22
DORI
Reid: You never told me how you did in the exam. Everything okay? Depressed to be the ripe old age of 19?
I stare at Reid’s last text again and know I have to answer him. He’s in Austin, with the mother of his child – who I didn’t know existed until two days ago. All Sunday evening, I thought about what he said. How he hadn’t known the baby was his. That he didn’t know how to tell me.
I inferred from these words that he didn’t want to tell me at all, and I should be angry or tolerant or hurt over the lie. I am all those things – but over his child’s existence, not over the fact that he didn’t tell me. Once I got over the shock of it, I can see why he didn’t want to tell me.
Because he feared I’d react like this. Maybe he even knew I would.
It’s been hours since that last text, but when I answer it, he replies immediately.
Me: I survived the exam. 19 is a weird age to be. I think I should feel older. Or younger. I can’t decide.
Reid: I’ll give you a heads-up on 20 in 3.5 weeks. I suspect it may be more of the same.
Me: At least it will be a different decade. Observable progress.
Reid: True.
Reid: We met with Brooke’s attorney and caseworker. They’re going to try to make this as simple as possible, so the process isn’t extended thanks to me joining it.
Reid: Can I call you now? Or tomorrow night when I’m home?
Me: I’ve got a study group in a few minutes and a guest lecturer symposium tomorrow.
Reid: Ok. I’m heading to Utah on Thursday morning to start shooting scenes there, but I’ll text you.
A few photos of our night out in San Francisco made it on to the gossip sites. It took a couple of days for anyone to identify me, and even still, there are sceptics – because in that blue dress and heels and Reid’s shoulder partially blocking my face, I look nothing at all like that girl from Habitat. Nothing like an ordinary girl from LA.
The most vocal disbelievers think I’m someone minor from his last film, or the new one that begins shooting in a couple of days. According to rumours, taking a bed-to-bed sampling of the female cast members is customary for Reid Alexander. I’ve tried to get Kayla and Aimee to stop sending me links to the photos and stories – but they’re far too excited to ‘know’ a celebrity like Reid.
My mind drifts back a few months, to when we’d begun hanging out at his place, to the night I taunted him about having a popular novel with predominantly female fans on his bedside table. Brushing aside my snarky tone, he informed me he was up for the lead role in the film, as though this was no big deal. Deliberately, he gave me that lazy smile and asked if I thought he could bring him to life on the big screen.
He knew exactly what those words would do, once unleashed in my imagination.
Before I could hide my astonishment, he teased me by guessing that I was one of those ‘brainy’ girls who only got in trouble for reading past lights-out. (I was.) Before I left that night, he’d kissed me – a lot – while a tiny sliver of my mind’s eye was unable to stop picturing him as that brooding character I knew too well.
Thus began the weeks of what we termed being reckless – and I worry that from my viewpoint, at least, that word defines our entire relationship. Reid lives his life in a reckless way, and ever since his life collided with mine last summer, I’ve been unbalanced. The trajectory of my safe, small orbit cannot contain him, and no amount of wishing will change that.
He told me on Sunday that once news of River breaks, it will be a circus. I’m not sure what he means, not entirely, but I have a better idea than most. The truth will only be what the truth looks to be, not what it is. The media will toss out possibilities, and fans will gobble them down, making up their own storylines. They’ll want to see Reid and his beautiful ex back together, saving their son from the horrors of drug addicts and foster care, and they won’t want a plain-Jane nobody interloper in the mix.
Claudia drives Raul, Afton and me to Zachary’s Pizza to brainstorm ideas for our group project. Afton and I don’t own a car, and Raul’s tiny, ill-maintained Fiat seats two and is forever running on fumes. He and Claudia argued about this all the way here and are still at it.
‘You never drive, even that one time it was just the two of us.’
Raul peruses the menu, his eyebrows arched defensively towards his black spiked hair. ‘So I’d rather bum rides or take public transport everywhere and have a social life than buy gas for my little deathtrap – sue me.’
‘Bum is right,’ Claudia murmurs.
‘You do know pizza can be delivered? We didn’t have to show up in person,’ he says.
‘Not from Zachary’s. And other places are so not the same –’
‘Vraiment!’ Afton interjects in French, though by the looks they give each other, neither of them speaks it. ‘This place is the best. Now stop fighting, you two. God.’ She punctuates this edict with a pout, which ruins the stern mother effect.
Gesturing at her with his menu, Raul objects. ‘We’re not fighting, we’re sparring. It’s what we do. If you don’t like it, turn away.’ He makes a move-along motion with his free hand.
Afton rolls her eyes. ‘I vote thin crust spinach and mushroom.’
Raul is horrified. ‘No way. I’m a man. I need meat and I want it stuffed.’
‘That’s what he said,’ Claudia mumbles.
Before Raul can return fire, I notice one of the girls from my building who saw me with Reid the night he stayed in my dorm – one of the girls on the receiving end of that spontaneous wink of his. She’s sitting at an adjacent table with several other girls, and they’re all leaning their heads together and staring – at me.
‘Uh-oh,’ Claudia tells me quietly. ‘I think your cover is blown.’
‘What cover? What’s going on?’ Afton is wide-eyed and speaking in a whisper that could be heard two tables away.
‘Why. Are. We. Whispering?’ Raul asks, whispering just as loudly.
‘Can we go somewhere else?’ I ask, and they all look at me like I’m insane. There’s a mob of people waiting for tables, and we’ve got one.
A waiter appears, as though Raul’s growling stomach conjured him. ‘What can I get for you guys tonight?’
As Raul and Afton order, Claudia scoots her chair a bit, blocking me from maybe two people at the table of six. ‘Just ignore them.’
Ignore them. Right. I rearrange my silverware, all too aware that they’ve pulled out cell phones now and are taking pictures. Of me. When I was with Reid on Saturday night, and he guided me into the restaurant with one arm around my waist, the paparazzi flashes were different. The photos were of him, and I was merely with him.
Here, I’m alone, ordering dinner with friends, living my average-girl life.
Except for the whole strangers photographing me part.
‘Why is that gaggle of sororstitutes taking our picture?’ Raul asks when the waiter leaves.
Claudia sputters, ‘Don’t call them that, you sexist –’
‘Have you seen the parade of them through my dorm room? No. You have not.’ One of Raul’s roommates is a total man-whore, and is beyond skilled – according to Raul – at locating and successfully propositioning every willing girl on campus. ‘I can sleep through just about anything now. A condition which makes me sad for my lost innocence.’
Claudia barks a laugh. ‘Oh, please. If you’re innocent, I’m the Dali Lama.’
‘Namaste,’ he returns.
‘Excuse me.’ Oh, no. Elevator girl – holding a magazine, folded open to a page splashed with photographs of various celebrities everywhere from fashion shows to deli counters to poolside. Right in the centre: Reid in his grey suit and blue tie, and me, semi-obscured by Reid’s body, in the blue dress. ‘This is you, isn’t it? And when Geneva and I saw you in the elevator – that was him, wasn’t it? I mean, I can understand why you’d want to keep it on the down-low, but come on.’
I cross my fingers under the table. ‘We’re … friends.’ I don’t even know why I’m lying. I hate lying.
She arches an eyebrow. ‘So what’s he doing with Brooke Cameron? I mean – you said the guy you were with was your boyfriend before, when we asked …’
Darn her memory. ‘He just … didn’t want to be recognized.’
‘Because he didn’t want it getting back to her that he was spending nights with you?’
My jaw falls open. Luckily, Claudia says, ‘Hey, look. We’re trying to have a study group session here. She says they’re friends, and she has no comment on what’s-her-name. And please tell your friends that taking pictures of people they don’t know is rude. Tah-tah and buh-bye.’
The girl turns on her heel and shoots back to the table, where all six heads are conferring.
‘Fudge,’ I say.
By Wednesday evening, there’s an indistinct photo of Reid and Brooke Cameron outside a courthouse in downtown Austin on Tuesday morning. That’s when the speculation starts in earnest. The photos of them in the airport and on the plane – each reading something, not touching and not speaking to each other – all of a sudden look like a lovers’ spat.
That girl in San Francisco must be the cause of it, one site speculates. Brooke must have gone home to Texas, upset, and he followed her. But what are they doing at a courthouse?
Everyone has an opinion, and of course, neither of them can be reached for comment.
Reid: Why aren’t you answering my texts or calls?
REID
Every time I get a text, I think maybe it’s from Dori, but it’s not.
This morning, Mom texted photos of the renovations in my old room. She and Dad set up home study appointments, and we’ve all filled out questionnaires that are every bit as intrusive as Brooke warned me they’d be. Mom is somehow happy about River, which floors me but doesn’t seem to stun Dad, who says he knew it would go one of two ways.
He told her, she cried, and then she called to tell me she was proud of me.
She’s only said that to me once before – the day I beat up a kid at school who’d lifted a girl’s skirt in front of everyone in the playground and thought it was funny – until I busted his lip open. We both got suspended, though our exclusive private school had a zero tolerance for violence policy. Funny how zero tolerance turns into we’re-tolerating-it-just-this-once when affluent parents throw money at the problem.
That was ten years ago.
I just got a text from Emma, who I’ve only talked to twice since the Vancouver film festival last fall; getting a text from her is out of the blue.
Emma: Dad called to tell me I’d got a call from a caseworker in Texas, and I assumed it was about Brooke, but it was about YOU?
Me: Wow, that was fast.
Emma: ???
Me: We’re asking for joint custody.
Emma: Hold on. I must be hallucinating. I read that you two have been … seeing each other, which I thought could not be for real. But YOU and BROOKE – joint custody? Can you talk???
Me: Sure, I’ve got a few minutes.
‘I see you’ve been reading the gossip sites,’ I answer in place of hello, grabbing a bottle of water from the craft services trailer and moving away from the current scene being shot. I’m in full costume and make-up – including a couple of authentic-looking blades, one tucked into a holster on my belt and another in my boot, but I’ve got fifteen or twenty minutes until I’m up.
‘Reid, you know I’m not allowed to read those. Emily reads them. I’m shown links or given summarized news on a need-to-know basis only.’
‘Still? I guess now she’s protecting you from the legions of Graham-stalkers, eh?’ She growls and I can’t help but laugh. ‘Well, you can tell Emily that hearsay concerning Brooke’s and my rekindled relationship is baseless. I’m with Dori. Not that she’s talking to me.’
‘And the joint custody thing you just so casually mentioned?’
‘Yeah, that’s a thing. Not a thing that’s out yet – but it will be. Soon.’
She sighs. ‘Reid – you know that once that’s out, it’s going to underscore the perception that you and Brooke are together, and the media will push that angle full throttle. I don’t know your girlfriend, but if it was me, I’d be really bothered. You need to talk to her.’
‘I know that – but she’s not answering my calls or texts. Her parents hate me. I don’t actually know any of her friends. I’m going to try to make a quick trip to Berkeley on Saturday, but right now I’m stuck on location in the middle of a f*cking canyon in f*cking Utah …’ I release a snarl of complete frustration and stop just short of running my hand through my perfectly styled set hair. ‘And why am I talking to you about this?’
‘Because I’m nosy?’
I laugh and heave a sigh.
‘I know I’m not a regular girl compared to Dori – especially since I’ll be banking on my previous film career to help me land Broadway auditions. But I do know how it feels to watch my movie-star boyfriend be publicly salivated over by thousands of girls, to have him constantly rumoured to be hooking up with other people. It’s hard to take sometimes, even if I know it’s total rubbish. And I trust Graham more than I’ve ever trusted anyone.’
Her words are like a physical blow. ‘You think Dori doesn’t trust me?’
‘I didn’t say that. Maybe she’s feeling insecure? No one wants to admit to that. Insecurity makes you feel weak and powerless, and that’s no way to have a healthy relationship. I would know. I was never more miserable.’
‘But she’s not the insecure type. She’s like … the opposite of insecure. It definitely feels like she doesn’t trust me. But why should she? I f*cked up, not telling her about River. Just like I didn’t tell you.’
She sighs. ‘You know, I’ve told you before – what happened between you and Brooke, before me, wasn’t my business. I’d have got over the shock of that if it hadn’t been for, you know, the parade of girls right after.’
I shut my eyes. ‘Ugh, Emma …’
‘Never mind that – I’m long past it. Here’s the thing. Graham and I share past stuff – we talk about relevant personal history. But only stuff that impacts on our relationship. Neither of us needs to know or confess every single thing that happened before we met. Once you decided to become involved with River – that’s when it was time to tell her. And it sounds like you did. Eventually. Now she’s just got to work it out in her own head. Maybe she needs time. Maybe she doesn’t want to be in a stepmother position at her age. And if that’s the case … you’re going to have to make a choice between her and River.’
I feel like she’s just unloaded a ton of bricks on top of me, and I can barely breathe. Because what she just said – it’s true. It’s so f*cking true. Emma would know what it takes to make that choice – to accept a child who doesn’t belong to you, right in the middle of your relationship, like a ghost of some former love. Goddammit if my initial reflex isn’t to back away from this child – who I don’t know at all – if that’s what it would take to keep Dori.
But what kind of man would that make me?
The PA calls out to let me know I’ll be up in ten minutes. I hold up a hand and nod at him. F*ck. How can I shoot a battle scene now when I feel crushed into dust? I need every second of that ten minutes to get my game face back on.
‘I’ve got to go. Thanks, Emma.’
‘I’m sorry, Reid – I know I didn’t make you feel any better –’
‘No,’ I laugh softly, once, ‘but you told me what I needed to hear. I’ll look you guys up when I’m filming in New York.’
Brooke: CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THIS.
Me: Filming. Can’t call. WHAT??
Brooke: We’re getting a pre-placement visitation. We may get him early. His foster mother had some kind of health thing come up, possible surgery, and they don’t want to bounce him into a new foster home and then to us not long after that.
Me: Shit. WHEN?
Brooke: Saturday. Can you be here? They need to see both of us interact with him. Are you doing the online parenting course?
Me: Yes and yes. I’ll figure something out. Call you later.
Me: We’re getting a visit with River on Saturday morning, so I can’t come to Berkeley this weekend – I have to fly in and out Friday-Saturday. So sorry.
Me: Dori, ANSWER me. Please.
Dori: That’s ok. Shayma and I are helping with a free laundry thing for local homeless people on Saturday anyway. I was going to text you.
Me: Were you?
Me: If I call you tonight, will you answer?
Me: I miss you.
Dori: I miss you too.
‘Hello.’
I didn’t realize how much I expected to get dumped into her voicemail again until I don’t. How much I missed the sound of her hello until I hear her say it.
‘Hey. You answered.’ Right behind the relief is anger. I didn’t expect that, either, and I start my silent therapeutic counting, hoping it will go away quickly. But it doesn’t work that way; the aggravation is filling me as fast as I’m emptying it, like a rainy day in a water-laden rowing boat, and nothing to bail it out with but a tin can.
‘I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,’ she says, and I’m literally clamping my jaw shut on the words that want out.
I breathe through my nose and count. One. Two. Three. Until I can trust myself to speak. ‘Can we talk, please? Are you still upset?’
‘I’m not upset, Reid. I just don’t think we should rush into anything –’
‘What do you mean by that – rush into anything? By anything – do you mean us? Dori … is this about River?’
‘No … Maybe. It’s not about him, specifically. You’ve got a lot going on with the movie, and River, and Brooke –’
‘Dori, the stuff about Brooke and me in the tabloids is all speculation or make-believe – you remember all the fabricated crap they printed when you fell on me last summer – that we were having a secret relationship –’
‘We did have a secret relationship –’
‘But we weren’t having one then.’
‘That’s your argument?’
‘Well. Yes. I didn’t say that they don’t guess right sometimes. And do I need an argument?’
She doesn’t answer. The silence is thick and solid. I want to reach through this phone and pull her to me.
‘Dori?’
‘You shouldn’t have to explain yourself, Reid. You’re right. I just want you to be free to do what you need to do –’
‘And I’m not? I’m not free to do what I need to do?’
Silence, again. I’m arguing her into corners, because that’s what I do. But if she goes mute on me, what good does it do me to be right? So I retreat to what I know. How I’ve been raised to handle conflict. It’s simple, really. If the communication is making everything worse, then we’ll just stop talking about it.
‘Your spring break is in three weeks, right? We’ll be done filming in Utah by then. I’ll have some long work days at Universal – but at least we’ll both be in LA. We’ll spend as much time together as possible. Everything will be fine. I promise.’ Without thinking, I ask, ‘Do you trust me?’ As though this question isn’t at the core of everything, and I haven’t just circled back around to it, as unintentional as it was.
‘You’re doing the right thing, Reid, and I’m proud of you for it.’ That’s the second time I’ve heard that sentiment in as many days, but this one feels like the prelude to something unwanted. ‘Spring recess is in three weeks, yes.’
Everything is off. The cadence of her voice isn’t quite right – it’s … flat, stilted, but I can’t see how to fix this. Plus she didn’t answer my question.
‘I’ll … call you, after we meet him?’
For the beat of several seconds, I think she’s not going to answer. Maybe she’s already gone. And then she says, ‘Sure. That would be fine.’