Here Without You (6 page)

‘Not only recent, but virtually unprecedented,’ John answers, proud to be the one to divulge this newsflash. As he escorts her to the next group, she throws an amused glance over her shoulder, and I’m convinced she can handle just about anything.

Kathryn offered to drive in and pick me up, but the flight is due to land close to midnight, and I have a downtown appointment at 9:00 a.m. There’s no reason to trek out to the sticks just to turn around in a few hours and come right back, in rush-hour traffic, no less. I set up car service and a hotel with an open-ended checkout instead – something my agent or manager would normally do, but I’m not even telling either of them I’m leaving LA, let alone the reason why. They’d freak out and blow up my phone with all the reasons I shouldn’t go.

What’s that thing they say about apologizing later instead of asking permission now? That could be the official Brooke Cameron motto.

My favourite part of flying first class is that I’m first on and first off – which means little to no interaction with my fellow passengers. That’s a luxury I’m happy to pay for. Tonight, my rowmate is some musician’s kid. I vaguely recognize him, but can’t recall which legendary lead-man-whore
fathered him. He ogles me with interest, but I’m not sure if he recognizes me. I check him out while he’s engrossed in an argument with the flight attendant over whether or not he can be served alcohol (‘But this is
first class
!’ he whines, as if she isn’t aware of that), and my short perusal leads to the conclusion that he can’t be a day over sixteen.

I slip my earbuds in, stare out the window and ignore him. Soon he’s playing an all-boobs-and-blood video game on his laptop, confirming his probable age.

By the time we land, all the airport shops are closed and the linked seating outside every gate is empty, the wide expanse of polished floor reflecting the methodical dots of yellow lighting in the main concourse. A large metal sign under a colourful collection of guitar art declares my hometown the ‘Music Capital of the World’. Pieces of this collection stand watch over empty baggage carousels, all but one of them motionless – probably my flight. I didn’t check a bag, so I don’t have to stop. I’m creeped out in such a huge, nearly unpopulated place, and my absurd imagination – courtesy two hours’ worth of gory video game imagery – suggests a zombie apocalypse.

I hightail it through the nearly deserted airport to the appointed exit, where a car waits at the kerb to transport me into the city I used to know so well. I’ve only been back three times in the past six years – the first to give birth to River, the second to film
School Pride
and the third to do a photo shoot promoting the film. Austin and I have grown and changed since I lived here, whether we welcomed those transformations or not.

I might be able to retrace my steps, but I can’t go back and choose an alternate path. Far too late for that.

I was fifteen when I went on location without parental supervision for the first time. Reid, a year younger, was the only cast member near my age. As minor characters, we had few scenes and were too often left to our own devices. We quickly formed an alliance against being bored out of our minds.

One afternoon during the first week, I sat on my trailer steps and watched as he attempted to perform a routine trick on the longboard he’d brought along. Over and over, he glided across the concrete, hooking the edge of the board and jumping simultaneously, but never quite landing it. He was so pretty. So cocky. So determined. So doing it
wrong
.

The fifth time he screwed up, he fell on his ass and I chuckled. Scowling, he swiped blood from his elbow and dared, ‘Why don’t
you
try it, if you think it looks so easy?’

I didn’t tell him that my stepsister Kylie was a skilled skateboarder, and I’d known how to pop-shove it like a pro since I was ten. Pretending ignorance, I listened as he explained the how-to. When I got a running start before jumping on to the board and pumping it even faster, he looked startled. With a practised flick of my foot, I flipped the board, landed it smoothly and glided by him wearing a cocky grin of my own.

As he walked up, I stepped off the board and popped it up and into my hand to give it back. Placing his hand atop mine instead of taking the board, he pushed right into my
personal space, eyes bright. ‘That was
awesome
,’ he said. ‘And
so
freakin’ hot. It makes me want to, like, kiss you or something.’

‘Okay,’ I said, heart pounding from the physical exertion, the anticipation of my first kiss, or both. If he was surprised by my instant acquiescence, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stepped closer, bracketed my waist with his hands and leaned to give me a kiss that was more like several small kisses in a row, each one better than the last.

I didn’t know then that he was experiencing his first kiss too. And his second. And his third.

The further I get from Reid, the more anxious I am. I don’t know any of these people, and I don’t know this roguish boy guiding me through the crowd with his hand at my lower back, either. I know he’s Reid’s best friend, but any time Reid tries to describe their relationship, he ends up shaking his head and shrugging. ‘You’ll see when you meet him. He’s just … John.’

So far, I’ve concluded that John is a habitual flirt and a shameless celebrity suck-up, and his language is as atrocious as Reid’s was (or more likely as atrocious as Reid’s
is
– I have no delusions that I’ve changed him, only that he attempts to abide by my limits when he’s around me). Judging by tonight’s spate of accolades concerning my education and social service record, John is also determined
to get on my good side. Or elevate me to sainthood by the end of the night.

I clear my throat to correct the erroneous statement he’s just made to a couple of girls lounging on his sofa – girls who are now appraising me curiously, as if I have extra limbs or a blue skin tone.

‘I’m not actually a
missionary
.’

He frowns. ‘But Reid said you went to Puerto Rico or Brazil to hand out shoes or bibles or something.’

‘Uh … I went to Ecuador to work as a volunteer music teacher at a mission school –’

‘Mission school. Right. So you’re like, a missionary.’

Oh my
word
. I take a breath. ‘Well, no – missionaries usually accept long term or even lifelong assignments; they’re dedicated to doing evangelical work as well as practical objectives like establishing schools or hospitals –’

‘But you just said you were helping run a school in Panama.’

I sigh, recalling Ana Diaz, my programme director in Quito who fights a daily, year-round battle against poverty, crime and uneducated parents who can’t imagine anything better for their children – who send them out to shine shoes or pickpocket or anything that might put food on the family’s table that night.

‘She said Ecuador,’ one of the girls says, scrutinizing my face. Like all the other girls here, she’s dressed casually, but something about the way the fabrics drape over her says
money
. Her eyes are dark and alert. I’m certain she can tell that I’m completely out of my element.

John shrugs. ‘Po-tae-to, po-tah-to.’

She rolls her eyes and mutters, ‘Idiot.’ John feigns an insulted gasp, voicing his unconcern over her opinion wordlessly. Ignoring him, she asks, ‘So, you’re Reid’s girlfriend?’

My heart flips over at the word and I nod, absorbing the disbelief in her crooked brow and swiftly repeated head-to-toe inspection.

‘I’m sorry, it’s just – you seem really … not his type.’

I flush and John turns me, saying, ‘No need to be a bitch, Jo –’

‘No.’ She leans forward. ‘I mean, she’s totally unlike his
last
girlfriend.’

John stops, turning back to her. ‘I
know
you don’t know Emma Pierce.’

‘Not her. The first one.’ Her lip angles in a sneer of disgust. ‘Brooke Cameron.’

My mouth falls open. Brooke Cameron – the beautiful star of
Life’s a Beach
with whom Kayla and Aimee have a love-and-hate-from-afar relationship. The girl who played Caroline in Reid’s last movie.
She
was once his girlfriend?

‘Jesus, that flaming disaster was like a hundred years ago. And you remember it?’ John laughs. ‘Obsessed much?’

‘Fuck you, John,’ Jo says, surging up, eyes flashing, drink sloshing on to her hand. ‘I’m not the one content to be his man-whore sidekick. No offence,’ she tosses at me.

‘Uh …’ I glance over my shoulder, looking for Reid and fighting claustrophobia.

‘God, okay you two – that’s enough.’ The other girl pipes up, her voice as tiny as she is. She stands, hands on hips,
glowering up at John. ‘I thought you were going to be nice.’

He pulls her in close with his opposite arm. ‘Maybe you should keep your roommate on a leash, Bianca. Or muzzled.’

‘John!’ She shoves him in the chest half-heartedly, the attraction between them obvious.

‘C’mon, Bianca.’ Jo stomps towards the bar setup in the corner.

Bianca heaves a groan, shakes her head and follows her friend.

Watching them go, lips flattened, John mumbles, ‘Well, that was nasty.’

‘Is Bianca your –?’ I stop, unsure how to classify her.

He takes the fluted glass from my hand, quaffs half the bubbly contents – champagne, I assume – and hands it back. ‘We’re on-again, off-again. Can’t stand her charming roommate, though, in case you didn’t catch that.’

‘Hmm. I hadn’t noticed.’

He smiles wolfishly at my sarcastic tone, and I begin to see the place where he and Reid connect. ‘I like you, Dori.’

‘Hey.’ Reid’s eyes are dark, one brow quirked as he draws me from John’s side. ‘Hands off, man. I don’t want to maim you at your own party.’ His threat is all for show, as is John’s theatrical palms-up. Reid’s voice goes softer and he angles his head in the direction taken by the girls. ‘And, uh, what was
that
about? Why is Jo even here?’

‘Bro, seriously – be realistic,’ John scoffs. ‘I can’t just invite a bunch of
guys
.’

The implication is unmistakable: there’s no avoiding some things, like the ghosts of Reid’s sexual past. There are too
many girls in his social circle, in this city, in this
country
, for us to avoid them all. His Hollywood Lothario reputation precedes him. My friends and even my parents are all too familiar with it. I’ve made it clear that I don’t want or need to hear the grisly details, and I think he was grateful he didn’t have to confess them.

I expect the general public to wonder what in the world he’s doing with me – I got a taste of that when I tripped and fell on top of him at the Habitat project last summer, sending the tabloids into merciless speculation. I expect to run into starlets and fans who want him, who’ve
been with
him, even, who might hate me on sight.

Pretty sure Jo is one of those.

But finding out that he was involved with Brooke Cameron for long enough that it was a known relationship?
He may have loved her.
That unforeseen possibility wells up, a reflux of the only fear I’ve refused to face. Despite the rumours that he’s bedded half of young Hollywood – and the fact that he’s never refuted those allegations, I hoped his heart was mine alone.

I want to reject the jealousy and insecurity that begin to boil in the pit of my stomach. I need the truth, whatever it is, but I can’t ask him. Because deep inside, I don’t want to know.

Norman Rogers, Kathryn’s attorney – more of a family friend at this point since he’s been her attorney since her divorce from my dad – sputters, incredulous, when I tell him I want River.

‘But. Are you sure?’ he asks, as if I would set up this appointment and travel from Los Angeles to Texas on a whim.

I grind my teeth. I survived the shocked reactions of Reid, my private investigator and my stepmother. What’s one more? ‘Yes. I want my son back.’ On second thoughts, I should probably get used to this response. Maybe I should call Angelina and ask her how she fielded these sorts of sceptical reactions.

Eyeing me over his glasses, Norman says, ‘All righty, then.’ Tapping his gold-plated pen on the pad, he gets down to business. ‘The first thing we need to do is get in front of a judge and get a home study ordered. I assume you plan to move him to California? If so, we’ll need to get an ICPC to coordinate the case between Los Angeles County and the
State of Texas.’ He scrawls his lawyer chicken-scratch across a legal pad, plotting our plan of attack, I assume. ‘It’ll be up to the judge whether the adoption takes place here in Texas or is transferred to a California court …’

‘Adoption?’ I throw some incredulity of my own at him. ‘But I’m his mother. Can’t I just … have him back?’

Norman stares down at the pad and underlines a couple of things, rubbing one thick finger back and forth on his forehead as if he’s trying to buff away the premature creases this conversation will leave there. The silence stretches until, at last, he clears his throat. ‘Brooke, River is in foster care. The State of Texas holds guardianship over him. There are specific procedures in place to make sure what’s done now is in the best interest of the child.’

‘But I’m his mother,’ I whisper, repeating myself, the guilt swallowing me up like quicksand. I can barely breathe.

‘Technically, Brooke, you aren’t.’

This statement slaps me in the face, stealing the remainder of my breath. I feel my mouth fall open and watch Norman’s brows draw together in contrition, his lips tightening. He’s given me the blunt truth, and as much as I appreciate him doing so, I didn’t anticipate this answer.

‘How long? How long until I can have him?’ A tremor runs through my entire body, starting at my neck and shooting painfully to the tips of my fingers and toes. ‘Or are you telling me I can’t – I can’t get him back?’

Norman’s rueful expression blurs while the rest of the room swims. ‘Brooke, you gave him up when he was born because you believed that to be in his best interest.’

I seal my shuddering lips together. I gave him up because I didn’t want him. I didn’t even want to hold him before I gave him away. My relinquishment was no selfless act on my part – I just wanted my life back.

‘The court will take that into consideration,’ he continues. Overriding my buzzing thoughts, his voice is tinny, as though his words echo through a can. ‘Best-case scenario, we’re looking at four or five months –’

‘Four or five
months
?’
My words resound and twang and I don’t care who hears or how I sound. ‘I can’t leave him in that dirty, flea-infested place for
months
! I can’t just go back home and leave him here like I did last time!’

Like explosives detonating a dam, something cracks inside my chest and to my utter horror, I’m bawling.

Norman stands and sits, twice, finally seizing a box of tissues from his tidy cupboard and thrusting it at me as Kathryn bursts into the room, dropping into the chair next to me and pulling me to her shoulder. ‘Honey, you aren’t abandoning him. We’re starting a process here. Look – we want them to be meticulous. We want them to be careful. We don’t know if there are grandparents who want him, or aunts or uncles who’ve already started this process. Maybe he’s weeks or days away from a new home.’

She knew. That’s why she insisted on coming along today, and why she installed herself in a chair right outside the office door. That’s why she was so restrained this morning on the drive from the hotel, venturing no opinions about what Norman might say. She already knew, or at least suspected.

‘You want what’s best for him, right?’ she asks.

I nod and bury my face against her like I had as a child. How many times had I come to her when my own parents failed me? She’d kept me sane when no one else cared what I thought, felt or wanted. But if River has grandparents or aunts or uncles, where the hell were those people when he was suffering?

And where was I? Partying, or shooting another insipid
Life’s a Beach
episode? A second wave of sobs washes over me, but I steel myself against it, like a sharp high face of rock against the tide.

What’s best for my son is me
.

As if I’d said these words aloud, Kathryn says, ‘Even if what’s best for him might not be coming home with you right now? Even if what’s best for him isn’t you?’ Kathryn’s words light the landscape of my memory. Graham. The loss of his friendship and that sharp, buried pain in the centre of my chest. I thought I was what was best for him, but really, I hadn’t cared what was best for him.

I’d wanted Graham because Graham would have been best for
me
. I still believe that, though I see now – more clearly than ever – that I was not best for him. I wasn’t what he wanted.

I want to be what’s best for River. But what if I’m not?

I pull myself together. Breathe. Sit up straight. Press the tissue tight under each eye. Clear my throat.

‘Yes.’

No paparazzi shots emerge, but one shadowy fan-submitted cell-phone image pops up on one of my fan sites, and within the hour, it’s on all of them, as is speculation about Dori. John texts me the link.

John:
Word is out on your soooper-secret GF.

Me:
Is it ok to murder some of these people? What makes them think their stupid opinions about who I date matter to me?

John:
Come on dude. You’ve seen this a million times before. Literally.

Me:
I know. I just feel more protective of her.

John:
AWARE.

Me:
Yeah yeah. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.

John:
Are you getting her a bodyguard?

Me:
I hadn’t thought of that. God, she would freak. Can I do that without her knowing?

John:
Probably. But then she can’t tell him who’s safe. He might beat up some poor fucker who’s just talking to her.

Me:
And that would be bad … right?

John:
Sounds like a question for Lawyer Dad.

When I show up for our second public date, I’m greeted by the sight of the media camped out along Dori’s street. Not many – but enough to rattle Dori and her parents. A rental van sits in the driveway, backed up to the garage and
probably already loaded. Her parents are driving her upstate to Berkeley tomorrow, and I’m not invited.

‘They’ve always assumed they’d take me to college, move me into my dorm, meet my roommate, suffer through the tearful goodbyes – all that stuff – just the three of us,’ she told me.

I don’t expect to be part of every segment of her life, but I feel like I’m in a tug-of-war with them. Consenting to assume second place is not in my nature, and chucking her parents’ wishes out the window isn’t in Dori’s. The current stalemate is a fucked-up sort of compromise, but at this point – whatever works, works.

‘How much do you trust me?’ I ask just before we head out of her front door.

She looks up at me – a little less made up than she was last time we went out. Her friends aren’t here tonight. Her outfit – pale pink button-down shirt, grey cords and generic loafers in a nondescript colour – is less hip, a more girl-next-door than her previous (no doubt borrowed) ensemble. As happened with her collection of extra-large, philanthropically mindful T-shirts, though, it turns me on knowing that I’m the guy who knows what’s underneath her plain veneer.

‘Do you need to ask?’ she says.

‘I’m still getting used to it.’

‘I trust you, Reid.’

Subduing a brief surge of guilt over the rather significant thing I’m still withholding, I tell her, ‘I’m going to hold your hand on the way to the car, which will be interpreted – correctly – as deliberate confirmation of our relationship.
Try to erase that apprehensive little frown. Have you ever been on stage? School play, class skit, anything?’

She nods, the crease between her brows more pronounced and her lower lip drawn fully into her mouth – firm evidence of her anxiety. ‘I’ve done my share of class skits. Why?’

‘Don’t panic – I’m not giving you any lines. You just need to try to look … happy.’

The frown deepens. ‘I
am
happy.’

I can’t help but laugh. ‘Very convincing, Miss Cantrell.’ I trace the little furrow with my index finger, continuing down her nose and gently pinching her chin between my fingertips.

She takes a slow breath, closes her eyes and relaxes her face into my hand.

Rewarding her with a deep kiss, my thumb strokes her cheek. ‘Perfect. Now hold that satisfied expression, and later this evening, I’ll make good on the promise behind that kiss.’

Before she can lose her nerve, I take her hand and we emerge into the first real shit-storm of paparazzi she’s been subjected to. They call our names and a barrage of questions. ‘Reid – are you and Ms Cantrell in a relationship now?’ and, ‘How long have you two been together?’ while cameras whirr and flashes erupt into the violet twilight. She’s never squeezed my hand so tightly.

Making certain she’s safely locked in before circling the back of my car to the driver’s door, I open the door and flash the photogs a smile – a show of gratitude that they left us enough room to manoeuvre from the front door to the car.

‘What about Emma Pierce?’ a voice calls. ‘Does this mean you’re over her? Moving on?’

I shake my head and chuckle. Man, they just do
not
give up.

It’s been eight months since I delivered Emma right into Graham Douglas’s arms. When I met up with the two of them in Vancouver last fall, they were revoltingly happy – but seeing the two of them together then only made me think of Dori, the infuriating Habitat girl I didn’t think I’d ever see again.

Brooke:
Call me. I have news.

Me:
On a date. Will call tomorrow.

Brooke:
A ‘date’? Is that what you’re calling them now?

Me:
Off limits topic.

Brooke:
Fine. TTYT.