Here Without You (19 page)

He closes his eyes briefly before answering. ‘He was mine, but I didn’t know it. I didn’t talk to anyone about it, Dori. My parents didn’t know. I’ve never even told John.’

‘How do you know he’s yours?’

‘We just did a paternity test.’

Just
. As in recently.

I’m missing something, and I don’t know what it is. When children are adopted, their biological parentage is no longer an issue. ‘But – you said she gave him up … Why –?’

‘A couple of months ago, she hired a private investigator to look for him. She was having nightmares about him and just wanted to make sure he was okay. The PI found out that he’d been removed from his adoptive home months ago due to drugs and gross neglect. He’s in foster care now. So she’s … she’s applying to adopt him. And … so am I.’

The hands that he thought were cold moments ago flash like ice and then go numb. I can’t feel anything. And then, suddenly, I feel everything. Waves of chills run from the back of my neck to my toes, millions of tiny pinpricks like sharp, agonizing barbs. As though some outside source grips my throat, my airway narrows and expands, over and over, and with it, my vision.

‘I told you about … everything that happened to me – with Colin,’ I gasp. ‘And you never said – you never told me –’

‘Dori, I didn’t – I didn’t
know
. I thought Brooke had cheated on me. I swear, I didn’t think he was mine. We were both so young and stupid and stubborn – we didn’t talk like you and I talk –’

‘Like you and I talk? Like when you told me you had a child with someone?’

He drops his head in his hands. ‘
I didn’t think he was mine
, and I had nothing to do with her decision.’

‘So you left her to make that choice – alone? And now you get a second chance at doing the right thing because she made a different choice than I made?’ I shift away from him, but he reaches out and grabs my wrists.

‘Goddammit, Dori – no. It’s not like that –’

‘You said you’re both adopting him. So you’re … you’re getting back together?’

‘No.
No
. Jesus. This isn’t about me and Brooke – it’s only about River.’

His child has a name. Of course he does. ‘River?’

‘He’s four and a half. I have a picture –’ He lets go of me, stands to grab his phone from the table and clicks through it. When he offers it, I reach to take it, thinking,
I don’t know him
.

But I see him in his child’s face. And if anyone needs saving, it’s this little boy. His sadness is unmistakable, mirroring so many small faces from East LA to Quito – children shouldering the weight of the world. A world they didn’t create, or ask to be abandoned to.

‘Dad is telling Mom this weekend. He’s talking with contacts in LA County Family Court tomorrow, and we’re going to Austin on Tuesday to speak with Brooke’s attorney, and possibly the caseworker and judge. Last, but not least – I’m not sure when this is going to break publicly, but once it does, it’ll be a circus.’ He takes the phone from my hand and tips my chin, looks into my eyes. ‘Dori, say something.’

The brusque rap on the door startles us both.

He sighs. ‘That’s breakfast, I guess.’

While he rises to let the attendant in, I stare out of the
window at the boats in the bay. From this distance, they look like models, or radio-powered toys. I imagine the holders of the remote controls are bored demi-gods occupying rooms like this on the top floors of tall buildings.

I feel his eyes sweep over me, neither of us speaking while our breakfast table is set up.

He is not the self-centred, arrogant boy who showed up at Habitat last summer, calling me a hypocrite for dismissing him and then proving to me that he was worth saving. Not the boy who urged me to be
reckless
with him last fall, because he was safe. Not the boy who showed up on the other side of my parents’ screen door weeks ago, telling me he was
all in
before carrying me up the stairs and making love to me in my childhood bed.

This is Reid Alexander – the stuff of fantasy for ordinary girls. And in a few hours, this fantasy will be over. I’ll return to my life, and he’ll return to his.

Dori is as quiet on the drive back to the dorm as she was on the drive into the city two nights ago. I slide into a rare open parking spot and offer to walk her in, but she has that exam to study for, and if I get out of this car, there’s the possibility I’ll be recognized – and she clearly doesn’t need to deal with that right now.

We angle over the centre console to kiss goodbye until I murmur, ‘Screw this,’ slide my seat back as far as it will go and pull her into my lap. ‘Mmm. Better.’ Pushing my hand into her hair, I draw her mouth to mine and kiss her deeply, every slide of my tongue against hers, every shared caress a declaration of all she means to me.

Inhaling shakily, she rests her head against my shoulder. ‘You didn’t exactly encourage a lot of study time this weekend, you know.’ Her hand lies over my heart.

‘Well,
I
got plenty of study time. I’m pretty sure I could pick you out of a line-up of only belly buttons or kneecaps or pinkie toes now … let alone the parts I committed to
memory ages ago. For instance – I could have identified you by those delicious lips two days after meeting you.’

She blinks up at me and tilts her head back on my arm. ‘But you didn’t kiss me until, you know, the pink closet.’

I fix her with a suggestive look. ‘I remember – but those lips were one of the first things I noticed about you. I couldn’t stop thinking about them, on or off site. I kissed you a hundred times in my imagination, and once I’d actually kissed you, all I could think about was doing it again.’ I run the pad of my thumb across her plump lower lip, recalling all the wretched time I spent trying to move on, trying to forget her. It had taken no more than two seconds of seeing her face again to realize that I hadn’t forgotten a damned thing.

I wish I could read her mind. She’s a pensive, deep-thinking girl, and it’s not unusual for her to stare into space, lost in her thoughts. Normally, I’m fascinated when she does this – the shifting emotions crossing her face, marked by faint smiles, frowns or grimaces. That’s not how I feel now, when I can’t escape the uneasy awareness that her contemplations concern me.

‘What are you thinking about?’

She blinks distractedly, and then stares up at me with eyes so dark and fathomless that I’m sure I’ll never know all the mysteries behind them. Even if I can’t follow her when she withdraws inside herself like this, I want her to know that I’ll always be there to pull her back to solid ground before she goes under. That I won’t let go.

‘I don’t want to say goodbye,’ she says, her eyes shining.

‘Then don’t say it,’ I say, ignoring the subtle premonition in her words. Ignoring the fact that she’s not asked a single question about River, or Brooke, or the adoption. Ignoring my own hunger to hear her tell me, just once, that she loves me.

Wendy told me I might get a new mama. That I might go live with her.

The social lady came to talk to me about it – her name is Kris. She comes to talk to me sometimes. About Mama. Or about Wendy. Or about how I feel or what I think when I hide food. She said that I was just going to talk to the lady who might want to be my mama (except Kris said
mother
, not
mama
). Then she said, ‘Can you draw me a picture about that?’

That’s what they always want me to do. Draw a picture.

I don’t want a new mama. I want to stay here with Wendy, and I wish Sean would find a new mama instead. But I don’t know how to draw that.

‘So, what you’re telling me is – we’re making a
scrapbook
.’ Reid lifts an eyebrow and gives me a look of undisguised bafflement. Photos and scrapbooking supplies – borrowed from my stepmother – are spread across the huge, scarred farm table in Kathryn’s kitchen where we sit side by side on a bench seat.

‘My caseworker, Sheldon, calls it a
Life Book
. But yeah, basically, it’s a scrapbook.’

‘And we have to do this because …?’

I heave a sigh. I can’t blame him – crafts are something neither of us does without a damned good reason, if ever. ‘River’s caseworker will give it to him, to show him who we are and where we live. Where he will live. Hopefully, his foster mother will read what we write to him. Sheldon says some kids are thrilled shitless to leave their foster homes, and some aren’t – so this helps.’

Reid laughs. ‘Sheldon the social worker said
thrilled shitless
?’

I shrug and laugh too. ‘Sheldon’s pretty laid back.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m just trying to imagine Dori ever saying that to a client.’ One corner of his mouth turns up. ‘Nope. Nothing doing.’

Not for the first time, I wonder about this girl who’s so unexpectedly significant to Reid. He pulls his phone from his front pocket and checks it for the third time in the past half-hour. Whatever he’s looking for, it isn’t there.

‘While you’ve got that out, let’s go hook it up to my computer so we can print out the photos you took.’ I get up and he follows me down the hallway to my bedroom.

As I’m booting my laptop, he examines my room. There’s not a lot to it, frankly. I’m a minimalist everywhere I go. I stripped my apartment in LA of glass tables and white upholstery before I moved, but I don’t do cosy – not naturally, which worries me where River is concerned. What if
cosy
is required for a child his age? I’ve never painted walls anything other than some neutral tone. There were no photos out, anywhere in the apartment. My living-room furniture has never encouraged a spontaneous nap. I’ve never had a pet, not even fish. I kill plants.

‘You’re different here,’ Reid says.

I glance back at him as he’s scooting on to my bed, one long leg off the side, foot on the floor, the other angling so the sole of his boot doesn’t soil my white quilt. Reclining against the mound of pillows, he folds his hands behind his head, forearms flexed below the haphazardly rolled-up sleeves of his light blue button-down. His head tips to the
side as he inspects the room, and me, and I turn back to the computer to keep from squirming.

I know what he means, I think – I’m just not sure whether I care for his spontaneous appraisal. I like being looked at when I know I’ve taken pains to look hot. Such is not the case at the moment. Ignoring both my blow-dryer and flat-iron, I haven’t bothered to tame my naturally messy waves into the sleek, blonde waterfall mane I’m famous for. I’m wearing a long-sleeved thermal T-shirt in a plain heather grey over worn boot-cut jeans and my favourite leather-tooled Ariat boots. Nothing about me says
LA
right now – or Hollywood.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, feigning unconcern as I pull up the photo folder labelled
Life Book
.

He considers before he speaks – which is either thoughtful or shrewd. ‘It’s more than just how you’re dressed, or the lack of make-up – though that’s noteworthy. Your body language and expressions are – I don’t know – more relaxed? And your accent is more prominent. You’re less …’

I turn around and fix him with a sardonic look. ‘Less stylish? Less sophisticated?’

‘I was going to say – less
counterfeit
. I know what you think of your mother, and how much you don’t want to be like her. But you
aren’t
like her. You were never like her. Your stepmother? She’s the one you sound like, by the way. I know that now that I’ve met her. Though your time in LA has probably weakened your accent permanently.’ He looks at me through dark, thick lashes some blonds would commit homicide for. ‘Which I’ve always believed to be a regrettable loss.’

‘What do you mean, counterfeit?’

His brows draw together. ‘You wear the LA-girl part well. But it’s a role, isn’t it? You were like this when I went by your apartment a few weeks ago too.
This
is the real Brooke Cameron.’

It takes everything I’ve got not to fall out of my chair. ‘Wow. When did you get to be so psychoanalytical? Is your girl responsible for this new, uncharacteristic awareness?’

He smiles. ‘Probably.’

‘Interesting. I think I need to meet her.’

‘You will, no doubt.’

I angle my head, struck by the thing I’ve just figured out. He’s in love with her. ‘You’re really serious about her.’

He nods, but doesn’t look happy. Hmm.

‘You did tell her about all this –’ I swirl a finger between us. ‘River, the adoption, et cetera … Right?’

He nods again, lips compressed. ‘She’s had to deal with some rough shit lately. It’s messed up her ability to trust.’

‘I’m sure
this
didn’t help any – or you keeping it from her.’

His mouth flattens and he shakes his head once. ‘Uh, no.’

‘So why’d you do it, Reid?’

‘Why did I keep it from her?’

‘No. That’s yours to puzzle out. I want to know why you’re doing this. Why you want to adopt River.’

He flicks a blade of grass from his boot – slick, trendy and black – not cowboy boots, like mine, not work boots, like something Graham might wear. Perfect LA boy. But in Austin – straight-up hipster. Not that he’d care.

‘I think it’s a by-product of who I’ve become since I’ve
known Dori. Since I was sentenced to work on that house. It’s like … I see issues I didn’t see before, and my connection to them. My obligation to do something, where I can.’ He looks me in the eye. ‘Where River is concerned, it’s a pretty hardcore responsibility.’

‘I’ve
only
ever felt that sort of responsibility where River is concerned,’ I admit. ‘I doubt I’ll ever have any weighty sense of social commitment, but I feel linked to River, even if I’ve never seen him.’

Shrugging, he says, ‘He’s part of you.’

I bring the laptop to the bed and sit, handing it to him. ‘He’s part of you too.’

He hooks up his phone and brings up the photos I asked for – of himself, his parents’ house and the room they’ve set aside for River.

‘Wasn’t this your bedroom?’ I recognize the placement of the windows and the dark sliding closet doors. It’s been five years, but I remember Reid’s bedroom better than which house or condo Mom and I were living in at the time.

‘I moved to my grandmother’s suite a couple of months after …’

‘After we broke up. You can say it. I won’t shatter, you know.’ We sit shoulder to shoulder on my bed, which seems as unbelievable as the subject we’re calmly discussing. ‘I know this might be difficult to hear, Reid, but I’m kind of over you.’

He smirks. ‘Yeah … when you went all Operation Graham last spring and deployed me to seduce Emma – I kinda figured that you were well over
me
.’

Graham again. I close my eyes and press my fingers to my chest.
Damn
.

‘Still upsets you, huh? I guess you really did love him. God, there’s no fucking way I’m ever taking Dori around that guy. Because seriously.’ His words are tongue-in-cheek, but the underlying tone is anything but.

‘Last spring, I was so sure I could deal with all-or-nothing,’ I say. ‘When I lost him, I knew that wasn’t true, but it was too late. In that moment, I’d have given anything to take it all back. Our friendship saved me –
he
saved me. No matter what I did or who I pretended to be, he was there for me. I don’t know who I’d be if it hadn’t been for him.’

Copying the photos over to my computer so we can print them out, Reid says, ‘I’m sorry I did that to you, Brooke.’

I shake my head. ‘It wasn’t you. I’ve realized some things in the past few days. Like how I felt when my father left – when he stopped paying any attention to me. I was forever looking for something, or someone, to fill that void.’ I send Reid’s photos to the printer in Glenn’s home office, shut my laptop and slide it off my lap. ‘There are empty places in all of us, and some of them will never be filled. You couldn’t fill the loss of my father, and I blamed that on you. Graham couldn’t fill it, and I thought it was because I needed more from him than friendship. But that was never true.’

He turns towards me. ‘Dori and I were friends first, I guess. But I don’t think I could ever be
just friends
with Dori, even though that part of what we are is essential. I’ve wanted her almost from the beginning, and being with her only makes me want her more. It would kill me to be around her
and never touch her. Maybe you’d reached that point with Graham.’

I shake my head. ‘See, that’s the stupid part. I
hadn’t
. I convinced myself of that, but it was a lie. You and Dori – you’ve begun a relationship. Friendship only would be a step back that you don’t want to make. But Graham never felt that way about me. Never. We were best friends for four years, Reid.’ Tears spill down my face. ‘I threw away the closest relationship of my entire life – aside from Kathryn – on a gamble to get something he’d made it very clear he never wanted.’

Reid slides his arms around me and pulls me to his chest. I haven’t cried about Graham in months. Instead, I’ve made myself endure that deep burn in my chest – the one that reminds me what I did – without giving myself the release of tears.

‘I called Graham about the adoption.’ Reid starts and looks down at me, surprised. I take a shuddering breath. ‘I knew River’s caseworker was going to call him, and I was afraid of what he might say to her. He told me I couldn’t use River to fill my need for affection.’

Pulling away, I grab a tissue and look back at Reid, whose shirt is wet with my tears. ‘Reid, River lost the only parents he’s ever known. And he’s understandably attached to Wendy, which will be another loss. If we do this, we can’t back out.’ I take his hand and stare into his eyes. ‘Please don’t do this if you can’t be there for him. If you’re going to start a new family some day and leave him behind. He doesn’t need any more hollow places.’

Staring down at our hands, he says, ‘I’ve thought for years that my father wasn’t there for me, but he was. He was present – even if he didn’t get me at all most of the time. Even if he didn’t pay as much attention as he should have.’ Returning his gaze to mine, he says, ‘I’ll be present, Brooke. I don’t want to make promises I can’t live up to, but I’ll try my best to be more than present. Just promise me that if I fuck up, you’ll call me on it. And you’ll give me the chance to make it right.’

I nod. ‘Okay.’

Reid twitches his hair back and opens a palm. ‘So. Does
every
girl I know have to turn insightful all at once? I mean hell – I know I’m shallow, but Jesus. You’d think
somebody
would be content to remain superficial, just to keep me company.’

The weight leaves the conversation, and I’ve unburdened myself – to
Reid
– without being demeaned for it. His wisecrack allows me to swim back to a place where my feet can touch the bottom.

‘Like John?’

‘Oh, right,’ he laughs. ‘I forgot about John. Dude, I’m so covered.’

When Dori didn’t answer texts or calls yesterday, I didn’t freak out. She had classes all day, including that statistics exam she was worried about. It was her birthday, though,
and I didn’t get to talk to her. I told myself that her friends probably took her out to celebrate.

Even if it would have taken her thirty seconds to return a text.

Now it’s Tuesday, she’s still not replied, and every passing hour makes it harder to pass off her radio silence as the demanding life of a college student or a dead phone battery. I wonder if she’s okay. I wonder if her parents would even try to call me if she wasn’t. And then I wonder if I should call them. I try to remember her friends’ names. (Kayla something. Aimee something. Shayma something.)

I’m not cool with the direction my thoughts are taking, because I
don’t
do clingy or needy or dependent or possessive.

I’ve spent most of the day with Brooke, first at her attorney’s office with Dad, and now at Kathryn’s house making a scrapbook about us for River. After printing out photos of ourselves and parts of LA – hiking trails, parks, his bedroom-to-be at each of our respective places – we glue-stick them on to the pages, like kindergarteners.

‘So, how do we plan to explain
our
relationship to him, since we’re planning to move him from the one home he knows … into two he doesn’t know at all? Two parents who are already separated – that might be confusing.’

Brooke chews one side of her lip, thinking. ‘Hmm. Well, we need to convince him that we’re friends. That we aren’t going to drag him into a tug-of-war. All our self-portraits are separate. Are there any photos in existence of the two of us together, happy? But not, you know,
happy
-happy.
Maybe something taken during
School Pride
?’ Glancing at my dubious expression, she waves a hand. ‘Yeah, never mind. We pretty much loathed each other for the duration of that whole thing …’

After today’s revelations, I feel even worse about how I treated Brooke then. Seriously, having a conscience is ass. ‘The only friendly one I know of is from five years ago – the one that got printed along with the pics of us at LAX a couple of weeks ago, along with all the theories about why we were flying together.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Right? Because nothing coincidental ever happens to celebrities.’ She thumps herself in the forehead and grabs her phone. ‘
Duh
. Let’s just take one
now
. Lean in.’

We lean our heads together and smile, and she takes two or three shots. After we choose one and she sends it to her laptop, I say, ‘You know what the media is going to do with this story, right? River. Us.’

Sighing, she nods. ‘I’m not sure what slant they’ll take, but they’ll probably either try to make us into a pre-packaged little family, or we’ll be the new young Hollywood poster children for teen irresponsibility. Like having a child is comparable to being jailed and rehabbed non-stop for a coke addiction. I wouldn’t care what they say about me –’