Here Without You (Between the Lines #4) Paperback Read online

  Travel is nothing unusual for me. Though getting from one place to another via various airports is tedious as all get-out, it’s just something to endure. It’s not panic-inducing, for chrissake. Even so, my flight leaves in three hours, and every time I think about landing in Austin, I feel like I’m going to puke.

  One wheeled Louis Vuitton bag waits by the front door, and in ten minutes the other will join it, ready for the car service to transport me to LAX. I’ve put off calling Reid back, still unused to voluntarily sharing information with him. Doing so borders on trust – something altogether unnatural in conjunction with Reid Alexander. But I said I’d keep him posted, so I dial his number, fully expecting to go to voicemail.

  Instead, he answers, annoyingly cheerful. ‘Hey, I was just about to call you.’

  Balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear, I sweep a load of cosmetics from the vanity counter into a travel bag and zip it shut. ‘You know this is Brooke, right?’

  ‘I looked this time. Aren’t you proud?’

  What right does he have to be so fucking happy? Oh, yeah. Because he’s Reid Alexander, who checks out of any sense of responsibility over anything ever. ‘Glancing at your screen before answering your phone is a debatable source of pride, Reid, though I guess you have to take it where you find it.’

  He ignores the barb. ‘So what did you find out?’

  Am I actually talking to Reid, or has some alien taken over his body? He’s too happy to be ill. Though I sure as hell know crazy people can be irrationally happy. ‘Uh, well, Bethany brought a photo of him –’

  ‘Really? Wow.’

  ‘– and like I told you, he’s in foster care. Long-term foster care.’

  ‘What do you mean – “long-term”?’

  ‘The parental rights of his adoptive mother were officially terminated months ago. Her husband died a couple of years ago – Bethany’s checking on how, not that it matters. It looks like she started using meth after that and didn’t care who she took down with her. She’s been through court-ordered treatment twice and blew it both times, so she’s never getting him back.’ I think about a two-year-old River, left with no father and a drug-zombie of a mother – and I stuff two pairs of jeans into my case with more force than necessary. ‘I don’t know where she is now – jail, crack house, on the streets hooking for daily hits – and I don’t care.’

  ‘Jesus. Wow.’

  I roll my eyes at his second wow. I’m so not in the mood for his incredulity. Not when I’m damned sure he’s going to drop this cold as soon as he knows what I’m about to do.

  ‘I’m going to Austin.’

  If question marks were audible, I’d have just heard one from his end.

  ‘That’s where he is – just south of Austin.’

  ‘So you’re going to go to Austin to – what?’ Suspicion laces his tone, not so glib now, like he’s finally getting it.

  I told Kathryn and Bethany Shank that this trip was part responsibility, part curiosity, but that was stretching the truth. This child I’ve never seen or held exerts a deep, gravitational sort of draw. Against all odds, I feel a bond between us that has for four years surfaced on his birthday only. It isn’t mere curiosity pulling me to Texas and I know it.

  ‘I’m going to check on his situation. I’m going to find out … if I can get him back.’

  Silence. Dead silence. I wish I could reclaim the words and leave them unsaid. It figures that Reid would be the one I blurt the whole truth to.

  ‘Brooke, the kid’s not a pair of Lanvin slingbacks. You can’t just put in an order at Barney’s and pick him up later. You gave up your rights to him. He can be adopted by someone else now, right? You gave him away –’

  ‘I know that, Reid. Don’t you think I fucking know that?’

  I hate that he put it that way – gave him away. As if I sacrificed nothing to do it and traipsed off scot-free, like he did.

  ‘Yeah, okay, okay – but no one’s going to let you disrupt his life now just to –’

  ‘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.
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br />   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.

  REID

  ‘Ready?’ I ask her, and it won’t be the last time tonight I do so. We’re in a short line of cars waiting for the valet.

  Unhooking her seat belt, she takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders, as if she’s preparing for a challenging Olympic performance instead of a night out. Her huge brown eyes turn to me as she nods. ‘Ready.’

  I suppress a laugh and lean to kiss her temple. ‘This will all be over soon, and we’ll be old news. I promise.’ These words have a fifty-fifty chance of becoming truth. Same chance of turning out to be entirely false … but I prefer to be optimistic about my promises.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, so very serious. And trusting. Which is why tonight, I chose one of the places celebrities go when we want to feel a bit like ordinary people – ordinary, wealthy people who don’t have to endure being photographed everywhere they go: Chateau Marmont. Paparazzi aren’t allowed into the long bricked drive, let alone up the steps or inside. Cameras are completely prohibited in the restaurant, in fact – and unlike some Hollywood spots, that decree is strictly enforced. Not that obsessive fans don
’t ever break the rules and get away with it – but dinner on the patio is a dark, candlelit affair. Good luck getting off a perfect shot with a cell phone and no flash.

  The valet exchanges keys and a ticket with the driver in front of us and I slide my fingers down Dori’s arm, taking her hand. ‘Have you been here before?’

  She laughs as though that’s the most ridiculous question ever posed. ‘Uh, no. I’ve heard about it, though. Does that count?’

  ‘Hmm. I’ll allow half a point for knowledge of it. Sounds like we might need to schedule a weekend in the penthouse, though. Or maybe you’d prefer one of the cottages.’

  She smiles up at me. ‘A cottage?’ Of course she’d be more intrigued by a creaky, cloistered 1930s bungalow than a sumptuous, high-ceilinged suite with patio views of Sunset and the West Hollywood hillside. ‘That sounds like a storybook suggestion. Should I bring my red hoodie and a picnic basket?’

  ‘Only if you’re going to say, Oh, Reid, what a big –’

  ‘Stop!’ she laughs, pressing her hand to my mouth. ‘Don’t you dare finish that thought!’

  I run a finger over the curve of her ear, knowing it would be bright pink if I could discern the colour in the dim confines of the car. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that …’

  Adorably prim, she purses her lips and changes the subject. ‘Staying at a hotel in the city where you live seems like an impractical thing to do, though I guess that’s normal for celebrities.’

  ‘You’ve never done that?’ My last in-LA hotel stay was at Brooke’s insistence, when her whole convoluted plan to lure Graham away from Emma blew up in her face.

  Dori shrugs lightly, glancing forward as I pull up to the valet stand and remember that her high-school jerk of a boyfriend took her to a motel when she turned fifteen, and then dumped her a month later – when he turned eighteen and she became jailbait.

  I’d like to beat the shit out of that guy, even if it has been nearly four years.