Here Without You (Between the Lines #4)

‘Disrupt his life? He’s in foster care. And I’m his mother.’

More silence, and I think I’m as stunned as he is by my declaration. It’s clear that he doesn’t feel the same obligation I feel, but this has never been his burden. It has only ever been mine. His twelve-step apology, no matter what it stems from, doesn’t extend that far.

‘Look, I don’t expect you to be involved or anything, okay? I didn’t claim that you were his father four and a half years ago, and I won’t now – not that there might not be some media speculation –’

‘Brooke. You can’t seriously mean to go to Austin and bring him back to LA? What about your career? Or the fact that you’re twenty? And single?’

I should have known he wouldn’t understand.

‘What, like there’s no such thing as a single mother? Besides which, I can’t think that far ahead right now. All I know is he needs me and I’m going and I don’t give a shit who thinks what about it, including you. Just deny you’re his father, if it comes to that. I’m sure Graham and Emma won’t tell, and they’re the only ones who know. I have to go now. Later, Reid.’

I press end and toss the phone on to the bed.

I still hate saying Graham’s name. Or thinking about him. I press my fingers to my sternum, hard, because it hurts. It always hurts when I think about him.

The weather in Austin is close to that of Los Angeles this time of year, though it’s a bit more volatile. I roll up a jacket and cram it alongside the jeans. And then I stop dead, thinking about River. He’ll need clothes. And toys. And soap. And … whatever else kids his age need. Special food? A nanny? I have no idea. I have no idea. The enormity of this decision swirls around me and fills the room, insinuating that I can’t possibly do this.

I’m going to fail. One way or another, I’m going to fail.

I’ve heard those same sorts of prophecies inside my own head my entire life, and I learned long ago to ignore them. At fifteen, I decided to become a movie star, and now I am. I run my career and my personal life as I see fit, and no one – no one – tells me what to do. I screw up occasionally – like I did with Graham. That failure cost me my best friend, and I’ll never come to terms with it. ‘Dammit,’ I mutter, yanking the second case from the bed and shoving Graham Douglas from my mind. Again.

If I get to Austin and believe there’s a viable alternative to me taking my son back, I’ll consider it. Otherwise, I’m just going to have to figure this single parent shit out.

REID

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Tonight, Dori and I have our first public date. We have literally days until she leaves for Berkeley, which is an ass-numbingly boring five-hour drive from LA. The last thing I want to do is drop Oh by the way – I’m a father … sort of on her right before she goes.

The longer I don’t tell her, the worse it becomes that I haven’t.

Unless she never finds out.

The probability of Brooke actually bringing the kid home with her like he’s a puppy from the pound is doubtful. Aside from the legal implications of her having relinquished her rights to him, there’s the simple fact that Brooke Cameron doesn’t voluntarily interact with children. Even Graham’s kid seemed like no more than a means to an end to her – an inconvenience she knew she’d have to tolerate to be with him. She’s got a younger half-brother, I think, born after we split, but I’ve never seen a single photo of her with him. Although that could have as much to do with avoidance of her father, whom she loathes.

Would Dori do that for me? Though I don’t plan to claim paternity publicly, no matter what I plead guilty to privately.

Christ, I can’t even go there right now. Dori was abandoned by that guy in high school, and on the surface, what happened between Brooke and me looks no different. Except that Brooke told me she was pregnant … and then I abandoned her.

Fuck. If I was religious, I would cross myself.

Life was so much easier before I had a conscience.

Brooke has complete control over what happens now, and I’m never fond of that scenario. She’s volatile and impulsive – not a safe combination, though she said she wouldn’t tell. Graham and Emma aren’t going to out me, either, though I can just imagine their united disapproval, if I happen to run into them.

Once I find out what Brooke plans to do, I’ll tell Dori.

Or not.

Good plan.

Dori: What are we doing? A hint, please? Or just tell me? I don’t know what to wear.

Me: A casual dinner, then a party at my friend John’s place.

Dori: A party??

Me: It’s not a big deal. If you don’t want to go, we don’t have to.

Dori: No. If this is how you want to do it, then let’s do it. What should I wear?

Me: Whatever you want

Dori: You always say that!

Me: And I always mean it.

5

DORI

There’s been no change in my sister in the five months since her accident, and according to her prognosis, none is expected. Locked in a persistent vegetative state, she continues to exist, but nothing more. My parents finally stopped asking God for a miracle with every dinner-table prayer, so I no longer have to bite back words that keep my stomach twisted into knots. Now, they simply request God’s care of her – a prayer that still swells from the last traces of faith in my heart, even as I deem it incompatible with the fact that she’s in this condition at all.

I’m spending time with Deb this afternoon, killing time before meeting Kayla and Aimee for another of their Cinderella transformations. While trimming the stems of the tulips I picked up on the way over, I relay the latest developments in my life. I’m getting better, but these one-sided conversations still feel contrived. When Mom, Dad or Nick comes with me, I’m silent except for replies to something they say. I’ll stroke Deb’s arm, help feed her, sing her favourite songs, brush her hair – but I only speak to her when we’re alone, like we are now.

‘I’m going out to dinner with Reid tonight,’ I tell her, followed by the clip-clip of my scissors pruning an inch from each stem.

The day after Reid’s return to my life just days ago, I’d confided the truth of our newfound relationship into Deb’s silent room. I felt like such a coward – confessing secrets to my mute, unresponsive sister and no one else. Now, my parents are aware of it, but their biased judgement of Reid means my sharing stops there. Deb, once again, is my confidante.

What I would give for her fair-minded advice instead of this silence. I don’t know what she’d think of Reid, or our relationship, but she would tell me straight up, without any candy-coating. And in the end, she’d support whatever decision I made. Instead, I hear only the views of distraught parents and celebrity-awed friends. Neither feels credible.

‘We’re also going to a party. Crazy, right? Me, at a Hollywood party … His friend John isn’t a celebrity, but he sounds like sort of a social climber.’ A sobering thought hits me then, as if Deb had stated it. ‘I guess I shouldn’t judge, though – most people are going to think the same of me. Or worse.’ Gold digger.

I straighten the soft blanket on Deb’s bed and perch next to her. ‘I have no idea what to wear tonight, so I invited Kayla and Aimee to come over and do their worst.’ Laughing softly, I recall my friends’ doubly silent response when I phoned to tell them about Reid and our impending debut. I don’t think I’ve ever known either of them to be stunned into silence – certainly not both of them at the same time. Five seconds later, they erupted into a breakneck dialogue about designers, colour palettes, shoe trends and hairstyles, and all the reasons I’d been reluctant to tell them came rushing back.

The last time I’d allowed them free rein with my clothes and make-up, I’d woken up in Reid’s bed with the worst hangover imaginable.

There were worse alternatives than that, though, one of which almost happened. I almost left a nightclub with a possibly psychotic stranger due to my alcohol-compromised state. Instead, I woke up to the beginnings of a fairytale love. One I still can’t quite believe is real.

After arguing with each other for ten minutes as though I’m not standing there, Aimee and Kayla settle for a turquoise silk top with beading around the hem and neckline (Kayla’s), a pair of dark, pressed jeans in an unfamiliar brand (Aimee’s), and fuzzy chocolate boots (also Aimee’s, and flat-heeled, thank the Lord). Naturally, they refuse to consider any of my clothing for more than half a second.

‘No,’ Aimee says. ‘Noooooo. You should never wear your clothes when you go out with him. I’m not kidding. Never.’

I decide to panic about that later. Right now, I don’t have time.

Trying to talk Kayla out of using her mammoth case of cosmetics on me is futile, but we compromise with a semi-natural look when I remind her that Reid has only ever seen me with next-to-no make-up. ‘Except for the hangover night,’ I add, and they both avert their eyes, each reproached for letting me out of her sight at that club.

‘You guys, stop with the guilty faces!’ They peer back at me, sheepish, and I shake my head, insisting, ‘I made my own foolish decisions that night. I got luckier than I deserved when Reid spotted me. I don’t blame you and I never did. I’m just not used to a lot of make-up, and I want to feel comfortable tonight.’

Did I just say comfortable? What a totally unrealistic request.

‘Did you notice how she just went, “Reid,” like you’d say, “Clark” or “Josh”?’ Aimee asks Kayla, who nods. They both sigh, and I struggle to resist an eye roll.

From the moment Aimee and Kayla arrived and even when Reid arrives to pick me up, Mom is conspicuously absent. She vanished behind my parents’ closed bedroom door before I came home from Deb’s and hasn’t come out. Dad does his fatherly duty, opening the door and uttering his unfailingly polite, if clipped, ‘Good evening, Reid.’

I hear Reid’s response as I reach the top of the stairs, Kayla and Aimee at my heels. ‘Good evening, Mr Cantrell.’

‘Reverend Cantrell,’ my father corrects, not meanly, but not in the playful manner in which he’d have spoken to Nick – whom he directed, Call me Doug.

‘Reverend Cantrell,’ Reid parrots, unfazed, releasing my father’s hand as I come into view. I soak up the sight of him, despite having seen him yesterday. His blue button-down and jeans seem understated, but I’d bet twenty dollars he knows exactly what wearing that particular shade of blue does to his eyes.

I’ll be lucky if Kayla doesn’t press so close to my back that I end up in a heap at the bottom of the staircase. ‘Aimee,’ she squeaks. ‘That’s. Really. Him.’

Reid’s eyes sweep over me from head to toe and back, unhurriedly, with no care of his rapt audience – my father or either of my star-struck friends. ‘Beautiful,’ he says, taking my hand, and I’m immediately thankful for my friends and their fairy-godmother skills.