Afton mimes locking her lips and tossing an invisible key over her shoulder. ‘We all wanted to get the hell outta somewhere, dude,’ she says. ‘But some stuff we take for granted about home just isn’t better elsewhere.’
Claudia leans closer as we head towards the library. ‘Psychology majors, Jesus. And did she just call me dude? That’s so not going to endear her to me anytime soon – I don’t care how cute her butt is in those jeans. Although she does have a valid point about home and elsewhere. So … About the pretty boy –?’
I smile and meet her eyes. ‘He’s not a lost cause.’
She returns my smile. ‘Good enough for me.’
I have Reid’s fan sites bookmarked, so I can watch him from a distance, like everyone else has to. My annoyance is increasing, especially when sites claim ‘proof’ that he’s hooking up with random starlets or singers he stands next to at some event. Or a commenting fan proclaims her undying love and desire to have his babies. Or someone is trying to figure out who I am and where I’m from and why in the world Reid Alexander would even bother with me.
Looking at these pages feels a little stalkerish too. On the other hand, this is no different than going to friends’ Facebook profiles and browsing through photos of them living their lives apart from me. Curiosity is a compelling thing. Where Reid is concerned, I’ve been curious from the moment he called me a hypocrite for deeming him hopeless, days after we met.
With his mother beside him on the red carpet at his premiere, it’s a no-brainer where Reid gets his looks. Their colouring is exactly the same, as well as their features – with the exception of the angled jaw bestowed by his father. Lucy Alexander is stunning and elegant, her pride in her son evident in the way she watches him while he signs autographs and leans in to take photos with the beside-themselves fans pressing against the velvet rope.
When I came up with the idea of inviting his mother as his plus-one, I had a good feeling about it. He was unconvinced that she’d want to go, so I told him the only way he’d know was to ask.
‘You’d have thought I just handed her an Oscar,’ he said later, filling me in on their conversation. ‘First, she gasped and teared up, and I was thinking, Oh, great, I’ve upset her. And then she said, ‘Don’t you want to take Dori?’ So I told her you couldn’t get away that night. She stepped forward and hugged me, which she hasn’t done in – I don’t know – it feels like years, and then she said she’d love to go.’
‘I told you so,’ I sing-songed, and he laughed.
‘You just live for the times you’re able to say that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, and lucky for me – with you, I get to say it a lot.’
‘Haha. Very funny, Miss Cantrell. I’ll have to try to hand out those little treats more sparingly. I don’t want you to get spoiled.’
‘Oh, so now you can control the frequency of your wrongness?’ I scoffed, trying not to giggle. ‘How will you do that?’
‘Well, I appear to have two choices. I can either be right more often – stop laughing – or I can stop saying things that turn out to be wrong. Hmm. This is a tough decision.’
REID
Me: We need to discuss something. In person. Important.
Dad: I’ll be home tonight by 8. Will that work for you?
Me: Yes. I’ll meet you in your study. I leave for the NYC debut tomorrow morning.
Dad is still dressed for work, with the exception of the suit jacket hanging on the peg and padded hanger he had installed for that purpose near the open door. His cufflinks are in a small glass bowl he purchased for the express function of holding cufflinks, his red-patterned tie remains knotted, but loose, and his shirtsleeves are rolled to mid-forearm.
I knock my knuckles twice to announce my presence, and his eyes snap up from the paperwork he’s scanning.
He pushes it aside and collects a pad and pen. ‘Reid. Come in.’ After I take a deep breath and sit, he says, ‘All right, what’s going on?’
Every carefully premeditated introduction to the grenade I’m about to toss into the room has flown out of my brain. Entire perfectly crafted explanations are just gone. I’m thinking in words, like a toddler. Or Tarzan. Me father. You grandfather. HELP.
I look him in the eye and he’s frowning, waiting for me to state my business. I haven’t been scared of my father since I was ten. Intimidated? Yes. Demeaned? Yes. Afraid? No.
Is this what his clients feel like, sitting across the desk from him?
And that’s when it hits me. No, this isn’t what it feels like to be his client. He doesn’t frown at his clients. He may wear a veneer of concern. He may even be concerned. But the face I’m seeing – the eyes I’m looking into now – he’s alarmed. Apprehensive. Worried.
His clients don’t get that puckered-brow expression. My mother does. And I do.
I rub my clammy palms against my jeans. ‘I have a problem, and I need your advice. Your legal advice.’
He takes a breath through his nose and his brow clears, the slightest bit. He’s still on alert, but he knows this crisis is in his territory – whatever it is – and I’ve brought it to him before someone else did. That’s possibly unprecedented.
‘I’m listening,’ he says.
I take another deep breath. ‘You remember Brooke?’
He grimaces. ‘Brooke Cameron?’ I nod, and he answers, ‘Yes, I remember her.’
Grenade time. ‘After we broke up …’ Pull the pin. Toss. ‘She found out she was pregnant.’