Like explosives detonating a dam, something cracks inside my chest and to my utter horror, I’m bawling.
Norman stands and sits, twice, finally seizing a box of tissues from his tidy cupboard and thrusting it at me as Kathryn bursts into the room, dropping into the chair next to me and pulling me to her shoulder. ‘Honey, you aren’t abandoning him. We’re starting a process here. Look – we want them to be meticulous. We want them to be careful. We don’t know if there are grandparents who want him, or aunts or uncles who’ve already started this process. Maybe he’s weeks or days away from a new home.’
She knew. That’s why she insisted on coming along today, and why she installed herself in a chair right outside the office door. That’s why she was so restrained this morning on the drive from the hotel, venturing no opinions about what Norman might say. She already knew, or at least suspected.
‘You want what’s best for him, right?’ she asks.
I nod and bury my face against her like I had as a child. How many times had I come to her when my own parents failed me? She’d kept me sane when no one else cared what I thought, felt or wanted. But if River has grandparents or aunts or uncles, where the hell were those people when he was suffering?
And where was I? Partying, or shooting another insipid Life’s a Beach episode? A second wave of sobs washes over me, but I steel myself against it, like a sharp high face of rock against the tide.
What’s best for my son is me.
As if I’d said these words aloud, Kathryn says, ‘Even if what’s best for him might not be coming home with you right now? Even if what’s best for him isn’t you?’ Kathryn’s words light the landscape of my memory. Graham. The loss of his friendship and that sharp, buried pain in the centre of my chest. I thought I was what was best for him, but really, I hadn’t cared what was best for him.
I’d wanted Graham because Graham would have been best for me. I still believe that, though I see now – more clearly than ever – that I was not best for him. I wasn’t what he wanted.
I want to be what’s best for River. But what if I’m not?
I pull myself together. Breathe. Sit up straight. Press the tissue tight under each eye. Clear my throat.
‘Yes.’
REID
No paparazzi shots emerge, but one shadowy fan-submitted cell-phone image pops up on one of my fan sites, and within the hour, it’s on all of them, as is speculation about Dori. John texts me the link.
John: Word is out on your soooper-secret GF.
Me: Is it ok to murder some of these people? What makes them think their stupid opinions about who I date matter to me?
John: Come on dude. You’ve seen this a million times before. Literally.
Me: I know. I just feel more protective of her.
John: AWARE.
Me: Yeah yeah. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.
John: Are you getting her a bodyguard?
Me: I hadn’t thought of that. God, she would freak. Can I do that without her knowing?
John: Probably. But then she can’t tell him who’s safe. He might beat up some poor f**ker who’s just talking to her.
Me: And that would be bad … right?
John: Sounds like a question for Lawyer Dad.
When I show up for our second public date, I’m greeted by the sight of the media camped out along Dori’s street. Not many – but enough to rattle Dori and her parents. A rental van sits in the driveway, backed up to the garage and probably already loaded. Her parents are driving her upstate to Berkeley tomorrow, and I’m not invited.
‘They’ve always assumed they’d take me to college, move me into my dorm, meet my roommate, suffer through the tearful goodbyes – all that stuff – just the three of us,’ she told me.
I don’t expect to be part of every segment of her life, but I feel like I’m in a tug-of-war with them. Consenting to assume second place is not in my nature, and chucking her parents’ wishes out the window isn’t in Dori’s. The current stalemate is a f**ked-up sort of compromise, but at this point – whatever works, works.
‘How much do you trust me?’ I ask just before we head out of her front door.
She looks up at me – a little less made up than she was last time we went out. Her friends aren’t here tonight. Her outfit – pale pink button-down shirt, grey cords and generic loafers in a nondescript colour – is less hip, a more girl-next-door than her previous (no doubt borrowed) ensemble. As happened with her collection of extra-large, philanthropically mindful T-shirts, though, it turns me on knowing that I’m the guy who knows what’s underneath her plain veneer.
‘Do you need to ask?’ she says.
‘I’m still getting used to it.’
‘I trust you, Reid.’
Subduing a brief surge of guilt over the rather significant thing I’m still withholding, I tell her, ‘I’m going to hold your hand on the way to the car, which will be interpreted – correctly – as deliberate confirmation of our relationship. Try to erase that apprehensive little frown. Have you ever been on stage? School play, class skit, anything?’
She nods, the crease between her brows more pronounced and her lower lip drawn fully into her mouth – firm evidence of her anxiety. ‘I’ve done my share of class skits. Why?’
‘Don’t panic – I’m not giving you any lines. You just need to try to look … happy.’
The frown deepens. ‘I am happy.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘Very convincing, Miss Cantrell.’ I trace the little furrow with my index finger, continuing down her nose and gently pinching her chin between my fingertips.