2
REID
‘Stay.’ I roll Dori beneath me and pin one wrist above her head, kissing her deeply so she can’t tell me no right away – though I know she will. Which makes how ticked off I feel when she does that exact thing a bit unreasonable.
‘Reid,’ she groans into my mouth, ‘you know I can’t stay.’
I stare into her very dark eyes, the frustration leaping into my throat, ready to do battle. ‘You’re not a child, Dori. You’re almost nineteen. So yes, you can.’
I release her wrist and she raises her hand to my face, pushes her fingers into my hair, curls them against my scalp.
‘I’ll tell them. I will. Don’t you trust me?’
Of course then my temper goes and f*cks everything up.
‘No, actually. I don’t. Because you’re leaving for Berkeley next week. And because the last time I trusted you about your parents and us, you bailed on me.’
Her hand falls away and the faintest crease appears between her brows. ‘This isn’t like last time.’
I roll off her and on to my back, because I want to believe her, but right there in the back of my mind – and none too far back, either – is the fact that I recently spent one of the most miserable months of my life thinking I’d never see her again. I’m not willing to accept that again. ‘Right,’ I say.
And yeah, it does occur to me that being an asshat isn’t the best way to get what I want with her. Realistically, nothing with Dori fits the mould of what usually works for me with the rest of the world – one of the things I love about her – but I can’t think logically when I’m this pissed off.
She slides from the bed and straightens her clothes, which are gratifyingly askew from our interrupted make-out session. Damn my temper to hell, too, because she would stay at least another half-hour, which I’m blowing by acting like a clingy chick. That thought sparks another round of useless anger. I can’t seem to make it stop.
‘It’s late. I’m going to go,’ she says then, standing next to the bed while I stare at the ceiling.
My new more-perceptive alter ego is pleading with me to just let it go already, but the arrogant prick inside is sulking. I’m not wrong. She is. She knows it too – that’s why she sounds like she’s crying when she turns and leaves.
Ah, f*ck.
Ten minutes later, I’m calmer and admitting to myself that I’m a self-absorbed dumbass. I call her but she doesn’t pick up, and I hang up when the call goes to voicemail. Fantasizing about confronting her parents and getting this all out in the open – just getting in my car and following her home – I can’t help but chuckle. The way she drives, I’d beat her there, even with her ten-minute head start.
After grabbing a snack from the kitchen, I screw around on the internet, effectively wasting at least forty-five minutes, and then try her again. Voicemail number two – click. I answer an email from George and check out my fan page, where John appears to be correct about the amount of girls who’d chop off a limb to go out with me even once. But none of them know me. I’m just a pretty face, a hot body, a fantasy stand-in, and though I appreciate their support, such as it is, I couldn’t care less about the shallow praise.
Listening to Dori’s cheerful, musical voice telling me to leave a message for the third time, I hang my head and wait for the beep, one hand gripping the phone and the other gripping the back of my neck as if I could shake some sense into myself.
‘Dori, I’m sorry. I told you we’d go at your pace, and I broke that promise. Just … I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone. Maybe that’s not saying much – or enough – but I do.’
My jaw clenches. What I mean by trust and what she means by it are two different things. We’re quite a pair, trying to find the middle ground between our temperaments, our beliefs, our lives. While she tries to repair her broken faith in everything, I’m stumbling over learning to trust at all.
‘Don’t give up on me.’ I press end and lie back in the middle of my bed, wishing I could just learn to shut the f*ck up when I’m that pissed off.
Barely resisting the urge to pitch the phone across the room, I focus and count silently. My therapist (another novelty) is adamant about using the focus-and-count thing to uncoil my temper instead of acting on impulse. He insists it’s a habit that requires persistence. It works sporadically, at best – especially when I forget to use it. Like when Dori was lying next to me minutes ago. Dammit.
When the phone rings, relief floods through me. ‘Hey.’
‘I have some news. Are you alone?’
It takes me a second to catch up. Familiar voice, not Dori. ‘Brooke?’
She sighs heavily. ‘Don’t you ever look to see who’s calling before answering? Are you alone or not?’
I close my eyes and restart the mute therapeutic counting. So not working.
‘I’m alone.’ Teeth clamped, I wait for her to say whatever she’s going to say. I’m not in the mood for Brooke Cameron. A reserve of composure is essential to my ability to tolerate her, and at the moment I’m all tapped out.
‘My PI found him.’
Him?
Oh, shit. The kid.
‘That was fast.’
‘Yeah. We need to talk. Can you come over?’
Brooke has always put the high in high maintenance. I swallow a retort – my theory on the real reason phones were invented – namely, the avoidance of in-person meetings with people we don’t want to see. Ten to one Alexander Graham Bell had a problematic ex or an overbearing mother-in-law.
‘When?’
‘Now?’
I glance at my watch. ‘Brooke, I’m tired.’ More importantly, I’m hoping Dori will call me back any minute. ‘Can’t you just tell me whatever it is over the phone?’ I’m not used to us speaking amicably – or as amicably as Brooke and I are capable of. That’s bizarre in itself.
‘Well, shit, Reid. Never mind, then.’ I hear the drawl creeping into her words and know that despite efforts to avoid setting her off, I have anyway.
‘Don’t be that way.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ She huffs out a breath. ‘This is important and you’re blowing me off. I should have expected as much. Are you really alone or just saying you are?’
I shove a hand through my hair and close my eyes. There’s not enough focus-and-count in the world to deal with Brooke Cameron. ‘Why would I lie about that?’
‘Why won’t you answer the question?’
‘Because I already did answer it, goddammit.’
When she doesn’t snap back right away, I get my first clue that something has her pretty freaked out.
‘Fine. Here it is.’ Her voice sounds off – now that she’s speaking more quietly, and I realize she’s been crying. What the hell? Is there something in the air today? ‘He’s in foster care.’
‘What?’ I sit up, the gears in my brain catching and stalling.
‘Apparently, the people I chose to give him to transformed into shit-for-brains tweaker meth-addict losers and CPS removed him.’
‘What?’
‘Quit saying that! Don’t you have anything else to say?’
‘Well no, actually. Give me a minute, Jesus, I mean – CPS? As in child whatever – the people who take kids away from parents when they’re being abused?’
I imagine the exaggerated eye-roll I thankfully can’t see.
‘Yes, Reid. That’s what I mean.’
My life flashes before my eyes – what’s left of it. Because it hits me right then that I’ve not told Dori about this yet. Not any of it. There hasn’t been an appropriate time in the past week to bring up the fact that Brooke and I had a son four and a half years ago. A son I’d denied was mine to Brooke’s face and in my own head until a few weeks ago. A son she gave up for adoption right after she had him.
With what happened to Dori in high school, this wasn’t a piece of my past I could disclose offhandedly, and I’ve never been the king of insightful situation management. Not to mention the fact that I’ve never told a living soul about this. Not John, not my parents, no one.
‘God-f*cking-dammit.’
‘Yeah,’ Brooke says. She has no idea.
Into the silence of our mutual shock, my phone beeps, and this time, I check the display. Dori is calling me back. ‘Look, I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Fine.’ Brooke hangs up, and I flash over, shelving our conversation for later.
‘Dori, I’m sorry –’
‘I’m telling them tomorrow, first thing. Please try to understand – this is difficult for them, especially after Deb’s accident. It’s not about you, really. They don’t know you. They’re only afraid I’ll be hurt, and that’s all this response is based on.’ She blurts her words like a practised speech, defensive and placating. ‘They may … want to talk to you.’
Parents who want to talk to me. Huh. And I’m not only considering it, I’m determined to do it. This is the stuff of alternate universes.
‘I’m not going to hurt you, Dori,’ I say, meaning it. ‘And I shouldn’t have pushed you to tell them,’ I add, half-meaning it.
‘Yes, you should have. I haven’t kept my promise to you, either. I told you I would never be ashamed of you – and I’m not, Reid – but this must have seemed that way to you. I’m sorry.’
I hadn’t realized until the moment she verbalizes it that this was exactly how it felt to me. She can hurt me in places I didn’t know I was vulnerable, soothe aches I didn’t know existed. How does she manage this sort of empathy?
‘I wish you were here right now,’ I say, unable to concentrate on anything but the need to pull her under me and shut the entire world out.
‘I was just there, you know,’ she retorts.
Smartass. God, I want her.
‘Yeah, I know. Jesus, I’m a fu– uh, idiot.’
Her hoarse little laugh at my interrupted curse yanks at my heart.
‘What if I sneak over to your house and climb into your bedroom window?’
Laughing again, she says, ‘You can’t sneak anywhere in that car – certainly not in my neighbourhood. And there’s no tree or trellis for you to climb to my second-storey window …’
I chuckle softly. ‘But you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?’
Her exhalation sounds like a smile. ‘Yeah.’
‘Want me to tell you what I’d do, if your dad had been more obliging and installed a trellis or planted a tree just under your window?’
‘Maybe,’ she says softly, and I imagine her sucking that fat lower lip into her mouth.
‘Maybe?’
‘Okay. Yes. Tell me.’
This is the thing about her – this, right here. She doesn’t play coy. That’s why the thought of her pushing me away is unacceptable. It wouldn’t be a play for attention like it always was with Brooke. Goodbye is goodbye to Dori, and I won’t let that happen.
‘Close your eyes and imagine those perfectly situated branches, right outside your window.’
‘Um, okay.’
I lie back, relaxing, breathing in the subtle trace of her still on my pillows. ‘You’ll leave your window open – the one the fish are swimming towards. It’ll be late, and try as you might, you can’t stay awake waiting for me. I’ll slip quietly across the room in the dark, following bars of moonlight to your bed.’ I entertain the thought of her, curled up under the covers, and my fingers twist a knot into the unmade bedding beneath me. ‘What do you wear to sleep?’
‘Just a T-shirt,’ she whispers.
Air hisses through my teeth and I take a slow breath while my body riots. For the first time in my life, I’m hoping the new will wear off soon – just a bit, at least – because whenever I think of touching her and how she responds when I do, I can’t think of anything else.
‘I’ll pull my shirt off before peeling back your covers. Run my fingertips over you, carefully. Wake you so, so, slowly.’ Every nerve in my body is wide awake. ‘What will you do then?’
Her voice is so quiet that I strain to hear her. ‘Reach for you. Take your hand and pull you into my bed.’
The hot-factor of this conversation just vaulted up several notches. ‘Ah, I like the sound of that … but I’m still wearing my jeans, and you’re wearing that shirt …’ I wonder if she’s brave enough yet to continue this sort of game, though six months ago I would have had to be high to think she’d ever do this. Or that I’d end up wanting a committed relationship with her.
After last weekend, all bets are off on what either of us is capable of.
‘Are you – are you wearing the ones with the button-fly?’ Breathy and soft, her words are like a caress.
‘If that’s what you want, then yes.’
‘Then … um … I’ll unbutton your jeans …’ Her voice husky and sweet, she hesitates, and I picture the blush spreading across her face.
‘You’ll shove them down with your foot, grazing my leg as you go …’ I say, helping her out ‘… while my hands are sliding under that T-shirt.’
‘Oh?’ She sounds almost breathless, and I’m completely turned on.
‘Your MADD T-shirt,’ I qualify, pausing when she laughs. ‘It’s a little threadbare, you know. I’ll stroke your breasts with my fingertips … and then lean down and taste you right through that thin red knit.’
‘Ah …’ she breathes.
‘One hand will drift down, over your ribcage, across your hip, nothing between us … what then?’
Damn if she’s not panting. So am I.
‘Are you … are you wearing boxers, or briefs?’
I smile. ‘In the interest of fairness, let’s say no.’
‘Oh, fudge.’
I repress a laugh.
‘Um … what about …?’
I chuckle softly. ‘Dori, Dori – so responsible, even in the middle of our little fantasy. I’ll bring a whole strip of them. You’re protected. Now what?’
‘Reid … I want you.’ Her voice is pure frustration, and I love it.
My groan echoes her longing. ‘Baby, let me give your gifted little fingers a few suggestions to follow while I tell you the many, many ways I want you …’
BROOKE
Despite the fact that Reid had nothing useful to say, it helps to have someone to talk to about this. About him. Who better than his sperm donor?
I may have to stop referring to Reid like that, assuming he means to be a part of this, which isn’t a given. I can’t imagine him stepping up and admitting to anyone that he’s the father of this kid. Not really.
Earlier tonight, I learned my son’s name. River. Identical to the up-and-coming young actor who powerballed his way to a flatline on the sidewalk outside an LA club. A promising life cut short – by drugs, no less. Fabulous.
Bethany Shank brought an eight-by-ten print of the photo I’d been longing to get my hands on, rather than sending me a jpeg. I fully believe she just wanted to witness my reaction. That flagrant intrusion wasn’t a point in her favour with me. When she slid the photo across the glass tabletop in my kitchen, I stared, but couldn’t touch it. My first thought was No. This can’t be him. Hours later, that kneejerk reaction hasn’t changed, even though I know it’s wrong.
Staring at his likeness again now, alone, I don’t have to worry about my visible reaction. I can study every detail of him. He squats just inside a cyclone fence marred by patchy streaks of rust. There’s a stick in his hand, held like a tool, not a weapon – used, I think, to dig or draw in the dirt. In the background there are a couple of other children, a few pieces of ancient playground equipment, and a mousy middle-aged woman talking on a cell phone.
Compared to my stepbrother, who’s a few months older, this child looks slight. Undersized. His clothes are mismatched and his face is dirty, as are his small hands. His hair is shorn so close to his scalp that I can barely make out the colour – though given his DNA, it must be blond. Light brows endorse that guesstimate. His nearly bare head makes him look even more vulnerable than his size.
When I was young, I hid behind my hair. Tilting my chin forward, I watched the world slide by between the pale strands, pretending indifference to the resentful body language of my increasingly miserable parents and their half-heartedly cryptic conversations, so easily decoded. I anticipated their end before they saw it, and made plans to go with my father when they finally split.
But I was missing a few crucial pieces of the puzzle, and stupidly, so was my mother. Neither of us predicted that other woman – the soon-to-be third wife. The son she would give my father, beginning his third tiny empire, negating the second. Negating me.
Now, from the static image in my hand, River stares straight into my eyes as though he knows a high-powered zoom lens is trained on him. As though he knows I am on the other side of it. His eyes aren’t the ice blue I share with my father. They’re Reid’s deep blue. Dark, like the sky at dusk in that split second after the sun disappears for the day. His mouth, too, is Reid’s. His button nose is mine.
What an unfair trick God decided to play on me. This dirty, scrawny, ill-clothed child is mine, and the vision I’ve carried of the life I gave him – when I’ve thought of him at all – was a lie. I thought he’d be cared for. Wanted. Loved.
Sitting across from Bethany Shank four hours ago, I refused to cry no matter how my eyes stung. ‘I want to see him.’ I heard the words I said aloud, followed by her intake of breath. She was no more shocked at me than I was at myself.
‘Well, let’s not make emotional dec–’
‘I. Want. To. See. Him,’ I said, my sub-zero gaze freezing her in place. ‘Find out what we need to do to make that happen.’
She cleared her throat and smiled blandly. ‘Arranging meetings is not a function of my investigative services, Ms Cameron.’
A good decade older than me, Ms Shank is yet another woman who wrongly imagined me to be a vaporous young Hollywood plaything. I tend to allow the world to think I’m spoiled and gullible. Not only is it mildly amusing most of the time, it makes for satisfying expressions of shock on the opposite side of the table during contract negotiations. Behind closed conference-room doors, I am my father’s daughter. My agent and manager know this. A handful of studio execs know this too.
I cocked an eyebrow. ‘I suggest you make it part of your services, Ms Shank.’
She drew herself up in the chair, her mouth falling open slightly.
Leaning forward, I fixed her with a concentrated stare. ‘You’re an investigator. I’m asking you to investigate. Are you concerned about further compensation? Do you require an advance of some sort? I was assured you were the best in the business. I would hate to have to report otherwise to potential clientele.’
Her face took on the mottled appearance of someone newly disabused of unjustified superiority. Ten minutes later, she left my apartment after assuring me that she would be in touch tomorrow with more information.
Once she took off, I fell on to the sofa and dredged up memories I’d never intended to exhume.
I went to live with my stepmother in Texas for the six months it took to get from the blue stick to the birth. My parents were irate and disbelieving when I refused to get an abortion, as though I was staging a rebellion for the sake of extra attention.
‘What do you want, Brooke?’ My mother threw her shoes across the room – yet I was the one being accused of throwing tantrums. ‘Whatever you’re trying to prove, it’ll backfire. This will ruin your life. Ruin it.’ A beat of silence followed, the dots connected with little effort.
I didn’t say Like I ruined yours? Too easy. I’d long since learned not to offer up my vulnerabilities like a senseless sacrifice.
‘I don’t want to keep it,’ I sneered. ‘I’m not stupid.’
Her eyes narrowed. She was as proficient at reading the antipathy threaded through our words as I was. ‘Where are you planning to live as a single, pregnant teenager? Because you’re not living here in my house.’
She’d intended to deliver a jarring dose of reality, and I felt it, along with the sting of threatened consequences. I was more scared than I let on, but that was nothing new.
Lifting my chin, I said, ‘I’m staying with Kathryn.’
I hadn’t talked to Kathryn yet, hadn’t thought my mother would go this far.
Nothing drained the colour from my mother’s face faster than a reminder of my relationship with my stepmother, the woman my father ditched when my mother got herself pregnant with me. She’d begged him to leave his wife and two daughters, and he had.
He fulfilled his visitation duties to Kelley and Kylie – but elsewhere. His other daughters never came to our house, so my father’s previous family skated on my peripheral awareness for the first few years of my life, not quite real. I was too young to comprehend that my mother was a home-wrecking twat until kindergarten.
Kelley, then eleven or twelve, won a statewide writing award, and Kathryn insisted that her father – my father – attend the ceremony to show how proud he was of her. My parents fought bitterly over this atypical plea from his ex. Moving from room to room, my mother proclaimed her rights as his current wife while his guilt – heavy and sticky as only overdue remorse can be – compelled him to dismiss her demands.
In the end, all three of us attended a programme that had nothing to do with my mother or me. Mom took me to her salon that morning and we had our hair and nails done, as though we were attending a gala event. At the mall, she chose coordinating outfits for the two of us, giggling into the dressing-room mirror that we’d look like sisters instead of mother and daughter.
My father and his ex-wife sat next to each other, more congenial than my parents were with each other. We sat in a tense row, a phoney testament to post-divorce cooperation: me, Mom, Dad, Kathryn and Kylie, who leaned up to give me dirty looks until her mother leaned down and said something that made her face go scarlet.
The final straw, I think, was my father’s exuberance when Kelley’s name was called and she crossed the stage. Sticking his fingers in the sides of his mouth, he whistled as he did on the soccer field when I hijacked the ball from an opponent or kicked a goal. I hadn’t known he could feel that way about anyone but me.
‘Kenneth,’ Mom hissed, yanking his arm down.
They began to argue, first in softly spat words and heated scowls, and then louder until my father gripped her by the elbow and steered her into the aisle and out of the auditorium. Kylie’s wide eyes told me that she wasn’t used to witnessing the sorts of outbursts that were commonplace to me. Kathryn worried her lip, glancing back towards the exit three times as the programme came to a close and my parents had not returned.
Kelley appeared at the end of the row with a wooden plaque in her hands, her name and accomplishment carved into the brass plate affixed to the front. ‘Look, Mama, they spelled my name right! Where’s Daddy? Can we get milkshakes now?’
Kathryn glanced at me, the two empty seats between us, and the aisle where neither of my parents was visible. ‘I’m not sure where your father is … but we can’t leave Brooke here alone …’
Kelley and Kylie stared at me and I stared back. Their clear blue eyes were the same colour as mine. The same as my father’s eyes. Our father’s eyes. For the first time, I realized I had sisters. Kylie glared, out of her mother’s sight.
I had sisters, and they hated me.
‘Let’s just bring her!’ Kelley said, shrugging.
Thus began my odd relationship with my father’s former family.
Eleven years later, it was Kathryn I begged for help. It was Kathryn who took me in, hired an attorney to oversee the adoption, and helped me leaf through scrapbooks made by prospective adoptive parents – all white teeth, spotless homes and financial portfolios, and promises of a future full of love for some lucky infant.
I chose wrong, didn’t I? I couldn’t have chosen more wrong.
Refusing to read up on post-pregnancy, I didn’t know what to expect after he was born. Kathryn tried to warn me about the possible physical and psychological side effects, but I ignored her warnings, insisting that my personal trainer and I would deal with the physical issues, and as for the so-called mental distress – I wouldn’t miss a baby I didn’t want, because that would be crazy.
After I signed the forms the next day, my attorney and the social worker left with the baby. I lay in the birth-centre bed, my hands kneading my sore, once-flat stomach like bread dough, feigning indifference to what that new emptiness signified. I hadn’t wanted to see or hold him, but I’d grown accustomed to him moving around inside me. Only a week before, I’d seen the shape of a foot pressing out just under my ribcage, plain as day. Fascinated and horrified, I’d poked at it with my finger and it had pressed back.
Tears stung my eyes and tracked down my face, and I gave myself that one time to cry over the loss of a child who would be better off without me, along with the cold-hearted boy I was better off without. Staring at the unused rocking chair in the corner of the homey little room, I swore I would leave that place and put it all behind me. I would go live my life and establish my brilliant career. I would forget all of it, starting the moment I stepped out of the hospital.
Two days later, my breasts were swollen and leaking. The doctor had mentioned this probability, but I didn’t count on the reality of it. My stupid body assumed it had a baby to feed. Or a dozen babies, from the looks of things.
‘What the hell?’ I wailed to Kathryn. ‘What the hell is this?’ I felt like someone had shoved soccer balls beneath the too-stretched skin of my once-perfect breasts.
‘Honey, your body doesn’t know you don’t have him.’
I sputtered with indignation. ‘This is disgusting! Make it stop!’ My nipples dripped painfully, soaking my T-shirt, and I sat on the floor and cried, all previous strength vanishing under hormonal shifts I couldn’t bring under control. My body was betraying me.
Kathryn called the doctor, who refused to prescribe anything but painkillers, which I refused to take. For three weeks, we bound my comic-book giant boobs, and Kathryn gave me packages of frozen veggies to hold against them while I watched television and read scripts.
Observing this, Kylie, home for the weekend, suggested I think of it as a bizarre sports injury. ‘Basically, your tits are on injured reserve,’ she said, and we laughed hysterically as Kathryn just shook her head at us and brought me two new bags of frozen peas.
‘I will never be able to look at peas the same way,’ she observed, pressing the cold bags to my chest and carrying the thawed, squishy bags to the trash.
Kathryn. She’s who I need now. Without another thought, I grab my phone.
‘Brooke, how are you, honey?’ Just those words from her and I’m bawling. Dammit. ‘I’m here,’ she says, waiting while I give up the search for a box of tissues and use a decorative hand towel to soak up the spontaneous tears and stop up my runny nose. Good thing I wasn’t planning on going out tonight.
‘I found him, Kathryn. I found him, and I think maybe … he needs me.’
‘Slow down, Brooke. You found who?’
I sniffle into the phone, unprepared to speak just yet.
‘Oh. Oh.’
This is why I called my stepmother. She’s so perceptive, and always so attuned to me. I hadn’t even told her I was searching for River, but I tell her I found him, and she knows.