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.’
REID
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 ass**le.
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.