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‘I believe what he’s told me. I believe what he says he feels. And when it comes down to it … what he says he does or feels is mine to believe or not. No one else’s. ’ My voice strengthens with these declarations, and I see that this is how rebellions of all kinds gain strength – inside the avowals.
My mother narrows her eyes, and I know her question before she articulates it fully. ‘Dori. Are you and he –’
‘Mom. Please don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, because I won’t lie to you. Not any more. ’
Her face is a picture of defeat, individual features downturned in surrender. ‘So you expect us to sit by while you begin a sordid relationship with a … a celebrity. ’ Her voice cracks, but wobbles on. ‘A young man who’ll use you and cast you aside when he tires of you –’
‘If that’s what you want to believe. If that’s what you think I’m capable of. ’
‘I don’t know what you’re capable of any more, Dori,’ she snaps.
I sigh. ‘I see that. But maybe you never did. ’
Those are perhaps the truest words any of us have just spoken.
When I open the door, he pulls off his sunglasses and steps inside, as beautiful as always. He’s toned-down – as regular-boy as possible, for him: beneath his favourite Lakers cap, brim pulled low, wisps of blond hair fall across his forehead and curl around his ears and temples. He’s wearing his button-fly jeans. His navy T-shirt isn’t too closely fitted, but even still, it can’t hide the solid curve of his wide shoulders and sculpted torso.
I press my face to his chest. Pulling me close, he wraps his arms around me and takes a deep, easy breath as I curl into him. I know that nothing is static. Nothing remains the same forever, no matter how much I wish it would. But in this moment, I love this boy, and I know he loves me, and I don’t care if at some point that will no longer be true.
But my parents? I recall the words we exchanged and all the ones we held back, and I can’t picture them ever coming around to accepting him – accepting us.
‘Hey. ’ He turns the brim of the cap backwards and tips my chin to examine my eyes. ‘What’s this?’
I duck my worried face back to his chest, muffling my words. ‘I can’t believe I thought this would work. ’
He cups my shoulders in his palms, angling me away from his chest and peering into my eyes. ‘So little confidence in my charm, Dori? I won you over, didn’t I? Although I suppose we’d fare better if we don’t reveal a few of my more appealing attributes to your parents … Your obsession with my button-fly jeans, for example, might lose something in translation. ’
I choke an incredulous laugh. This is never going to work. Without loosening my grip on him, I chew my lip and he quirks an eyebrow, waiting. ‘Can we just run away from home?’
His mouth breaks into a grin, eyes flashing mischief. ‘Sure. Where to? Paris? Madrid? It’s summer in Melbourne, you know. ’
I’m so not used to these surreal sorts of conversations. I know he’s playing along with my apprehension, giving me an out he knows I won’t take, but if my request was serious, none of these are impossible destinations. A couple of days ago, he asked me about my birthday, which is a month away. In a humorous attempt at subtlety, he brought up cars a half-hour later, quizzing me about transmission types and favourite colours.
Not quite believing he was seriously considering such an outrageous gift, I mentioned that I won’t need a car at Cal. ‘Hmm, yeah,’ he said, preoccupied with a video game. I thought that was the end of it until later, sitting at his kitchen table, he asked me how I intended to get around in Berkeley without a car.
‘Awesome public transportation. And I’m taking my bike. ’
He paused, a forkful of pasta halfway between his plate and his mouth. ‘A bike, as in a bicycle?’
I laughed. ‘No – the other kind of bike. I’m actually a closet Hell’s Angel. Wanna go for a spin on my Harley?’
I squeaked when he pulled me from my chair on to his lap.
Hands gripping my waist, he bowed his mouth to my ear and breathed, ‘Yes. Yes, I do. ’ And then his father strode into the kitchen, announcing his presence by clattering dishes on to the butcher-block island while feigning ignorance of our PDA-laden presence at the table.
Now, I tap a finger against my chin and pretend to consider running away from home to Melbourne. If only. ‘I guess I should pack my swimsuit. ’
‘Mmm. Better and better. Do you own a bikini?’
‘Well, no. ’
That single dimple appears at the edge of his lopsided smile. ‘Then I guess we have some shopping to do first. ’ He lowers his mouth to mine just as my dad – who refuses to pretend he doesn’t see us – emerges from the hallway to his study and clears his throat.
‘Well, that went well. ’ Sarcasm is a favourite line of defence for Reid.
I knew Mom and Dad might be inflexible. I couldn’t very well expect them to feign delight when they’re so opposed to the notion of Reid and me together, but I never thought they’d be openly prejudicial. My altruistic parents urged their daughters to reject racism, bigotry and intolerance, and our entire lives, Deb and I learned by following their examples. Now I’m facing the fact that their broad-mindedness only exists so long as the individuals aren’t famous and affluent.
I’m afraid to look up at him – to see how he’s dealing with the short, denigrating interview my parents just put him through. He seems remarkably unperturbed by what they said and how they said it – more so than I am. I’m livid and embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would be that … unpleasant. ’
He chuckles. ‘Unpleasant, huh?’
‘Understatement?’
‘A bit, yeah. ’
My parents have gone to their room, leaving the brightly lit living room to us. The soft mumble of their voices signals their open door at the top of the staircase – an unspoken edict that Reid is not to set foot on the stairs, let alone into my bedroom.
They weren’t this watchful four years ago, when I was dating Colin, who pretended to be trustworthy and decent, not that I blame them for failing to see through his façade. I just wish they could understand that one of the things I respect about Reid is – oddly enough – the fact that he’s honest about who he is and what he wants, no matter what it is. I guess that’s why I believe him when he says he wants me. When he says he loves me.
‘Hey. ’ He bumps my knee with his, and then turns to draw my legs over his and pull me closer. ‘You okay?’
‘Are you?’
He half-smiles. ‘C’mon now. You don’t think I’d let a little parental reproach stand in my way, do you? You know me better than that. I live for disapproval. It’s expected of me. My fans would think I was dying or something if parents started randomly approving of me. ’
4
BROOKE
Travel is nothing unusual for me. Though getting from one place to another via various airports is tedious as all get-out, it’s just something to endure. It’s not panic-inducing, for chrissake. Even so, my flight leaves in three hours, and every time I think about landing in Austin, I feel like I’m going to puke.
One wheeled Louis Vuitton bag waits by the front door, and in ten minutes the other will join it, ready for the car service to transport me to LAX. I’ve put off calling Reid back, still unused to voluntarily sharing information with him. Doing so borders on trust – something altogether unnatural in conjunction with Reid Alexander. But I said I’d keep him posted, so I dial his number, fully expecting to go to voicemail.
Instead, he answers, annoyingly cheerful. ‘Hey, I was just about to call you. ’
Balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear, I sweep a load of cosmetics from the vanity counter into a travel bag and zip it shut. ‘You know this is Brooke, right?’
‘I looked this time. Aren’t you proud?’
What right does he have to be so fucking happy? Oh, yeah.
Because he’s Reid Alexander, who checks out of any sense of responsibility over anything ever. ‘Glancing at your screen before answering your phone is a debatable source of pride, Reid, though I guess you have to take it where you find it. ’
He ignores the barb. ‘So what did you find out?’
Am I actually talking to Reid, or has some alien taken over his body? He’s too happy to be ill. Though I sure as hell know crazy people can be irrationally happy. ‘Uh, well, Bethany brought a photo of him –’
‘Really? Wow. ’
‘– and like I told you, he’s in foster care. Long-term foster care. ’
‘What do you mean – “long-term”?’
‘The parental rights of his adoptive mother were officially terminated months ago. Her husband died a couple of years ago – Bethany’s checking on how, not that it matters. It looks like she started using meth after that and didn’t care who she took down with her. She’s been through court-ordered treatment twice and blew it both times, so she’s never getting him back. ’ I think about a two-year-old River, left with no father and a drug-zombie of a mother – and I stuff two pairs of jeans into my case with more force than necessary. ‘I don’t know where she is now – jail, crack house, on the streets hooking for daily hits – and I don’t care. ’
‘Jesus. Wow. ’
I roll my eyes at his second wow. I’m so not in the mood for his incredulity. Not when I’m damned sure he’s going to drop this cold as soon as he knows what I’m about to do.
‘I’m going to Austin. ’
If question marks were audible, I’d have just heard one from his end.
‘That’s where he is – just south of Austin. ’
‘So you’re going to go to Austin to – what?’ Suspicion laces his tone, not so glib now, like he’s finally getting it.
I told Kathryn and Bethany Shank that this trip was part responsibility, part curiosity, but that was stretching the truth. This child I’ve never seen or held exerts a deep, gravitational sort of draw. Against all odds, I feel a bond between us that has for four years surfaced on his birthday only. It isn’t mere curiosity pulling me to Texas and I know it.
‘I’m going to check on his situation. I’m going to find out … if I can get him back. ’
Silence. Dead silence. I wish I could reclaim the words and leave them unsaid. It figures that Reid would be the one I blurt the whole truth to.
‘Brooke, the kid’s not a pair of Lanvin slingbacks. You can’t just put in an order at Barney’s and pick him up later. You gave up your rights to him. He can be adopted by someone else now, right? You gave him away –’
‘I know that, Reid. Don’t you think I fucking know that?’
I hate that he put it that way – gave him away. As if I sacrificed nothing to do it and traipsed off scot-free, like he did.
‘Yeah, okay, okay – but no one’s going to let you disrupt his life now just to –’