‘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 f**ked up. I totally f**ked 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.’
Way to go, Brooke. That wasn’t word vomit. That was word projectile vomiting.
‘Does Reid know?’ She says his name as though they’ve been in contact, which I suppose is possible. Maybe she was part of his twelve-step apologyfest last month.
‘He knows. He’s not … involved. Which is fine. This is my choice. When I told you about the pregnancy –’ I sigh. ‘I only told you so you’d hate him. But he was just a kid. I was just a kid. I’m not asking him for anything now, but yes, he’s aware.’ Stop talking. ‘We’re even sort of getting along. It’s kind of weird, actually.’ Stop talking.
‘Huh.’
I roll my eyes, remembering how Graham and I had an infuriating conversation once upon a time about Emma and how she said huh whenever she couldn’t think of anything else to say. He thought it was so adorable, and I wanted to gag him with a knee sock.
‘I’ll, um, talk to him. No promises. He’ll call you if he wants to talk. If he doesn’t, he won’t call.’
I grit my teeth, feeling powerless. ‘I understand. Thank you.’
‘Goodbye, Brooke.’
After we disconnect, I pull up the photo of River I scanned into my phone and sent to Reid. Every time I look at it, I feel more overwhelmed, more terrified I’m going to f**k this up, and more sure that I can’t let that happen. If I have to go round Emma to beg Graham not to ruin this, I’ll do it. But I’m patient enough to bide my time and wait, and hope she doesn’t hate me as much as I deserve to be hated. If our positions were reversed, I’d have told her to f**k off and blocked her from Graham’s phone.
But Emma is not me. And that’s just one more reason why Graham is hers, and not mine.
12
REID
I have the driver drop me a block away from the Starbucks on the corner, pulling the beanie over my ears and hunching into my jacket before grabbing my shoulder duffle. It’s dark out, so I can’t wear my sunglasses, but it’s not like anyone expects Reid Alexander to pop up here, either. Even if I’m recognized, most people will merely assume I bear an uncanny resemblance to ‘that one guy from that movie’.
‘Nine tomorrow morning?’ I say, opening the door, and he nods.