Here Without You (Between the Lines #4)

Here Without You (Between the Lines #4) Page 9

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.’

REID

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.

8

DORI

Reid is trying to talk me into sleeping over as I slide my feet into my faux leather Payless loafers and he pulls on a paint-splattered Ralph Lauren hoodie.

‘Did you wear that to the Habitat project last week?’

Glancing down, he shrugs. ‘Nah. It came like this.’

‘Huh,’ I say. ‘So it looks like that … on purpose? I guess a good portion of my wardrobe is more hip than I thought.’ Silly me, wearing the less-shabby stuff.

I’m glad to be leaving town today for at least one reason – the fact that Kayla and Aimee will kill me when they see photos of what I wore last night. They’ve both admitted to stalking Reid online now, though I suspect they were following gossip about him long before he ever wrecked his car and stumbled into my humble social circle. They’ll be appalled once they get an eyeful of my drab Fashion Don’t, days after their warnings that I should never wear my own clothes out with Reid.

They never told me what, exactly, I’m supposed to wear in place of what I own.

He pulls me up from his bed and slides his arms around me. ‘I don’t want to hand you over yet.’

Trailing one finger down the jagged, oversized metallic teeth of his hoodie zipper, I say, ‘We’ve already – you know. Twice.’ His arms tighten in response and he nuzzles my face with a low hmm. Forget what people say about make-up sex – I’ve decided going-away sex doesn’t get nearly as much credit as it deserves. ‘If I stay, we’d probably just sleep anyway.’

‘And that would be bad because …?’

I press my head to his chest and breathe him in. There’s nothing I’d like better than to kick off my shoes and climb back into his bed. ‘It’s my last night at home, at least for a while. Plus, my dad promised to make my favourite breakfast – banana walnut waffles – in the morning.’

His fingers encircle my wrist and he pushes the cuff of my shirt back to kiss the pulse thrumming there. ‘I can get you home in time for breakfast,’ he whispers.

Eyes downcast, I can’t swallow the lump in my throat. ‘I’ll miss you.’

‘No, you won’t,’ he says. My eyes flash up and give my misery away, and he sighs. ‘God, Dori. You won’t miss me because I’m going to see you as often as I can get there or fly you here. In fact, the premiere for Mercy Killing is right before Valentine’s Day. I want you to come with me.’

I almost forgot about the romantic action flick he’ll be promoting with Chelsea Radin over the next month. Thank goodness I met and liked Chelsea and her husband, Chad, last week. Some of the steamy film stills of her with Reid are unbearable to look at. I don’t know if I’ll be able to take the live-action scenes. I’d love to ask Chad how he copes with his wife doing scenes like that without wanting to pulverize her male co-stars.

‘During the week? I’d have to skip at least a day of classes, Reid – I don’t think that’s a good idea, so early in the semester.’