As though summoned, a new text appears from Brooke. I never called her back after I ignored her interruption during Dori’s call. She called again this morning – also ignored. She didn’t leave a message either time.
Brooke: I need to talk. I can’t talk to anyone else about this. Please.
Reluctantly, I dial her back, imagining some sort of ill-omened soundtrack in the background, intensifying with each ring like a swelling threat of doom.
‘Thanks for calling,’ she answers. ‘I’m not – not asking for your opinion or your advice. I just need to talk, and I need you to listen.’
Seriously? Just listen and keep my opinions to myself. When has that ever applied to me?
‘Brooke, you can’t just unload on me and expect me to not tell you what I think.’
She’s quiet for a moment, and I think maybe she’s about to deliver a terse Never mind and dead air. Or Fuck you and dead air. Or just dead air.
‘Okay. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to follow – or even consider – what you have to say.’
‘Then why tell me? Why not tell Kathryn, or –’
‘Because it’s a career thing. And usually, I would call …’
Graham. Damn that fucker. I get it, and we’re even cautious friends, now – but damn.
‘Okay, okay. Fine.’ I run a hand through my hair. The fact that she just wants to discuss a career crisis is sort of a relief, though I have to wonder what she’d have to say to me that she wouldn’t much rather talk over with her agent or manager. ‘Spill.’
She breathes a sigh and tells me how last fall, she nearly landed the lead in Paper Oceans – an upcoming film that has Hollywood buzzing, even pre-production. Impressed, I have no problem commiserating at the loss, especially since it went to Caren Castleberry, one of the industry’s most talentless, well-connected twits.
‘That sucks. Don’t they know they need someone who can express multiple emotions for that role? She’s basically got one expression.’ I switch on the razor and start a quick once-over.
‘I know, right? If they did a graphic representation of her accessible emotions, they could use the same fucking photo for all of them. The most accurate one would be labelled stoned.’
‘Speaking of – didn’t she just break her pelvis or something, drunk skiing?’
‘Yeah. She totally did. Pelvis and both legs, according to my agent.’
‘Ouch. That’ll put her out of commission for a few weeks … for many things.’
‘Gross, Reid. Jesus.’
‘I’m just sympathizing!’
She huffs a breath. ‘Anyway – and this is totally classified because it’s not on paper yet – I got the role.’
‘Wow. That’s awesome.’ I recall her I don’t want your opinion speech, and I’m guessing this isn’t the dilemma she felt compelled to share. ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Filming starts in Australia. This summer.’
Ah. Talk about suck-ass timing. ‘Brooke, you might not get another shot at a film like this – a role like this. If this is the career direction you want, you don’t have a choice.’
‘See, that’s the thing. I do have a choice. And I think … I have to turn it down.’
My mouth hangs open for a moment and the razor buzzes in my hand. ‘You’re going to turn it down? Because of – what you’re doing in Austin? Isn’t there some way around flat-out turning it down?’
‘I don’t see a way. I have to be here. In the US. I can go back and forth between Austin and LA, as often as needed, but I can’t adopt a child and then disappear to the land down under for a month or however long – if the court would even allow me to do that, which it won’t.’
‘What do you expect me to –’
‘I told you I don’t expect even an opinion from you, and I was serious. I just need to talk this out. Fuck. I mean – God, I’m going to have to stop saying that – Stan also wants me back for the season finale of Life’s a Beach. I think I can work that into an offer for next season.’
‘Speaker.’ I set the phone on the counter and start shrugging into my interview outfit. ‘Let me get this straight, Brooke – you’re going to throw away a major role in a possibly Oscar-worthy film to be on a teenage cable version of Baywatch? Have you completely lost it?’
‘If this opportunity hadn’t come back around –’
‘If the opportunity hadn’t come back around, your agent would still be looking for film roles, right? Hearts Over Manhattan is coming out in three weeks – I’ve seen clips, by the way, and it’s going to kill at the box office. You’ll get auditions for more romcoms from that alone. But I can’t believe we’re even talking about that because you can’t be serious that you want to turn down this role.’
‘It’s not always about what I want. At least, not any more. If I mean to be his mother, then he has to start coming first.’
‘That doesn’t mean throwing away your career.’
‘I don’t consider this to be throwing my career away –’
‘Okay, crippling it, then. This whole thing could hit a brick wall, where either you or the court says it’s a no-go. What then? What if you turn this role down for nothing?’
She’s silent, and I don’t know if I’ve landed a point or pissed her off.
‘This is why I didn’t want your opinion.’
Guess the answer is pissed her off.
‘What, so you wouldn’t have to hear the truth?’
‘No, so I wouldn’t have to hear how people talk themselves out of being the parents they should be. The excuses. The selfishness. Don’t you think I want to play Monica?’
‘Yes, I think you want it – that’s exactly why I’m arguing –’
‘Reid. He needs me.’ She chokes up. ‘He needs me, and I’m not going to fuck this up – dammit, I mean screw this up – not this time. I’ve never done anything in my whole life that wasn’t selfish –’
‘Brooke,’ I sigh, lacing my black Prada boots. ‘Five years ago, you were a pregnant teenager. You moved to Texas. You had him without your parents’ support, without my support. I don’t know why you made that inadvisable choice, but you did. That wasn’t selfish.’
‘You’re wrong. It wasn’t some moral judgement or an unselfish choice – I just knew that when we made him, I loved you, and I couldn’t … there was no other choice for me. That decision was about me, and I can’t pretend otherwise.’
Weeks ago, when she told me that he was unequivocally mine and I finally believed her, I was dumbfounded. But this kicks the breath out of me. When we made him, I loved you.
‘There’s no choice for me this time, either. Thanks for listening, Reid. I know what I have to do, but I’m not going to tell Janelle right away – she hasn’t even got the Paper Oceans offer yet. I think I can get through the premiere of Hearts Over Manhattan first. God, she’s going to go off like a roman candle.’
A slight drawl – it was never thick – threads through her words, almost imperceptibly. Must be a by-product of her being back in Texas, living with her stepmother.
For a moment, I drift in the memory of it.
And then my phone beeps. It’s Dori.
11
DORI
‘I was in class when you texted – I just got out and thought I’d call instead of text since I’m wearing mittens. So you’re going to come up this weekend? Are you sure you have time?’ After an hour in an overly warm classroom, I exit Barrows and immediately begin shivering in a gust of north wind.
‘I can escape from the promo tour overnight Saturday, but I’ll have to fly,’ he says. ‘I don’t have time to drive it. I can’t leave LA until after 7:00 p.m, and I have to be back by noon.’
We’ll barely have twelve hours inside those parameters.
Like the swipe of a hand across a fogged window pane, I see clearly, abruptly, that this is how it will be between us. Berkeley is where I’ll be for the next four years, and when I try to imagine him, or us, after that, I can’t. I visualize myself, applying to earn my master’s in social work. Possibly leaving California to do it. Alone.
My teeth chatter – from cold or fear or both – and I struggle to dispel the ache from my voice. ‘What do you want to do … while you’re here?’
His low chuckle initiates a warmth in the pit of my belly that spreads like a slow blaze. ‘Do you need to ask? It feels like months since I’ve got my hands on you.’
Entering the library, my voice drops to a whisper. ‘It’s been ten days … I think.’
‘Months,’ he insists. ‘And did you say you were wearing mittens? Photo. Now.’
I shake my head and laugh soundlessly. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see them in person.’
‘Is there a matching hat? And scarf? Hmm, I like the thought of a scarf … scarves are so handy for draping or blindfolding or trussing –’
‘Stop that,’ I hiss softly. ‘It’s abnormal to blush like this in the library, you know. Maybe you should bring your own scarf and I’ll use it on you.’ When he doesn’t reply, I say, ‘Reid?’
‘Sorry. I’m way too turned on for a proper comeback.’
I was certain my research on social interaction in groups and organizations would be more productive if I spent my time in the library around other equally studious undergrads. Instead, the hum of low voices and rustling movements of books and papers keeps lulling me into thoughts about the social interaction of two people, connected. Thoughts about the nature of love.
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.