I expect him to speak, start sputtering or roaring, something. Eyes drilling into mine, he goes a little pale around the edges, but he holds his fire. He recognizes that there’s some reason I’ve brought this to him, and I haven’t voiced it yet. He hasn’t scribbled so much as a stroke on that pad.
Swallowing, I continue. ‘She had the baby, and gave it up for adoption. A few weeks ago, she hired a PI to look for him. She found him – in foster care. And now … She wants to adopt him. She wants me to sign relinquishment papers. I want to make sure I’m not missing something before I do it.’
He begins to write on the pad, and I sit, waiting.
Several minutes later, he begins to fire questions at me, one after the other. After each one, there’s a prolonged pause as he logs my answer.
‘Did she tell you she was pregnant at the time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she tell you she was giving the child up for adoption?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you sign anything – anything at all – taking responsibility for the pregnancy?’
‘No.’
‘No paternity test either, I assume.’
‘No.’
‘So you might not be the biological father.’
‘I’m the father.’
‘Reid, if there’s no proof –’
‘I’m the father.’
He scratches something on to the pad, and mumbles, ‘We’ll revisit that one later. Do you know if your name is on the birth certificate as his father?’
‘No – Brooke says she left it as unknown.’
He shakes his head a bit, exasperated. ‘Then how does she now all of a sudden know it’s yours?’
‘She always knew. I … I hurt her.’ He flinches and I throw my hands up. ‘Not physically. Jesus, Dad, don’t you know me at all?’
‘Sorry,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Hazard of the profession – literal thinking. Carry on.’
‘We had an argument that turned into a screaming match. I thought she was cheating, and she was so indignant that she let me think it. Instead of talking about it or even arguing more, I just started going out. Publicly. With lots of girls. I didn’t call her. She didn’t call me. Until she found out she was pregnant … God, I don’t even know what I said to her – but I made it clear that I didn’t care. So she made her own decisions. I had nothing to do with them. I didn’t know until a few weeks ago that he was mine.’
‘A few weeks – Reid, why do you wait to tell me things?’ He closes his eyes and huffs a breath. ‘And how do you know he’s yours? Because she says so?’
‘She’s not lying –’
His placating lawyer-face sliding into place, he says, ‘Even if she’s not lying, per se, that doesn’t mean she’s right. She may wish it was yours –’
‘He is mine.’ I pull out my phone and pull up the photo.
He takes my phone, unaware what I’m showing him. Glancing at the screen, he stops and blinks. Looks at me. And back at the display in his hand.
‘His name is River,’ I say.
‘How old is he?’ My father’s voice catches and he clears his throat.
‘Four and a half.’
He scribbles on the pad. ‘We’ll have to get a blood test –’ He holds up a hand when I start to object. ‘I’m an attorney, Reid. You’re going to have to trust me. No legal entity or governmental agency is going to take the fact that he’s the spitting image of you at his age as evidence of paternity – as well they shouldn’t.’
‘So we can’t just sign the papers?’
Sitting back, he shakes his head. ‘Signing relinquishment papers does one thing – it takes away your parental rights to the child. It does not remove the state’s right to hold you financially responsible and accountable. It’s highly unlikely that they’ll cross that line, but not unheard of – especially if her bid to adopt fails. Now – where is he? I know people in LA County Family Court, of course …’
‘He’s … in Texas. He was born there.’
My father does something I’ve seen him do only once before – during one of Mom’s relapses. He puts his face in his hands and he says, ‘Oh, God.’
15
BROOKE
Production wants me on hand and looking hot to hype media interest at the Ziegfeld Theatre opening of Hearts Over Manhattan, along with my co-star, Chandler Beckett. Tonight. To that end, I’m at LAX before dawn with a front row seat at the gate, facing a boarding agent who’s clearly trying to place who I am. If box office predictions are correct, I may be less likely to encounter that expression soon. Critics are calling Hearts ‘a heartwarming little romance’ – perfect for Valentine’s weekend.
I ignore the boarding agent and hunch over my laptop to keep what I’m doing private from my fellow travellers, who are beginning to fill in behind me. I’m taking required parenting classes online. Having worked through seven sections, I’ve got twenty-three to go. I plan to polish off at least two more on the long flight from Los Angeles to New York. The current unit concerns disciplining your child in public. While reading a section about not employing the use of public shaming for behaviour motivation, I reflect that my mother clearly never took a parenting class.
Chandler is bringing his tediously insecure girlfriend, Nan. At the premiere’s after-party on Tuesday, I warned him to clip her claws or I was going to point her at the wardrobe girl, whom she has far better reason to hate according to on-set gossip – which is generally accurate. The guy has ample acting talent, but I should have demanded a bonus for every love scene. He’s one of those guys who kisses like he’s gasping for breath every second – no concentration, no finesse, no aim. How any girl, even Nan, would worry over losing that is beyond me. I’d be kicking it to the kerb at the first opportunity.