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

  ‘So where are you tonight?’ I keep my voice low, despite the fact that Shayma’s got her headphones in place and wouldn’t hear a word I say if I was conducting this call in song.

  ‘New York. We have Good Morning America tomorrow.’

  I glance at the time, which is approaching 10:00 p.m. ‘Isn’t it getting late there?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m three hours ahead of you right now.’

  ‘What time is your interview?’

  ‘Not sure what time they’ll do the interview – but we head for the studio in about four hours.’

  ‘Four hours – don’t you need your beauty sleep?’

  ‘Do I? Hold on – I’ve got another call –’ There’s a pause while he checks the display. ‘Never mind. That can go to voicemail.’

  ‘It’s not your mom, is it?’

  ‘No,’ he laughs. ‘Looking out for my mom now, Dori? God, you’re cute. It’s just Brooke.’ He clears his throat. ‘No big deal. I can talk to her tomorrow – or whenever.’

  ‘Brooke … Cameron? Why is she calling you? Wait. Scratch that. It sounds like something a jealous girlfriend would say.’

  ‘Jealous? Rawr. I like the sound of that,’ he encourages, and I wish he wouldn’t. ‘So, classes begin tomorrow? What’s up first?’

  Outwardly, I launch into a loose explanation of my schedule: intro courses in statistics, psychology, sociology and cultural anthropology. I tested out of a number of required prereqs. Advanced English took care of reading and comprehension, and my four years of Spanish – in addition to the fact that I used it nearly daily during community service projects – dispatched my foreign language requirement. I’m not as behind as I feared I would be, starting a semester late.

  Internally, I’m wondering why Reid is getting late-night calls from Brooke Cameron, who is exactly the sort of girl I’d have imagined him with months ago, when he showed up – condescending, obnoxious and oh-so beautiful – on my Habitat project. The fact that they used to date, and I dare not even think about what else, just makes it more difficult to ignore the fear.

  What competition would you be, if a girl like that decides she wants him?

  ‘I miss you,’ he says then, and I mash my insecurity into a corner.

  ‘I miss you too.’

  10

  RIVER

  I don’t remember Mama’s face. I remember parts of it, but not all of it together. Sometimes I dream about her and I know I can see her in the dream, but when I wake up I can’t remember. Even if I squeeze my eyes closed really tight and try.

  I don’t remember Daddy at all.

  Harry told me I didn’t even have a daddy and that I am a bastard. He told me that a lot of times. I don’t know what bastard means, but I know it’s bad because Wendy’s eyes got big when Sean grabbed my shirt and called me that.

  Now he has to do a time-out.

  I feel bad because I took Sean’s Fruit Roll-Up and hid it in my pyjama drawer. I don’t know how he knows I took it, but he does. He tells Wendy, ‘But he stole my cherry Roll-Up!’

  She shakes her head. ‘Then you come talk to me. You know that word is on the Never List, and furthermore you can’t go all vigilante justice in this house.’

  ‘Huh?’ he says.

  She shakes her head again and sighs like she’s tired, and then she takes his arm and puts him on a kitchen chair. She sets the timer for six minutes because Sean is six so that’s how many time-out minutes he gets. His face is as red as that cherry Roll-Up and his eyes are angry and looking at me.

  ‘River. Come with me,’ Wendy says, and I follow her to the bedroom. When we get there, she stands in the middle of the floor and opens her hand. I go to the drawer and get Sean’s Roll-Up and give it to her. It still has the wrapper on. I’m glad I didn’t eat it.

  She slips the Roll-Up into her shirt pocket and takes my hand. We sit on my bed.

  Her mouth makes a straight line, like she’s holding her words in. You don’t have to press your lips together to hold words in, though. I opened my mouth wide one time to see if the words I was thinking would fall out, but they wouldn’t. If words don’t want to come out, they don’t. I don’t understand when people say things and then they say, I didn’t mean to say that. Words don’t just fall out. You have to push them out. And sometimes, you can’t push them out, even if you want to.

  I count to nine in my head before Wendy says, ‘River, you can’t take other people’s things. It’s bad enough when you hide your own food, but you can’t take other people’s food and hide it too. Do you understand?’

  My eyes get full of tears and I nod once and look down at my lap, which makes them run down my face. I wipe them on my T-shirt sleeve and chew my bottom lip. It tastes like the tears now. Like salt.

  ‘All righty then.’ She pats my knee and looks at her watch. ‘You sit right there till you hear Sean’s timer ding. Time out. Four minutes.’

  I want to ask her what a bastard is. Maybe a bastard is somebody who steals other people’s food. Or just somebody you hate.

  I hate Harry, and I would like to call him a word from the Never List. I remember his face, and I wish I didn’t. I remember his face, and I can’t remember Mama’s. Harry is a bastard, I think. I wish I could forget him.

  REID

  On the elevator up to my manager’s office, I was at war with myself – should I tell him about Brooke, the kid, the adoption … or not? I knew from the start that if there was any possibility of my alleged paternity going public, George would have to know to have any shot at doing career damage control.

  I’ve never worried that what I tell him will leave his office – it’s like a confessional, without the claustrophobic booth or the Hail Marys. Even so, uncomfortable revelations made to George – or my parents – have always been on a need-to-know basis. There’s a shitload that none of them knows, but the fact that I have a four-year-old son dwarfs everything else to hell.

  Undecided one way or the other, I found my manager in a rare, unfocused frame of mind. He didn’t inspect me for indications of suppression, though I knew it was rolling off me like overzealously applied body spray. If he was paying attention, he’d be able to tell, every time. Sitting back, he’d just eye me patiently and wait for me to come clean.

  I realized uneasily that he was starting to trust me.

  All I could think was Damn, what crap timing for that.

  George detailed the bitch of a promotion schedule for Mercy Killing (killer promo is a good thing, because if no one wants to talk to you, your movie is dead in the water), while inside the front pocket of my jeans, my hand gripped my phone like it was either a grenade or a gold bar. Damn if Brooke wasn’t the queen of mind-blowing text photos. As my manager droned, I struggled to concentrate on the three weeks of heavy promotion Chelsea Radin and I were about to do and prayed that something would stop Brooke from her insane resolution.

  George and I spoke about Dori, of course – he’d seen the gossip sites, and I told him that yes, we were dating, and yes, it was serious. After a moment spent eyeing me like he was waiting for the punchline to an unfunny joke, his mouth quirked. ‘Huh.’

  I told him I was inviting her to the premiere, but called five minutes ago to let him know I’m taking my mother instead, at Dori’s suggestion.

  After a moment of silence, he scoffed, ‘Who is this, and what have you done with Reid Alexander?’

  ‘Haha,’ I said.

  *

  Standing in the hotel bathroom post-shower, I wrap a towel around my waist. My razor is charged and ready to give me the perfect shaved-yesterday trim. While I wait for the steam to subside, I shift between watching myself gradually emerge in the steamed-up mirror, like a suspended, developing image in a darkroom, and staring, again, at the photo Brooke texted.

  Some children don’t resemble their fathers. I look nothing like Mark Alexander, for example. But this child, next to me, would be like seeing John next to his dark lord CFO father – too much resemblance to be anything
but related.

  Zooming in on the kid’s face, I compare his features to mine. Similar face shape. Same eye colour. Same mouth – full, almost feminine. I got into my fair share of fights as a boy over my girly lips. Until I got to be around eleven and it became clear that girls weren’t bothered by that fullness. Quite the opposite, in fact. I wonder if anyone will tell him that.

  River’s mouth isn’t smiling, and I wonder if he ever laughs. The straight, pale lines of his eyebrows are barely there at all, and their shape, too, matches mine. But where my straight brows express confidence, and when necessary – conceit, he just looks … solemn.

  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 s
ure 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.