‘He is mine.’ I pull out my phone and pull up the photo.
He takes my phone, unaware what I’m showing him. Glancing at the screen, he stops and blinks. Looks at me. And back at the display in his hand.
‘His name is River,’ I say.
‘How old is he?’ My father’s voice catches and he clears his throat.
‘Four and a half.’
He scribbles on the pad. ‘We’ll have to get a blood test –’ He holds up a hand when I start to object. ‘I’m an attorney, Reid. You’re going to have to trust me. No legal entity or governmental agency is going to take the fact that he’s the spitting image of you at his age as evidence of paternity – as well they shouldn’t.’
‘So we can’t just sign the papers?’
Sitting back, he shakes his head. ‘Signing relinquishment papers does one thing – it takes away your parental rights to the child. It does not remove the state’s right to hold you financially responsible and accountable. It’s highly unlikely that they’ll cross that line, but not unheard of – especially if her bid to adopt fails. Now – where is he? I know people in LA County Family Court, of course …’
‘He’s … in Texas. He was born there.’
My father does something I’ve seen him do only once before – during one of Mom’s relapses. He puts his face in his hands and he says, ‘Oh, God.’
15
BROOKE
Production wants me on hand and looking hot to hype media interest at the Ziegfeld Theatre opening of Hearts Over Manhattan, along with my co-star, Chandler Beckett. Tonight. To that end, I’m at LAX before dawn with a front row seat at the gate, facing a boarding agent who’s clearly trying to place who I am. If box office predictions are correct, I may be less likely to encounter that expression soon. Critics are calling Hearts ‘a heartwarming little romance’ – perfect for Valentine’s weekend.
I ignore the boarding agent and hunch over my laptop to keep what I’m doing private from my fellow travellers, who are beginning to fill in behind me. I’m taking required parenting classes online. Having worked through seven sections, I’ve got twenty-three to go. I plan to polish off at least two more on the long flight from Los Angeles to New York. The current unit concerns disciplining your child in public. While reading a section about not employing the use of public shaming for behaviour motivation, I reflect that my mother clearly never took a parenting class.
Chandler is bringing his tediously insecure girlfriend, Nan. At the premiere’s after-party on Tuesday, I warned him to clip her claws or I was going to point her at the wardrobe girl, whom she has far better reason to hate according to on-set gossip – which is generally accurate. The guy has ample acting talent, but I should have demanded a bonus for every love scene. He’s one of those guys who kisses like he’s gasping for breath every second – no concentration, no finesse, no aim. How any girl, even Nan, would worry over losing that is beyond me. I’d be kicking it to the kerb at the first opportunity.
It slipped my mind to line up a plus-one for tonight. Janelle said, ‘Don’t you know anyone in New York? You can’t just show up at your first opening night in a lead role alone.’
First, yeah, I do know someone in New York, but I can’t exactly phone him up and ask him to be my escort. Thanks for reminding me. And second –
‘Why the hell not? I don’t need an escort, by the way. I can walk from the car into the theatre – and probably even back again! – without being led by the elbow, thank-you-very-much.’
‘That’s not what I –’
‘Whatever, Janelle, let’s just drop it. I’m going alone, and I’ll hit the after-party for a bit, and then I’m coming home tomorrow. And next week, you and I have some things to discuss.’
There’s an apprehensive pause. ‘Oh? Like … what?’
‘Next week.’
‘Fine.’ She’s not genuinely angry, just exasperated. I’ve had that effect on her for a while, especially three years ago, when our relationship took a not-so-subtle turn. She woke up to find me in the driver’s seat of my career the day I turned eighteen and fired the manager Mom had hired years earlier. The way Janelle accepted instead of power-tripped that day is why she’s still my agent.
We hang up, and I concentrate on the multiple-choice questions for the Public Discipline section I’ve just completed. Question number four: Your child throws a screaming tantrum because you won’t buy him a candy bar at the grocery store. Do you: (a) explain that a candy bar will ruin his dinner, (b) plead with him to stop, (c) swat him on the bottom, (d) ignore him.
I guess Roll my eyes and wonder what the hell I was thinking would most closely resemble (d). Click.
‘Whatcha doin’?’ a voice says, and I snap the laptop closed, which probably means I’ll have to start that section over again. I turn and glare – at Reid, who’s relocated my shoulder bag from the adjacent seat and plopped down next to me.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I whisper much too loudly.
‘Looks as though I’m joining you for opening night. Different movies, of course.’
‘What?’ I shake my head, cobwebs clearing. ‘You’re going to New York. Today. On my flight.’
He smirks. ‘Or – you’re going to New York on my flight.’ Pulling his boarding pass from his back pocket, he asks, ‘So what seat are you? We might as well get this over with.’
I know for a fact that Reid prefers the aisle, while I insist on the window. And of course we’re both flying first class, alone … I turn my ticket over next to his.