CHAPTER 46
REID
“I haven’t seen your friend’s car out back in a while.” Mom is perched on my bed, skimming through the pages of that novel with the hot-but-sul en fictional boy who reminds me of my Wil Darcy role from School Pride—if Wil Darcy had been created in the pages of a dystopian novel. (What the hel is it about brooding guys that’s attractive to women, anyway? I’ve become one since Dori’s cal three weeks ago, and it’s made me more of a chick magnet. I shouldn’t be surprised—being a dick never hurt my appeal before.)
“That’s because she hasn’t been here.” I would wonder that Mom noted her absence, but she has a way of noticing everything, even when she seems to be in too much of a stupor to notice anything but her own feet, shuffling through the house. Her eyes seem clearer now, however, staring at me like a reflection.
“Did you two have an argument?” She asked this same question when Brooke stopped coming over, after we broke up.
I shrug. “There was no fight at al , actual y. Her parents didn’t want her seeing me, so she just gave up.” I don’t know if this is true, but it feels true. I should have known she’d submit to their wishes eventual y. Did they make her feel ashamed of spending the night with me, or just spending time with me at al ? Did they threaten to kick her out? I’ve never understood the ultimatum-delivering parent.
Part of me rises to that—I could have rented her a place if they’d fol owed through. Or hel , I could have gotten u s a place.
Wow, shit. Gotten us a place? I am gone. Over Dorcas Cantrel , a girl who convinced me in a one-minute phone cal that I meant nothing to her: I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me—you probably saved my life. But I can’t see you anymore. I’ve got too much going on right now, and I don’t know what we’re doing anyway, you and I.
It’s just… my parents need me, and it’s time I get back to my life and let you go back to yours. I’m sorry.
She’d choked back a sob then as I lay in my bed with my phone to my ear, trying to wake up and waiting for her to say something else. To take it back. She hadn’t.
After I hung up, I threw my phone across the room where it struck the wal with enough force to leave a dent in the sheetrock and crack the screen irreparably. And then I found her note next to the bed. The one with “Don’t worry” preceding her scripted D. An hour later, after I calmed down enough to form coherent thoughts, I dug the crumpled note out of the trash, smoothed it out on the desk and read it through fifty times, trying to make sense of the combination of her spoken and written words— absolute antitheses of each other.
“Hmm,” Mom says, going back to reading.
“What?”
She angles one eyebrow, but doesn’t lift her eyes from the book. “Maybe you gave up too easily.” I laugh. Right. If only it was that simple.
She checks her watch, slides off the bed, and walks over
—steadily—to ruffle my hair. “I have a meeting to get to. We can talk later, if you want?” Newly manicured fingers under my chin, she tilts my face up, and I notice her eyes are clearer. She’s trying to stop drinking again. I don’t want to ask. Don’t want to jinx it.
I stomp down the burst of hope in my chest, nod into her hand. “Sure, Mom.”
***
“Wil there be anything else, Mr. Alexander?” The rep delivering my new Ferrari FF is smokin’ hot and practical y purrs this question. She’s taken every opportunity to brush against me or lean in such a way that I can see right down her silky top, the top three pearled buttons unfastened.
We’ve gone over every spec and completed a thorough inspection to ensure that not a single surface scratch mars the metal ic pewter gray paint or the pale gray leather interior. No further reason to keep her here unless I want to do her on the hood (total y possible—this girl is not in the running for a subtlety award).
In my head is John’s voice— Why the hell not?
My newly enlightened thought processes, that’s why not.
Such as wondering what she sees in me, aside from a young, rich celebrity. None of that counted worth a shit to Dori. I don’t know what did count to Dori. I don’t know what changed between the day I met her—when she couldn’t wait to be rid of me, to the kiss in the closet, to the night out before Vancouver and Quito, to the moment she agreed to defy her parents and hang out with me several nights a week. What happened to make that last night together possible?
“Thanks, I’m good,” I tel her, and she huffs a disappointed sigh. No doubt she’l report to everyone she knows that I’m definitely gay. I don’t give a shit.
“I’l just, uh, cal for a car to pick me up then.” She gives me a pouty glare while I’m wondering why she didn’t just ride back with the delivery truck.
“No problem, I’l drop you off. We can test the zero to sixty in what was it—3.7 seconds? This baby needs a little breaking in before I park it in the garage.” She perks up for a moment, until she figures out I’m actual y interested in the car, and only the car.
My sunglasses are almost unnecessary with the darkest legal tint possible on the windows. Though I hit sixty before the end of my street, I’l have to wait for a deserted highway to test the highest recorded speed of 200 plus. Within minutes, we’re on Santa Monica and turning onto Wilshire.
“If you’re sure there’s nothing else you need—” she begins, leaning towards me al surplus cleavage and lacy bra when I pul up in front of the showroom window. I’m ready to shove her out the door because yeah sure, I can’t help wanting some of that when it’s tossed onto a platter and served hot. Why. The. Hell. Not? the John voice says.
“Nope, nothing.” When you final y figure out what you real y want, everything else pales in comparison. I never got that before. I get it now. “Thanks, uh…”
“Victoria.” She bestows a tight smile and hands me her card.
“Yeah. Thanks.” As I shove the card into my wal et, it sticks on a scrap of paper amongst the receipts and cash
—Frank’s cel number, scrawled on the back of an IN-N-OUT receipt. I haven’t talked to Frank since August—my last day at the Diego house. Maybe I should check in.
*** *** ***
Dori
Three days until Christmas. Four weeks until school begins.
Talking to Nick helped me realize that part of my absentmindedness can be attributed to the fact that I have nothing mental on which to focus. I began regarding school as something to ground me, rather than something too chal enging to handle. I saw an advisor, registered for classes, and got very lucky on a vacated dorm room, al within the past two weeks.
I’m dumping pasta into the colander when Mom comes home from visiting Deb. “Dinner on the table in ten minutes,” I tel her, turning to stir the sauce.
When she doesn’t reply, I glance back and she’s dropped into a chair at the table with a bewildered look. My stomach drops at her expression. I should have gone with stomach drops at her expression. I should have gone with her this afternoon instead of evading her let’s-pretend-Deb-responds display by spending hours in the kitchen making a from-scratch sauce that could have just as easily come from a jar.
“Mom? Is something wrong?”
“No.” She’s stil frowning, but she looks perplexed, not distraught. “They needed my approval to move Deb to a different room.”
“What? Why?”
She shakes her head slowly. “Someone set up a trust to pay for a private room.”
“That’s—that’s great. Who?”
Her head is stil moving placidly side-to-side. “They have no idea beyond the law firm that administers the trust. I could cal them tomorrow… but wouldn’t that be looking a gift horse in the mouth? This is a miracle…” And just like that, Mom’s crying, Esther is resting her head on Mom’s knee and whining, and Dad is bul eting out of his study in a panic.
“Maybe it’s someone from church?” I offer, while my brain suggests Reid?
“What’s someone from church?” Dad says, moving to Mom’s side.
They discuss the likelihood of anyone putting that kind of money out for Deb while I turn back to the bubbling sauce, reducing the heat and stirring. If Reid had anything to do with it, his attorney father would set it up, right? Easy enough to check. “What’s the name of the law firm?” Mom shrugs. “I don't know. I was so shocked, I forgot to ask.”
***
I’m ashamed to admit that this is the first time I’ve visited Deb without Mom or Dad. At the same time, I was relieved when Nick agreed to come with me. He says hel o to my sister, sticks around long enough to make sure I’m not going to freak out, and then tel s me he’l be in the lobby chatting up the receptionist if I need him.
I grin at his shy smirk. “Her name is Sophie, and she likes cats and historical memoirs.”
He taps his lip with one finger. “Cats, huh? I think I could work with that.” Squeezing my hand, he says, “Text if you need me.”
I glance at Deb, tel ing Nick, “Go talk to Sophie. We’re good.”
I haven’t been alone with my sister since we moved her to LA. Before we came in, the nurse told me, “She’s just finished lunch fol owed by a couple hours in the sun room, so you two can just spend time talking in her room if you’d like.”
Talking. Right.
I strol around the room, straightening things, until there’s nothing left to rearrange, and then I perch on the upholstered chair in the corner. Deb’s new room is located on the second floor, and has a window shaded by tal oaks, overlooking the landscaped commons area— home to a native flower garden, slate pathways, and smooth, worn wooden benches. Several residents sit with guests or wander the trails admiring the winter blossoms, flanked by aides. Deb sits in her chair, staring out the window, her eyes fol owing nothing.
In my pocket is a slip of paper the office manager just gave me citing the law firm administering the trust paying for Deb’s new room. It’s incredibly upgraded—not just in privacy, but in understated touches like the chair and the south-facing window, the better-quality bedding and furniture, the patterned rug underfoot. When I get home, I’l explore the law firm’s website and look for clues to the anonymous benefactor. For now, I’m here with Deb, alone in the mute space between us, missing her laughter and her listening ear.
“Hey Deb,” I say, my voice just above a whisper but crashing like waves into the silence. She doesn’t stir, of course. “I like your new room.” Out her window, clouds move in streams across the leaden sky, lazy and slow. It never gets frigid in LA, but winter is stil chil y. “Next time I come, I’l bring a heavier sweater and we’l check out the garden.” Staring at her, I wonder if it’s possible that she can hear me, even if she can’t respond.
I clear my throat. “I’m going to find out who your secret admirer is, too.” I remember giving Bradford the box of clothes and the ivy plant, and I can’t speak around what feels like a fist in my throat. I’ve discarded the notion that the room is from him. He’s too immersed in medical school debt to do anything so extravagant. He checks in with Mom now and then, but the frequency is fal ing off. Bradford is moving on with his life, because he can.
“I decided to go ahead and start at Berkeley next month.” I glance at my watch. “But I’l be around for a few more weeks, and I’l visit on long weekends and breaks.” I’ve only been here eleven minutes. How does my mother stay here, chattering to herself, basical y, for an hour or more at a time?
“I’m starting a new Habitat project in a couple of weeks.
Roberta’s the crew leader on this one. I’m cal ing her tonight, to get details. I’l tel you about it next time.” I adjust her chair so she can see out the window without catching any glare should the sun emerge. I don’t know what she sees, or if she can perceive or mental y process what she sees. Kissing her forehead, I squeeze her limp hand. “I’l be back soon. I love you.”
Using the cal button, I let the nursing staff know I’m leaving and walk down the hal way. Not until I reach the stairwel do my eyes wel up with tears. I breathe in and out, concentrating on keeping control, and I congratulate myself for visiting my sister, alone, for twelve whole minutes.