Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, tendrils escaping around her face. Thin gold hoops dangle from her ears, but she’s not wearing make-up. Her eyes are big and blue in her very young face.
When we were going out, she would occasionally dig through my dresser drawers and take a pair of jeans, and I was content to let her. She’d ditch whatever trendy pair she was wearing – shimmying out of them while I watched her, breathless – and pull mine on. They’d hang perfectly on her slim hips, fitting her the same way they fitted me when I had a boy’s body – the one I outgrew a couple of years ago.
‘Ahhh,’ she’d say, dropping on to my bed. ‘Much better.’
All I could think about was how to get her back out of them.
The worn jeans she’s currently wearing could be one of the three or four pairs she appropriated from me back then, though I’m fairly certain she either shredded them with a giant set of shears or burned them in some sorcerous ritual after we broke up. She’s barefoot – her toenails polished blood red – and wearing a plain, fitted white T-shirt.
Silent, she gestures for me to enter, and I follow her through a maze of boxes and into her living room. I don’t remember exactly what her place looked like when I was here last, because I’ve only been here once, and it’s been almost a year – but several things appear to be missing. And then there are the boxes.
Frowning curiously, I turn back to her. ‘Moving?’
She nods. ‘I’ll need two bedrooms. And most of my décor isn’t exactly child-friendly.’
She says this as though it’s normal for such sentences to be said between us. Or for the phrase child-friendly to come from her mouth, ever.
She perches in a black leather chair and I take its twin – these make up the only furniture in the room, aside from a nearly empty bookcase.
I begin first, pre-empting whatever plan she had for the direction of this conversation. ‘My manager got a call for me from a social worker in Texas. He wouldn’t tell George what he wanted, but I’m pretty sure it has to do with you – or, you know, River.’
She takes a deep breath, staring at the interlocked hands in her lap, and a distinct feeling of unease creeps over me.
‘Yes, that’s why I asked you to come over.’ She sighs, and I think, Oh, no. ‘I had to tell them.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘That you’re his birth father.’
My jaw drops. ‘What do you mean you had to tell them –’
Her eyes flash up. ‘I had to fill out an eighteen-page questionnaire, Reid. It asked the most personal questions you could imagine, and Norman, my attorney, warned me to be utterly truthful, or I could risk a denial before we even got started.
‘So I told them about my home-wrecking mother, and my cheating father. The fact that I was illegitimate because my father was still technically married to Kathryn when I was born. The fact that my mother frequently slapped me across the face when I pissed her off, starting so young that I don’t remember the first time she did it. I had to reveal my sexual history and experience – all of it. My relationships with my stepfathers and stepmothers and my experience with children – which is of course zero.’
I shake my head. ‘You keep saying you had to, but that’s not true, Brooke – no one is forcing you to do this.’
She narrows her clear blue eyes and they blaze. ‘We are done discussing the decisions I’m making concerning my child, Reid Alexander.’ Backlit by the wall of windows behind her, pale blonde hair haloing her head, she looks like an angel spoiling for a fight.
‘You’re making decisions for me, Brooke – why can’t you see that?’
‘I don’t have a choice.’
‘You do –’
‘Fine! Then I’m choosing our son.’
My jaw clenches and I stand, hands fisted at my sides. ‘You’ve called me his birth father. Now you’re calling him my son – like I have some sort of connection with him. I don’t. I didn’t think he was mine when you turned up pregnant, and you knew it. We’d been broken up for weeks by then. I never felt anything about him one way or the other, Brooke, and I don’t now, and if that makes me a heartless bastard, then so be it –’
‘No, Reid – that’s you making him a bastard.’
My hands both go to the back of my neck and I pull my elbows in, biceps shielding my face like blinkers. Pacing between the dozens of boxes littering the floor, I count. One, two, three, four … I ache to throw something or break something or scream something. Five, six, seven. Eight, nine, ten.
I need to leave. But first: ‘What does the social worker want?’
She blanches like she’d forgotten about that, and then licks her lips. If her head was transparent, I’d see gears working furiously. ‘A couple of things. They want you to sign a form saying you willingly volunteer to relinquish your parental rights to him. That … shouldn’t be a problem for you, I gather. It’s like clearing a deed to a property, Norman says, so it can transfer easily to a new buyer.’ She swallows, the muscles in her throat strained. I get the feeling she wants to cry, but isn’t allowing herself to do it. So Brooke of her. Always calculating something.
‘They might also ask you about our relationship. And the break-up. And the pregnancy. And why I left your name off the birth record. And … they’re calling people for character references. For me.’
I laugh once, humourlessly, stuffing my hands into my front pockets. ‘Me? A guy who plea-bargained his way out of a DUI a few months ago as a character reference? I doubt anything I say will hold any weight one way or the other.’
She shrugs, her expression earnest. I can’t stand to look at her. Not when she looks so much like she did years ago. I conclude that she must have done this on purpose – but how would she know? How would she know that for months after our break-up, I woke up from dreams of her looking exactly like she does now?
‘Maybe not,’ she says. ‘But the worst thing would be if they believe I lied and said he wasn’t yours, or didn’t tell you about him at all. Will you just back me up on that, and sign the relinquishment papers? Even if you can’t say another positive word about me?’
She did tell me she was pregnant, and even if she let me believe he probably wasn’t mine, she never told me he wasn’t.
‘I’ll back up your story, because it’s true. But relinquishment papers? That’s a legal declaration, Brooke.’ I’m back to pacing. The stacks of boxes narrow the walls, constricting the paths between them, paralleling my emotions perfectly. ‘Fuck. My father will kill me if I sign a legal document without his expert guidance.’ I look back up at her and shake my head slowly. ‘I’m going to have to tell him. And may God have mercy on my soul.’
14
DORI
My schedule looks like a sampler platter instead of a meal. Every class I’m taking this semester is preceded by ‘Introduction to’, which theoretically makes sense, considering I’m a freshman, and therefore assumed to be a novice at everything. If I hadn’t tested out of reading and comprehension, quantitative reasoning and four semesters of Spanish, I suppose my schedule and I wouldn’t look quite so deficient in experience.
On a bench in upper Sproul, I wait with one member of my Intro to Sociology study group for the other two to arrive. The plan was to stake a spot somewhere outside to study, but that was before the sky became completely overcast and the temperature dropped ten degrees.
Claudia scowls down the plaza, looking for Raul and Afton. ‘Whose bright idea was it to study outdoors in February? I’m. Effing. Freezing.’
I shrug. ‘I’m sure they’ll agree to go inside. And it was nice out yesterday.’
‘Psshh,’ she says. ‘It was tolerable, at best. Have you ever noticed how all campus brochures have pictures of happy, smiling students taken on beautiful, blue-sky days? No matter where the campus is located – Oklahoma, North Dakota, Arizona – whatever. No one is ever huddling into their down-filled North Face jacket, cursing their chapped lips and flyaway hair. No one’s ever
sloshing across campus in an ugly downpour with no umbrella, a soaked-through backpack, waterlogged shoes and jeans saturated to mid-thigh. No one’s got sweat-stained pits and perspiration-covered faces. Oh, no – they’re throwing a Frisbee or studying contentedly on a green lawn in perfect temperatures. They’re laughing on the way to the food court or chatting on the steps of the library.’
I smile. Claudia is one of those people who constantly complains, but she grumbles so humorously that I don’t care. She’s like a grumpy old lady in an eighteen-year-old body.
A couple of girls suddenly appear in front of us, gazing directly at me, as though I’m about to impart life-saving information. Claudia lifts an eyebrow and looks at me too.
‘Hey,’ the girl on the left says. ‘Um, we live in your building? And you were with a guy the other night …’
Uh-oh. I recognize them now – the elevator girls. Darn Reid and his winking.
I attempt to look blankly at them. Reid’s told me what his studio wants, but he’s also told me that he doesn’t care what I say or do – he says that if someone asks me about him, I can say whatever I’d like. But his premiere is tomorrow night, and I don’t particularly want to out myself right here, right now, with strangers. Along with Claudia, the world’s most acerbic Peace and Conflict Studies major ever.
Girl on the right isn’t about to drop this opportunity. ‘Was he really Reid Alexander?’
Before I can say a word, Claudia hoots a laugh. ‘Are you guys high right now? Reid Alexander, on campus, and no one noticed? Give me a break.’
Their faces fall. ‘Oh.’
Then left side girl rallies. ‘Then that guy – he’s goes here? To Cal?’
I shake my head once. ‘No, he doesn’t. He was just visiting.’
‘Aww,’ they say in unison, dismayed, and my scowl narrows on them.
‘And he’s my boyfriend.’ Whoa. Where did that tone come from?
Unbothered by any sense of diplomacy, left side girl snorts. ‘He is?’
Her friend tries to save face – by saying the most awkward thing possible. ‘Well, congratulations – I mean – he looks just like Reid Alexander, so obviously he’s hot. Aheh.’
‘Uh. Thanks?’
After they scuttle away, I say, ‘That was weird.’
I feel Claudia’s eyes on me. ‘So you’re dating Reid Alexander?’
I look into her dark eyes, and my lips part, but no sound emerges. I can’t think of a single thing to say.
‘Has anyone ever told you that you do not have a poker face?’
Lips twisting, I admit, ‘Yeah, I may have heard that one a time or two.’
She angles her head and smiles. ‘You’re the Habitat girl, aren’t you? From last summer.’
Oh, yay. I’d escaped two zealous Reid Alexander groupies, only to find out I’m in a study group with the most dangerous of them all. ‘And you’re … a Reid Alexander fan?’
‘Hell, no. My little sisters are. They’re rabid about him. He seems like a pretentious, untalented asshole to me.’
I blink.
‘Note I said seems. I haven’t actually seen any of his films. And he can’t be a total lost cause if he’s dating you. I think. Unless you care to refute that?’
‘Which part?’
She shrugs. ‘Any of it. I’m open-minded. Sort of.’
I laugh softly as our classmates finally walk up, shivering in their jackets.
‘Oh. My. Holy. Fucking. Hell,’ Raul says. ‘Can we please go inside to do this?’
‘A man after my own heart,’ Claudia says, bounding from the bench as though released from a spell and walking resolutely in the direction of the library. ‘Brr! Dayum. I never thought I’d say this … but I miss San Diego.’ Turning and pointing a finger, she adds, ‘You guys did not hear me say that.’
Afton mimes locking her lips and tossing an invisible key over her shoulder. ‘We all wanted to get the hell outta somewhere, dude,’ she says. ‘But some stuff we take for granted about home just isn’t better elsewhere.’
Claudia leans closer as we head towards the library. ‘Psychology majors, Jesus. And did she just call me dude? That’s so not going to endear her to me anytime soon – I don’t care how cute her butt is in those jeans. Although she does have a valid point about home and elsewhere. So … About the pretty boy –?’
I smile and meet her eyes. ‘He’s not a lost cause.’
She returns my smile. ‘Good enough for me.’
I have Reid’s fan sites bookmarked, so I can watch him from a distance, like everyone else has to. My annoyance is increasing, especially when sites claim ‘proof’ that he’s hooking up with random starlets or singers he stands next to at some event. Or a commenting fan proclaims her undying love and desire to have his babies. Or someone is trying to figure out who I am and where I’m from and why in the world Reid Alexander would even bother with me.
Looking at these pages feels a little stalkerish too. On the other hand, this is no different than going to friends’ Facebook profiles and browsing through photos of them living their lives apart from me. Curiosity is a compelling thing. Where Reid is concerned, I’ve been curious from the moment he called me a hypocrite for deeming him hopeless, days after we met.
With his mother beside him on the red carpet at his premiere, it’s a no-brainer where Reid gets his looks. Their colouring is exactly the same, as well as their features – with the exception of the angled jaw bestowed by his father. Lucy Alexander is stunning and elegant, her pride in her son evident in the way she watches him while he signs autographs and leans in to take photos with the beside-themselves fans pressing against the velvet rope.
When I came up with the idea of inviting his mother as his plus-one, I had a good feeling about it. He was unconvinced that she’d want to go, so I told him the only way he’d know was to ask.
‘You’d have thought I just handed her an Oscar,’ he said later, filling me in on their conversation. ‘First, she gasped and teared up, and I was thinking, Oh, great, I’ve upset her. And then she said, ‘Don’t you want to take Dori?’ So I told her you couldn’t get away that night. She stepped forward and hugged me, which she hasn’t done in – I don’t know – it feels like years, and then she said she’d love to go.’
‘I told you so,’ I sing-songed, and he laughed.
‘You just live for the times you’re able to say that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, and lucky for me – with you, I get to say it a lot.’
‘Haha. Very funny, Miss Cantrell. I’ll have to try to hand out those little treats more sparingly. I don’t want you to get spoiled.’
‘Oh, so now you can control the frequency of your wrongness?’ I scoffed, trying not to giggle. ‘How will you do that?’
‘Well, I appear to have two choices. I can either be right more often – stop laughing – or I can stop saying things that turn out to be wrong. Hmm. This is a tough decision.’
REID
Me: We need to discuss something. In person. Important.
Dad: I’ll be home tonight by 8. Will that work for you?
Me: Yes. I’ll meet you in your study. I leave for the NYC debut tomorrow morning.
Dad is still dressed for work, with the exception of the suit jacket hanging on the peg and padded hanger he had installed for that purpose near the open door. His cufflinks are in a small glass bowl he purchased for the express function of holding cufflinks, his red-patterned tie remains knotted, but loose, and his shirtsleeves are rolled to mid-forearm.
I knock my knuckles twice to announce my presence, and his eyes snap up from the paperwork he’s scanning.
He pushes it aside and collects a pad and pen. ‘Reid. Come in.’ After I take a deep breath and sit, he says, ‘All right, what’s going on?’
Every carefully premeditated introduction to the grenade I’m about to toss into the room has flown out of my brain. Entire perfectly crafted explanations are just gone. I’m thinking in words, like a toddler. Or Tarzan.
Me father. You grandfather. HELP.
I look him in the eye and he’s frowning, waiting for me to state my business. I haven’t been scared of my father since I was ten. Intimidated? Yes. Demeaned? Yes. Afraid? No.
Is this what his clients feel like, sitting across the desk from him?
And that’s when it hits me. No, this isn’t what it feels like to be his client. He doesn’t frown at his clients. He may wear a veneer of concern. He may even be concerned. But the face I’m seeing – the eyes I’m looking into now – he’s alarmed. Apprehensive. Worried.
His clients don’t get that puckered-brow expression. My mother does. And I do.
I rub my clammy palms against my jeans. ‘I have a problem, and I need your advice. Your legal advice.’
He takes a breath through his nose and his brow clears, the slightest bit. He’s still on alert, but he knows this crisis is in his territory – whatever it is – and I’ve brought it to him before someone else did. That’s possibly unprecedented.
‘I’m listening,’ he says.
I take another deep breath. ‘You remember Brooke?’
He grimaces. ‘Brooke Cameron?’ I nod, and he answers, ‘Yes, I remember her.’
Grenade time. ‘After we broke up …’ Pull the pin. Toss. ‘She found out she was pregnant.’
I expect him to speak, start sputtering or roaring, something. Eyes drilling into mine, he goes a little pale around the edges, but he holds his fire. He recognizes that there’s some reason I’ve brought this to him, and I haven’t voiced it yet. He hasn’t scribbled so much as a stroke on that pad.
Swallowing, I continue. ‘She had the baby, and gave it up for adoption. A few weeks ago, she hired a PI to look for him. She found him – in foster care. And now … She wants to adopt him. She wants me to sign relinquishment papers. I want to make sure I’m not missing something before I do it.’
He begins to write on the pad, and I sit, waiting.
Several minutes later, he begins to fire questions at me, one after the other. After each one, there’s a prolonged pause as he logs my answer.
Here Without You (Between the Lines #4) Paperback Page 11
