Here Without You (12 page)

‘Brooke, where
are
you? I heard a rumour that you’re in
Texas
. Is that
true
?’ Janelle’s voice is a bit overly-screechy before my second cup of coffee. Truthfully, it’s screechy all the time. I love her, but
Christ
, when she’s worked up, her voice could pierce steel. I hold the phone a foot away from my ear, only bringing it close to speak.

‘Okay, what the hell. Where are these rumours coming from? You’re the second person who’s asked me that.’

‘So you aren’t in Texas? You and Chandler have multiple promo commitments in the LA area this week, starting tomorrow –’

Glenn shuffles into the kitchen, but stops and turns when he hears the voice blaring from the receiver. When I roll my eyes and mouth
Janelle
, he shakes his head and chuckles.

My stepfather is in the oil business. After decades growing his career in the field, he moved into management a few years ago. He’s good at his job because he’s firm but
easygoing, traits that served him equally well as a stepfather to Kelley and Kylie. All things Hollywood confound and amuse Glenn.

‘Yeah, Janelle, I know.’

‘– so I just need to ascertain that you’ll be there,’ she continues as though I haven’t spoken, ‘unless something needs to be rescheduled …’ Her tone says that had better not be the case unless someone is dying. Namely, me.

‘No rescheduling necessary, Janelle. I had to run home to deal with some family issues, but I’m coming back to LA later today.’

Over the rim of his coffee cup, Glenn’s brows rise. I shake my head. I’m not ready to spill everything to my agent just yet. Especially knowing that conversation is going to include me telling her that in all likelihood, I’m going to turn down
Paper Oceans
. She may attempt to have me committed.

‘Oh, thank goodness,’ Janelle says. ‘I was just telling Amaris …’

My phone beeps and I check the screen easily, since I’m holding it away from my head.

Graham
.

My mouth goes dry and I have to remind myself to breathe.

‘Janelle,’ I interrupt. ‘
Janelle
– I’ve got another call – I’ve got to take this. I’ll call you when I’m home tonight.’ I’m already grabbing what’s left of my tepid coffee and walking back to my room when I flash over. I try and fail to sound composed instead of freaked out. ‘Hello?’

‘Brooke. Emma said you called.’ His tone is guarded,
non-committal, but his voice is so very familiar. My eyes fill and I swallow, suddenly at a loss for words.

‘Brooke?’ he repeats.

‘I’m here. I guess … I didn’t think you’d call. Thank you.’

‘I just want to know what you want. Don’t thank me yet.’

‘Okay. Okay.’ I take a deep breath. ‘A few weeks ago, I hired an investigator to check on the baby I gave up – just to make sure he was okay. I was having nightmares about him. I thought if I could find out he’s happy and healthy, the nightmares would stop and I could just … go on with my life.’

He makes no comment. The old Graham, in our old friendship, would have asked me some question. But I destroyed that relationship. I killed his trust and his care for me.

I close my bedroom door and sit on my bed. I have to do this for River. What I’ve lost is not of any consequence.

‘He’s in foster care. He was removed from his adoptive home by CPS.’

Hesitantly, he says, ‘That’s what Emma said. Do you know why?’

I feel a rush of gratitude for his question, and for the first time, I entertain the hope that he’ll listen. That maybe, for River’s sake, he can stop hating me long enough to not prevent me from getting him.

‘I don’t know all of it. I know his adoptive father died, but I don’t know how. I know his adoptive mother became a meth addict, and that she went into court-ordered rehab at least twice, and that she failed both times. I know that
no relatives have stepped forward to take him – my PI is working on information about them. He’s been in foster care for months.’ Tears are rolling down my face. ‘Bethany Shank – my PI – gave me a photo of him.’

When my voice breaks, I hear a soft whoosh of breath from Graham and I think,
Please-oh-please don’t think I’m faking this
. ‘He’s so small. And he looks so sad. He needs me, Graham. That’s why I applied to adopt him –’

‘What?’ I know that he’s frowning now. Combing his dark hair back with one hand. Closing his eyes and shaking his head twice before opening them. ‘Emma said you told her you were trying to get him out of foster care – but we didn’t know what that meant, exactly. Adoption, Brooke?
You?
’

I’m trying so hard not to sound like I’m crying. My fingers press against that characteristic pain in my sternum, but nothing soothes the sharp burn of it, like a newly lit match, flaring to life just under my skin.

‘Yes. I’m all he’s got. It has to be me.’

He sighs. ‘It sounds like you mean well, and I can appreciate that you feel responsible for him, believe me. But he needs someone stable, someone … devoted to him. He’s just a little younger than Cara, right? You have no idea how much energy it requires to look after her, and I have my parents and my sisters. I have Emma.’

And you have no one
. He doesn’t say the words, but they hang there between us, as though he has.

‘Emma said you wanted a favour?’

‘Yes. His caseworker is going to call you. Maybe his
ad
litem
too. I don’t know what they’re going to ask, but please, just … just don’t say anything that will make me lose him. Please, Graham.’

I count my own heartbeats as they pulse through my ears.
One. Two. Three. Four
.

‘You really want this, don’t you? My concern is – why? He’s a child, Brooke. He can’t fill your need for affection. Children are owed love from their guardians – not the other way around.’

I would be offended, but in light of our history, and what he knows of me, it’s a valid question. ‘I understand why you’d think that. But if I’m getting anything from this, it’s a sense of doing the right thing. I’m scared. I’m terrified thinking about all I don’t know, and everything I could screw up. But he needs me. I have to do this.’

‘What if he has needs you can’t fill? What if he’s been hurt so badly that you can’t help him?’

‘Then I’ll get him the help he needs. I’ll keep trying. I’m goddamned stubborn, Graham. If nothing else, you know that about me.’

I envision the wry, reluctant smile on his face. ‘Yes. I do.’

I could say I looked for an opening, some time in the twelve hours I spent with Dori, to tell her about River.

But that would be a lie. And right now, my only lie is of omission.

I could say that every day that goes by, the guilt is heavier, but that’s not exactly true, either. What I feel is fear. Fear that if she finds out – no matter how, from my mouth or someone else’s – she won’t vacillate. She won’t bother with the semantics of
telling
a lie versus
not telling
the truth. She’ll see in black and white. She’ll ignore the grey.

This is a girl who seems to have lost a lifelong faith in
God
. Discarding her tenuous, newfound faith in me would be nothing next to that.

Besides, there’s a chance that Brooke will change her mind – as slim as that chance may be. Or that someone else will step up and take responsibility for him. That this secret will stay in the closet, where secrets belong. And maybe some day, I can tell Dori – when I don’t have this feeling that there’s a time clock ticking over my shoulder. Or maybe a bomb.

I don’t want to lose her. She’s more important to me than a boy I’ve never seen. A child I didn’t even think was mine, biologically, until a few weeks ago. I can’t be a father – not yet, and maybe never.

Dori said I have a good heart.

And there is where I find the guilt.

By a week prior to the premiere of
Mercy Killing
, I’ve been asked by multiple interviewers if I’m dating someone – though they hint about it slyly rather than framing the question plainly, to get around the studio’s constraint on the subject being broached directly. I give evasive answers and an oblivious smile. Today’s interviewer was a little pushier.

What’s funny is I don’t give a shit what the
studio
wants or doesn’t. This is about Dori, and her parents – and not giving them reason to hate me for dragging their daughter into my
debauched world
, as they like to term it. Not that I can argue. I’ve debauched with dedicated regularity and zeal for years.

I have more sympathy now for Emma’s ordeal during the
School Pride
promo tour last spring – not only having to deny the existence of her relationship with Graham, but having to pretend one with
me
at the same time. While I was doing everything in my power to sabotage their relationship. Christ, I was such an asshole.

George began negotiating the ‘official’ stance on my love life with the studio last week, when I made it clear I had no intention of denying my relationship with Dori once it comes to light. ‘And it will,’ I added. ‘I’m just easing her into the spotlight.’
Along with her parents
.

‘So you’ll agree to wait until after the release to announce the relationship publicly?’ he asks now,
again
. George knows me too well.

‘Yeah, sure – in theory. But if someone shows me a photo of Dori and says, ‘Is this your girlfriend?’ I’m
not
saying she isn’t.’ I park in the gated lot of Brooke’s exclusive complex and let the engine idle while we wrap up.

‘Noted.’ He clears his throat. ‘One more thing – I’ve been contacted by a social worker in
Texas
– and asked to pass along a request for you to return the call. Something to do with a court case? He said it involved confidential information that he couldn’t discuss with anyone but you. I don’t
suppose you want to let your
manager
in on what that’s about, if you happen to know?’

The blood in my veins turns to ice, and my hand grips the gear shift as though it will keep me from being sucked out of the open window of my car. Brooke said she wouldn’t connect me, but clearly, she lied. This is my chance to tell George everything, but I’m immobilized. ‘Uh, I don’t know – I can give him a call and see what it’s about.’

His sigh reveals his suspicion that I’m withholding something critical. ‘I’ll email his information. Give me a call back if there’s something I need to … oversee.’

I go from fuming to dumbstruck when Brooke opens her door. Brooke is like my mother in a few ways – one of them being the fact that she always looks as though she could grab a bag and go straight to a club or some posh event without so much as checking the mirror.

My mother wears designer clothes around the house. She always has. Even when she’s drunk – when she
was
drunk, I correct myself, because it’s been so long since I’ve seen her that way – she was stylish and well groomed. A little off, but not by much.

It’s not that Brooke looks
off
.

She’s Brooke … from five years ago.

Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, tendrils escaping around her face. Thin gold hoops dangle from her ears, but she’s not wearing make-up. Her eyes are big and blue in her very young face.

When we were going out, she would occasionally dig
through my dresser drawers and take a pair of jeans, and I was content to let her. She’d ditch whatever trendy pair she was wearing – shimmying out of them while I watched her, breathless – and pull mine on. They’d hang perfectly on her slim hips, fitting her the same way they fitted me when I had a boy’s body – the one I outgrew a couple of years ago.

‘Ahhh,’ she’d say, dropping on to my bed. ‘Much better.’

All I could think about was how to get her back out of them.

The worn jeans she’s currently wearing could be one of the three or four pairs she appropriated from me back then, though I’m fairly certain she either shredded them with a giant set of shears or burned them in some sorcerous ritual after we broke up. She’s barefoot – her toenails polished blood red – and wearing a plain, fitted white T-shirt.

Silent, she gestures for me to enter, and I follow her through a maze of boxes and into her living room. I don’t remember exactly what her place looked like when I was here last, because I’ve only been here once, and it’s been almost a year – but several things appear to be missing. And then there are the boxes.

Frowning curiously, I turn back to her. ‘Moving?’

She nods. ‘I’ll need two bedrooms. And most of my décor isn’t exactly child-friendly.’

She says this as though it’s normal for such sentences to be said between us. Or for the phrase
child-friendly
to come from her mouth,
ever
.

She perches in a black leather chair and I take its twin
– these make up the only furniture in the room, aside from a nearly empty bookcase.

I begin first, pre-empting whatever plan she had for the direction of this conversation. ‘My manager got a call for me from a social worker in Texas. He wouldn’t tell George what he wanted, but I’m pretty sure it has to do with you – or, you know, River.’

She takes a deep breath, staring at the interlocked hands in her lap, and a distinct feeling of unease creeps over me.

‘Yes, that’s why I asked you to come over.’ She sighs, and I think,
Oh, no
. ‘I had to tell them.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘That you’re his birth father.’

My jaw drops. ‘What do you mean you
had
to tell them –’

Her eyes flash up. ‘I had to fill out an eighteen-page questionnaire, Reid. It asked the most personal questions you could imagine, and Norman, my attorney, warned me to be utterly truthful, or I could risk a denial before we even got started.

‘So I told them about my home-wrecking mother, and my cheating father. The fact that I was illegitimate because my
father
was still technically
married
to Kathryn
when I was born. The fact that my mother frequently slapped me across the face when I pissed her off, starting so young that I don’t remember the first time she did it. I had to reveal my sexual history and experience – all of it. My relationships with my stepfathers and stepmothers and my experience with children – which is of course zero.’