan wasn’t truly worried yet, but went ahead with her suggestion because Mrs. Sanchez was the show’s designated mama bear. She always looked out for the kids when everyone else got caught up in other things. Making their way to the fifth floor, Tristan fully expected to see his father locked away with the other writers in their usual room. But tonight, the door stood wide open, the table mostly empty. Only Mr. Wright, the showrunner, had stayed behind.

“Oh, Tristan, if you’re looking for your dad, he left hours ago.”

“What?!”

“He said it was an emergency and that he’d let you know.”

“Let him know what? To take a taxi?” Mrs. Sanchez scowled with disgust. “Come on, Tristan, I’ll take you home.”

Dread kicked in, and Tristan obeyed Rafe’s mom with haste. The studio wasn’t extremely far from his house, but the drive felt painfully long. What kind of emergency was so dire that his dad hadn’t even bothered to tell him? Was he hurt? Or had something happened to his mom?

When Mrs. Sanchez pulled up to the house, the lit windows meant at least one of his parents was home. Tristan didn’t wait for her to offer to walk him inside. Mrs. Sanchez’s protectiveness was great, but whatever was going on was a private family matter. He offered her and Rafe a quick thanks and bolted into the house.

“Papa! Mama!” Tristan’s voice echoed in the loud foyer but garnered no response. Following the light trickling into the hallway, he made his way to the living room. On the couch, his dad slumped forward with his head in his hands. For a moment, Tristan worried he’d passed out but then he saw the half-empty whiskey bottle on the table. Not even a glass in sight, just the open decanter.

Cautiously, Tristan tapped his dad on the shoulder. “Papa, are you okay?”

It took a few more tries but his dad gradually came to with a groan. “Tristan, that you?” He squinted up with bleary eyes.

“Yeah, of course. Are you okay? Where’s Mama?”

“Gone, son. She’s gone.”

Horrific images flashed before Tristan’s eyes. His mom’s body battered from a car accident. Her fainting or being taken to the hospital. There were so many different ways to be “gone,” all of them horrifying.

“What do you mean?” Tristan asked, his breathing increasingly shallow.

His father waved drunkenly upstairs, nearly tipping over in the process. “Go see for yourself.”

After making sure his dad could stay propped up against the arm of the sofa, Tristan went to investigate. Did his mom pass away in her sleep? Maybe his dad was waiting for the paramedics to come while she lay pale and lifeless in bed. Nearly dizzy from a mix of hyperventilating and adrenaline, Tristan cracked open his parents’ bedroom door. Only his mom wasn’t tucked beneath the covers with a deathly pallor.

All of her belongings were gone. The picture of them she kept on her nightstand, the trinkets and knickknacks she kept on top of the dresser. A glance into their adjoining bathroom revealed that every single one of her expensive beauty products had also mysteriously disappeared. Already knowing what he’d find, Tristan made his last inspection of the closet. Half her clothes and shoes, along with the suitcase she stored there, were nowhere to be found.

“Gone” took on a whole new meaning. One, that in that moment, felt worse than death. At least death was final. You knew someone had passed on, which meant you could mourn. You knew what to mourn. But this . . .

Tristan sank down on his parents’ bed, racking his brain to figure out what he’d done wrong. What he could have possibly done to make his mom abandon them. His mind flashed back to the hurried morning before he and his dad left. His mom had been in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. Tristan’s face had lit up when he saw what was in the pan.

“You’re making Chorizo Omelet de Tristan,” he grinned. His mom’s signature omelet for him. She’d smiled back, her eyes tired and a bit sunken in. It was unusual for his mom to have bags under her eyes, but no matter how worn down she felt, she’d still made him breakfast. Before she could offer him a plate, though, his dad appeared in the doorway.

“He doesn’t have time to eat all that crap, Izzy. We’re already late.” Then he’d stormed off to the car.

At his mom’s sad look, Tristan ignored his dad and picked up a Tupperware container. “Serve it up, Mom. You know I won’t miss out on this.”

“Thank you, honey.” Smiling back, she’d hurriedly transferred the omelet from the skillet to the container. Before he dashed out to the car, she wrapped him in a tight hug and kissed the top of his head.

“Good-bye, mijo.”

If Tristan had known that this good-bye was the last one, he never would have left the house that day. He would have begged her to stay, to explain. But that had been years ago. Now that she’d come back to do just that, to offer some poor excuse, it was too late.

But the idea of staying home and dwelling on the past didn’t sit well with him anymore. Yes, he’d been left behind, all over again. But he refused to stay that way for long. Driven by his instincts, he found himself going to the one place he knew he’d find solace.

Jada’s.

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