Here Without You (10 page)

‘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 sure 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.

People in a group attempt to fit together like puzzle pieces to make a uniform whole. A recognizable representation of the efforts and goals of the organization itself.

I used to think of two people in love like that. Like puzzle pieces, fitting together. But it’s not like that at all. Love pulls a part of you out, and it pulls a part of him – like taffy, stretching but not separating. The tendrils of each one wrap around the other, until they meld together. One, but not quite. Separate, but not quite. Like my parents.

And then there are those like Colin and me. He never shared a shred of himself, but I didn’t know it. I’d embedded myself into him because he wanted me to, and thought he did the same. But when he broke free, he ripped a part of me away. He retreated, unaltered, and I came apart, fractured and incomplete.

What Reid and I have, right now, is enough. I love him, and he loves me in a way Colin never did, but that’s no guarantee of forever. I don’t know when it will end, only that it will, and I want to protect us both. I can’t let myself become a part of him, and I can’t let him become part of me. So I won’t whisper the words to him, even if they’re true.

Shayma is tossing a change of clothes and her toiletries into her backpack. She’s spending the night with a friend, and leaving the room to me – and my boyfriend.

‘Are you sure it’s okay? You’re sure you don’t mind? We can go to a hotel –’

She shakes her head and laughs. ‘Will you stop? If I say I’m good – I’m good. Hotels are expensive.’

‘Uh …’

‘One tiny stipulation, though.’

‘Yeah?’ I say, distractedly glancing around the room. I can’t imagine Reid here. Our low-cost dorm room, the size of his closet, looks like a set of a movie in which he stars as an average, albeit very beautiful college guy – not somewhere he’d deign to spend the night.

‘I need to meet him.
Wait
. Two stipulations. Second stipulation: not on my bed,
mmkay
?’

My face goes sunburn-hot and my mouth falls open. ‘I – I would never –’

‘Wow.’ Her brows shoot up. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen somebody blush that hard. You’re like … 
maroon
.’

I hide my blazing face behind my hands, mortified.

‘So he’s driving from LA? Flying?’ She plops on to her bed, four feet across from me.

‘Flying.’

‘And you don’t need help picking him up, since you don’t have a car?’

‘No. I’m meeting him at the Starbucks. He’s going to … get a car from the airport.’

Her head angles. ‘Get a car … Like a rental? Like a taxi?’

I shrug. Shayma is one of the most low-key girls I’ve ever met. This level of curiosity from her is as weird as if the stuffed Cal-cap-wearing Golden Bear Deb bought for me two years ago – now sitting on my overcrowded desk shelf – suddenly struck up a conversation. I take a deep breath. If Shayma is going to meet Reid tonight, she might as well know it ahead of time.

‘Not exactly … more like the kind of car driven by a chauffeur.’

One eyebrow quirks up and her chin shrinks back. ‘A who? A what? Girl, you’ve got a man with
money
? No wonder you can afford to be a social welfare major.’

Shayma is studying international business, and plans to head for London or Hong Kong for graduate school.

I frown.

‘So he’s what – trust-funded? Or old? Oh shit – he’s from LA – is he Hollywood?’

My eyes widen. ‘Are you psychic, Shayma?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘You know I don’t believe in that crap. The only things that don’t lie in this world are numbers. My mawmaw thinks she’s a seer. Daddy says she’s always claimed to have second sight, but ever since I was a little child – when she predicted Kelly Clarkson winning the first
American Idol
– she’s sworn she’s a bona fide clairvoyant.’

We laugh, and then I take a deep breath. ‘So. My boyfriend. He’s …’ another breath, ‘Reid Alexander.’

She stares, blinks once and shakes her head a little, like she’s trying to clear water from her ears. ‘Did you just say
Reid Alexander
?’

I nod.

‘Well. Forget what I said about “not on my bed”.’

Rowena:
You in Austin?

Me:
Visiting family. I’ll be back in LA for promos soon. Will text with details.

Shit. Even for an industrious and thriving – thanks to me – paparazza, Rowena is scary-connected. I don’t like when she knows things I’m not ready for her to know, and this is too close. I don’t want the media getting wind of River – not yet. She knows better than to cross me, but it may be time for us to have a
come-to-Jesus talk
– a favourite phrase of my mother’s, which is odd considering her lack of a personal moral compass. I think even Jesus would pick up his skirts and run in the opposite direction if he saw my mother coming.

My stomach drops when I think about this news coming to light, and how it will be portrayed. Of course I knew there’d be no escaping public conjecture about River, but I haven’t considered the best way for it to go public in the first place.

I’ve always believed that my sex life and sexual history is no one’s business, but that freaking questionnaire stripped away that delusion. The media will be just as interested. More so. To them, everything is possible news fodder and nothing is sacred. The number one thing they’ll want to know:
Who’s the daddy?
Five years ago, I scrawled
unknown
on the form. I didn’t care how it looked to leave that line blank on his birth certificate. For myself, I still don’t care. But for River – how will that affect him?

I’ll have to control it, and the best way to do that is Rowena.

Everything has been turned in to the court – questionnaires, criminal background checks and drug tests (thank God it’s
been months since I smoked a joint and years since I tried anything stupider). Norman urged out-and-out candour about everything – the shoplifting to spite Mom at fourteen, the random recreational drug use, the abundant underage drinking, my sex life – the real one and the publicized one.

Lord knows there’s probably detailed evidence of every one of my sins somewhere. If I lie, something is sure to come back and bite me in the ass.

Now, according to Norman, we wait. Before we leave his office, he asks us to give him character references – three related, three non-related. Kylie and Kelley are going on my ‘related’ list, and, grudgingly, I decide my father would be better than my mother, given a choice between them – and Kathryn agrees.

Daddy.
There’s
a fun phone call for later. I doubt he’ll be pleased, but Kelley is pregnant, so it’s not like impending grandfatherhood could induce heart failure. I have no idea if he and wife Number Four plan to propagate, but with three ex-wives and five children, one would think he’d feel kind of been-there, done-that by now.

On the other hand, whenever he wants an empty nest, all he has to do is
leave
.

I nearly draw a blank on the three non-related sources, because the first person to come to mind is Graham. But of course, we’re not speaking. I stare at the form in my lap, swallowing the hot mix of guilt and grief. I print
MiShaun Grant
and copy her contact information from my phone. She’s the only actress in my age range for whom I have both
respect and a working phone number. I add Dana Scatio – the director of
Hearts Over Manhattan
. She loves me, and (bonus) was my most recent boss, of sorts.

‘What about Janelle, my agent?’ I ask. Note to self:
I need to inform Janelle about River
.

Norman frowns. ‘She’s an option, if you can’t think of anyone else.’ His expression says
That can’t possibly be true, can it?
‘Technically, she works for you and has a vested interest in getting you what you want, so she’s deemed a less reliably candid source. The caseworker will likely contact her when they do the sweep through everyone with whom you’ve had substantial interaction. These six are merely the ones you deem most likely to give a favourable, yet realistic depiction of you.’

I’m gripping the pen in my hand so hard that the metal clip bites into my palm, and my world goes a bit fuzzy at the edges. ‘Sorry – but did you just say they’re going to speak with … 
everyone
?’

In what’s left of my peripheral vision, Kathryn’s head pops up. Her gaze swings between Norman and me, and both she and Glenn have stopped writing. I’m sure they’re both having a tough time narrowing
down
to six people who will speak favourably of them.

‘Family, work relationships, close friends, ex-boyfriends – I’m afraid so.’ Norman regards me kindly from behind his folder-buried desk. ‘Not to worry – they don’t expect you to be perfect or universally loved.’

Universally loved?
Can there be anything in the history of catchphrases that applies to me
less
?
Oh, God.

‘They conduct these interviews to evaluate whether (a) you’re truthful and (b) you’ve got no detrimental personality disorders – anything that might prevent you from being a dependable parent to the child. It’s all about his best interest, as I’ve said. I know you’re tired of me saying that phrase, but it’s what matters to the court. Best get accustomed to it early on.’

Oh. My. God.

They’re going to call both of my parents. My ex-stepmothers and ex-stepfathers. They’re probably going to call Reid.

And they’re definitely going to call Graham.

‘Hello?’

Emma’s voice is exactly as I expected – clipped. Cold.

‘Emma, this is Brooke,’ I reply needlessly. She obviously recognizes my number.

Silence. Okay.

‘I’m calling …’ I close my eyes ‘… to ask a favour.’

She sputters a little. ‘A
favour
? How … what would Graham’s mom call it? How
cheeky
of you. But since Cara isn’t around, I’ll just say how goddamned
presumptuous
of you. What do you want, Brooke?’

What do I want? I want to hang up. Last year, I made a huge miscalculation where Emma was concerned. Where Graham was concerned. I never said anything to either of them afterwards, of course. Never tried to account for what I did, or beg forgiveness. I knew I was automatically evicted from his life. I didn’t need to hear him say it.

I rarely apologize. It’s not that I think I’m never wrong
– I just don’t care to admit it out loud. The only time I say
I’m sorry
is when there is literally no other way around saying it, or to get out of penalties that are possible to circumvent. Most consequences stick. That’s why they’re called consequences.

Eight months ago, there was no evading Graham’s banishment, and my way around a pointless
I’m sorry
was avoidance, plain and simple.

If I take that approach now, I could lose River. I take a breath and square my shoulders.

‘I need to talk to Graham –’

‘Of all the –’

‘Emma, I’m sorry. I fucked up. I totally fucked up. I wouldn’t bother you – either of you – and look, I’m calling
your
phone, not his. I’m asking your permission. I’m begging you for it. Please.’ My voice splinters at the end of this appeal, the last word sounding more like a sob. Fucking
hell
.

More silence.

‘Are you dying or something?’ she asks, and I can’t tell if she sounds more hopeful or regretful at the prospect.

‘Not yet.’

‘What do you mean
not yet
?’

‘I’m not – this isn’t about me, as such. Well, it’s only about me secondarily. It’s about … my son.’

‘Your what?’

‘The baby I gave up for adoption. His adoptive father died and his mother turned into a meth addict and now he’s in foster care and I’m trying to get him out.’