People in a group attempt to fit together like puzzle pieces to make a uniform whole. A recognizable representation of the efforts and goals of the organization itself.
I used to think of two people in love like that. Like puzzle pieces, fitting together. But it’s not like that at all. Love pulls a part of you out, and it pulls a part of him – like taffy, stretching but not separating. The tendrils of each one wrap around the other, until they meld together. One, but not quite. Separate, but not quite. Like my parents.
And then there are those like Colin and me. He never shared a shred of himself, but I didn’t know it. I’d embedded myself into him because he wanted me to, and thought he did the same. But when he broke free, he ripped a part of me away. He retreated, unaltered, and I came apart, fractured and incomplete.
What Reid and I have, right now, is enough. I love him, and he loves me in a way Colin never did, but that’s no guarantee of forever. I don’t know when it will end, only that it will, and I want to protect us both. I can’t let myself become a part of him, and I can’t let him become part of me. So I won’t whisper the words to him, even if they’re true.
Shayma is tossing a change of clothes and her toiletries into her backpack. She’s spending the night with a friend, and leaving the room to me – and my boyfriend.
‘Are you sure it’s okay? You’re sure you don’t mind? We can go to a hotel –’
She shakes her head and laughs. ‘Will you stop? If I say I’m good – I’m good. Hotels are expensive.’
‘Uh …’
‘One tiny stipulation, though.’
‘Yeah?’ I say, distractedly glancing around the room. I can’t imagine Reid here. Our low-cost dorm room, the size of his closet, looks like a set of a movie in which he stars as an average, albeit very beautiful college guy – not somewhere he’d deign to spend the night.
‘I need to meet him. Wait. Two stipulations. Second stipulation: not on my bed, mmkay?’
My face goes sunburn-hot and my mouth falls open. ‘I – I would never –’
‘Wow.’ Her brows shoot up. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen somebody blush that hard. You’re like … maroon.’
I hide my blazing face behind my hands, mortified.
‘So he’s driving from LA? Flying?’ She plops on to her bed, four feet across from me.
‘Flying.’
‘And you don’t need help picking him up, since you don’t have a car?’
‘No. I’m meeting him at the Starbucks. He’s going to … get a car from the airport.’
Her head angles. ‘Get a car … Like a rental? Like a taxi?’
I shrug. Shayma is one of the most low-key girls I’ve ever met. This level of curiosity from her is as weird as if the stuffed Cal-cap-wearing Golden Bear Deb bought for me two years ago – now sitting on my overcrowded desk shelf – suddenly struck up a conversation. I take a deep breath. If Shayma is going to meet Reid tonight, she might as well know it ahead of time.
‘Not exactly … more like the kind of car driven by a chauffeur.’
One eyebrow quirks up and her chin shrinks back. ‘A who? A what? Girl, you’ve got a man with money? No wonder you can afford to be a social welfare major.’
Shayma is studying international business, and plans to head for London or Hong Kong for graduate school.
I frown.
‘So he’s what – trust-funded? Or old? Oh shit – he’s from LA – is he Hollywood?’
My eyes widen. ‘Are you psychic, Shayma?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘You know I don’t believe in that crap. The only things that don’t lie in this world are numbers. My mawmaw thinks she’s a seer. Daddy says she’s always claimed to have second sight, but ever since I was a little child – when she predicted Kelly Clarkson winning the first American Idol – she’s sworn she’s a bona fide clairvoyant.’
We laugh, and then I take a deep breath. ‘So. My boyfriend. He’s …’ another breath, ‘Reid Alexander.’
She stares, blinks once and shakes her head a little, like she’s trying to clear water from her ears. ‘Did you just say Reid Alexander?’
I nod.
‘Well. Forget what I said about “not on my bed”.’
BROOKE
Rowena: You in Austin?
Me: Visiting family. I’ll be back in LA for promos soon. Will text with details.
Shit. Even for an industrious and thriving – thanks to me – paparazza, Rowena is scary-connected. I don’t like when she knows things I’m not ready for her to know, and this is too close. I don’t want the media getting wind of River – not yet. She knows better than to cross me, but it may be time for us to have a come-to-Jesus talk – a favourite phrase of my mother’s, which is odd considering her lack of a personal moral compass. I think even Jesus would pick up his skirts and run in the opposite direction if he saw my mother coming.
My stomach drops when I think about this news coming to light, and how it will be portrayed. Of course I knew there’d be no escaping public conjecture about River, but I haven’t considered the best way for it to go public in the first place.
I’ve always believed that my sex life and sexual history is no one’s business, but that freaking questionnaire stripped away that delusion. The media will be just as interested. More so. To them, everything is possible news fodder and nothing is sacred. The number one thing they’ll want to know: Who’s the daddy? Five years ago, I scrawled unknown on the form. I didn’t care how it looked to leave that line blank on his birth certificate. For myself, I still don’t care. But for River – how will that affect him?
I’ll have to control it, and the best way to do that is Rowena.
Everything has been turned in to the court – questionnaires, criminal background checks and drug tests (thank God it’s been months since I smoked a joint and years since I tried anything stupider). Norman urged out-and-out candour about everything – the shoplifting to spite Mom at fourteen, the random recreational drug use, the abundant underage drinking, my sex life – the real one and the publicized one.
Lord knows there’s probably detailed evidence of every one of my sins somewhere. If I lie, something is sure to come back and bite me in the ass.
Now, according to Norman, we wait. Before we leave his office, he asks us to give him character references – three related, three non-related. Kylie and Kelley are going on my ‘related’ list, and, grudgingly, I decide my father would be better than my mother, given a choice between them – and Kathryn agrees.
Daddy. There’s a fun phone call for later. I doubt he’ll be pleased, but Kelley is pregnant, so it’s not like impending grandfatherhood could induce heart failure. I have no idea if he and wife Number Four plan to propagate, but with three ex-wives and five children, one would think he’d feel kind of been-there, done-that by now.
On the other hand, whenever he wants an empty nest, all he has to do is leave.
I nearly draw a blank on the three non-related sources, because the first person to come to mind is Graham. But of course, we’re not speaking. I stare at the form in my lap, swallowing the hot mix of guilt and grief. I print MiShaun Grant and copy her contact information from my phone. She’s the only actress in my age range for whom I have both respect and a working phone number. I add Dana Scatio – the director of Hearts Over Manhattan. She loves me, and (bonus) was my most recent boss, of sorts.
‘What about Janelle, my agent?’ I ask. Note to self: I need to inform Janelle about River.
Norman frowns. ‘She’s an option, if you can’t think of anyone else.’ His expression says That can’t possibly be true, can it? ‘Technically, she works for you and has a vested interest in getting you what you want, so she’s deemed a less reliably candid source. The caseworker will likely contact her when they do the sweep through everyone with whom you’ve had substantial interaction. These six are merely the ones you deem most likely to give a favourable, yet realistic depiction of you.’
I’m gripping the pen in my
hand so hard that the metal clip bites into my palm, and my world goes a bit fuzzy at the edges. ‘Sorry – but did you just say they’re going to speak with … everyone?’
In what’s left of my peripheral vision, Kathryn’s head pops up. Her gaze swings between Norman and me, and both she and Glenn have stopped writing. I’m sure they’re both having a tough time narrowing down to six people who will speak favourably of them.
‘Family, work relationships, close friends, ex-boyfriends – I’m afraid so.’ Norman regards me kindly from behind his folder-buried desk. ‘Not to worry – they don’t expect you to be perfect or universally loved.’
Universally loved? Can there be anything in the history of catchphrases that applies to me less? Oh, God.
‘They conduct these interviews to evaluate whether (a) you’re truthful and (b) you’ve got no detrimental personality disorders – anything that might prevent you from being a dependable parent to the child. It’s all about his best interest, as I’ve said. I know you’re tired of me saying that phrase, but it’s what matters to the court. Best get accustomed to it early on.’
Oh. My. God.
They’re going to call both of my parents. My ex-stepmothers and ex-stepfathers. They’re probably going to call Reid.
And they’re definitely going to call Graham.
‘Hello?’
Emma’s voice is exactly as I expected – clipped. Cold.
‘Emma, this is Brooke,’ I reply needlessly. She obviously recognizes my number.
Silence. Okay.
‘I’m calling …’ I close my eyes ‘… to ask a favour.’
She sputters a little. ‘A favour? How … what would Graham’s mom call it? How cheeky of you. But since Cara isn’t around, I’ll just say how goddamned presumptuous of you. What do you want, Brooke?’
What do I want? I want to hang up. Last year, I made a huge miscalculation where Emma was concerned. Where Graham was concerned. I never said anything to either of them afterwards, of course. Never tried to account for what I did, or beg forgiveness. I knew I was automatically evicted from his life. I didn’t need to hear him say it.
I rarely apologize. It’s not that I think I’m never wrong – I just don’t care to admit it out loud. The only time I say I’m sorry is when there is literally no other way around saying it, or to get out of penalties that are possible to circumvent. Most consequences stick. That’s why they’re called consequences.
Eight months ago, there was no evading Graham’s banishment, and my way around a pointless I’m sorry was avoidance, plain and simple.
If I take that approach now, I could lose River. I take a breath and square my shoulders.
‘I need to talk to Graham –’
‘Of all the –’
‘Emma, I’m sorry. I fucked up. I totally fucked up. I wouldn’t bother you – either of you – and look, I’m calling your phone, not his. I’m asking your permission. I’m begging you for it. Please.’ My voice splinters at the end of this appeal, the last word sounding more like a sob. Fucking hell.
More silence.
‘Are you dying or something?’ she asks, and I can’t tell if she sounds more hopeful or regretful at the prospect.
‘Not yet.’
‘What do you mean not yet?’
‘I’m not – this isn’t about me, as such. Well, it’s only about me secondarily. It’s about … my son.’
‘Your what?’
‘The baby I gave up for adoption. His adoptive father died and his mother turned into a meth addict and now he’s in foster care and I’m trying to get him out.’
Way to go, Brooke. That wasn’t word vomit. That was word projectile vomiting.
‘Does Reid know?’ She says his name as though they’ve been in contact, which I suppose is possible. Maybe she was part of his twelve-step apologyfest last month.
‘He knows. He’s not … involved. Which is fine. This is my choice. When I told you about the pregnancy –’ I sigh. ‘I only told you so you’d hate him. But he was just a kid. I was just a kid. I’m not asking him for anything now, but yes, he’s aware.’ Stop talking. ‘We’re even sort of getting along. It’s kind of weird, actually.’ Stop talking.
‘Huh.’
I roll my eyes, remembering how Graham and I had an infuriating conversation once upon a time about Emma and how she said huh whenever she couldn’t think of anything else to say. He thought it was so adorable, and I wanted to gag him with a knee sock.
‘I’ll, um, talk to him. No promises. He’ll call you if he wants to talk. If he doesn’t, he won’t call.’
I grit my teeth, feeling powerless. ‘I understand. Thank you.’
‘Goodbye, Brooke.’
After we disconnect, I pull up the photo of River I scanned into my phone and sent to Reid. Every time I look at it, I feel more overwhelmed, more terrified I’m going to fuck this up, and more sure that I can’t let that happen. If I have to go round Emma to beg Graham not to ruin this, I’ll do it. But I’m patient enough to bide my time and wait, and hope she doesn’t hate me as much as I deserve to be hated. If our positions were reversed, I’d have told her to fuck off and blocked her from Graham’s phone.
But Emma is not me. And that’s just one more reason why Graham is hers, and not mine.
12
REID
I have the driver drop me a block away from the Starbucks on the corner, pulling the beanie over my ears and hunching into my jacket before grabbing my shoulder duffle. It’s dark out, so I can’t wear my sunglasses, but it’s not like anyone expects Reid Alexander to pop up here, either. Even if I’m recognized, most people will merely assume I bear an uncanny resemblance to ‘that one guy from that movie’.
‘Nine tomorrow morning?’ I say, opening the door, and he nods.
‘Yessir.’
I didn’t realize how much I’d missed the sight of her until I see her. She sent a text fifteen minutes ago to tell me she’d arrived and staked out a chair on the second level. I was supposed to call her when I got there, but I didn’t. I wanted this moment. I hoped she’d be caught up in reading, not looking for me. That I could take a few precious seconds to drink her in. That I’d get to witness the exact moment she notices I’m there.
Dori never disappoints.
As though she feels my eyes grazing over her, she glances up and right at me. She snaps the book closed without marking her page and tosses it towards her bag on the floor. Springing from the chair, she’s clamping her mouth shut to keep from saying my name and giving my identity away – but her smile is a mile wide. One second later, she’s in my arms, on her toes, offering her lips up for a kiss. I’m happy to oblige.
‘I wholeheartedly approve of that welcome,’ I murmur into her mouth, kissing her once more as she regains her composure and recollects where we are – in public.
Sweeping her hair back on one side, I cradle her head in my hand and smile down at her now-demure expression – pursed lips, faint blush pinkening the curve of that exposed ear. My voice restrained, low, I say, ‘Let’s go be alone, beautiful girl, where I can ravish you without the audience that bothers only you.’ I feel her pulse speed under my fingertips and tighten my opposite arm around her, pressing her closer. ‘Or … I’d be happy to back you up against a wall, right here, right now, and kiss you breathless. For a start.’
‘I’ll get my bag,’ she says, her warm breath gushing against my neck.
I nod, and she ducks her chin low and steps away to collect her book and bag from the floor, and her sweater from the chair. Shrugging into it, she leads the way down the narrow staircase, across the expanse of main floor, and out of the door. I reflect that this may be the only time in my personal history in which I entered a Starbucks and didn’t buy anything.
Outside at the kerb, she pulls to a sudden stop. ‘Oh, did you want something?’
I arch a brow. ‘Not anything they sell. Let’s go see this tiny room of yours. And say hello-and-goodbye to your very considerate roommate.
’
Glancing up, she bites her lip and smiles at the same time, pulling me across the street to the campus. Her face is a perfect picture of the inner mischievousness with which I’m oh-so familiar. Avidly familiar.
We don’t get far before we’re in a thick grove of storeys-tall trees, which I make a mental note of for some future encounter. When it’s warmer.
The campus is well lit and well populated for a Saturday night, which makes me feel easier about her being here. No one pays us any mind. We are two more students crossing the campus grounds, in search of entertainment – or privacy. As though I’m playing a character, I immerse myself in a storyline where Dori and I have parallel goals, parallel lives. Where we meet for coffee in between classes, commiserate about professors and assignments, take walks and weekend trips and lie out in grassy common areas on sunny days. Where we study between make-out sessions, and make love between study sessions.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asks, and I realize I’m frowning.
I stop, pulling her fully against me and tip her concerned face up to mine. ‘Absolutely nothing,’ I say. ‘I just need to do this before going any further.’ I lean to kiss her in the semi-darkness. Someone hoots in the distance – at us or at something unrelated – I don’t know or care.
I’m always amused by people’s reactions when I’m recognized in entirely incongruous, unexpected places for movie-star viewing. A state college dorm elevator is, predictably, one of these places. Dori grips my hand when a couple of girls with laundry bags get in. They’re whispering while giving me not-so-covert sidelong glances. Wrapping my arms around Dori, I pull her back against my chest and into our own personal space bubble.
When the girls exit one floor up and the doors begin to close, they turn back and stare, bug-eyed. I wink, and Dori catches me doing it.
Here Without You (Between the Lines #4) Paperback Page 9
