My eyes get full of tears and I nod once and look down at my lap, which makes them run down my face. I wipe them on my T-shirt sleeve and chew my bottom lip. It tastes like the tears now. Like salt.
‘All righty then.’ She pats my knee and looks at her watch. ‘You sit right there till you hear Sean’s timer ding. Time out. Four minutes.’
I want to ask her what a bastard is. Maybe a bastard is somebody who steals other people’s food. Or just somebody you hate.
I hate Harry, and I would like to call him a word from the Never List. I remember his face, and I wish I didn’t. I remember his face, and I can’t remember Mama’s. Harry is a bastard, I think. I wish I could forget him.
REID
On the elevator up to my manager’s office, I was at war with myself – should I tell him about Brooke, the kid, the adoption … or not? I knew from the start that if there was any possibility of my alleged paternity going public, George would have to know to have any shot at doing career damage control.
I’ve never worried that what I tell him will leave his office – it’s like a confessional, without the claustrophobic booth or the Hail Marys. Even so, uncomfortable revelations made to George – or my parents – have always been on a need-to-know basis. There’s a shitload that none of them knows, but the fact that I have a four-year-old son dwarfs everything else to hell.
Undecided one way or the other, I found my manager in a rare, unfocused frame of mind. He didn’t inspect me for indications of suppression, though I knew it was rolling off me like overzealously applied body spray. If he was paying attention, he’d be able to tell, every time. Sitting back, he’d just eye me patiently and wait for me to come clean.
I realized uneasily that he was starting to trust me.
All I could think was Damn, what crap timing for that.
George detailed the bitch of a promotion schedule for Mercy Killing (killer promo is a good thing, because if no one wants to talk to you, your movie is dead in the water), while inside the front pocket of my jeans, my hand gripped my phone like it was either a grenade or a gold bar. Damn if Brooke wasn’t the queen of mind-blowing text photos. As my manager droned, I struggled to concentrate on the three weeks of heavy promotion Chelsea Radin and I were about to do and prayed that something would stop Brooke from her insane resolution.
George and I spoke about Dori, of course – he’d seen the gossip sites, and I told him that yes, we were dating, and yes, it was serious. After a moment spent eyeing me like he was waiting for the punchline to an unfunny joke, his mouth quirked. ‘Huh.’
I told him I was inviting her to the premiere, but called five minutes ago to let him know I’m taking my mother instead, at Dori’s suggestion.
After a moment of silence, he scoffed, ‘Who is this, and what have you done with Reid Alexander?’
‘Haha,’ I said.
*
Standing in the hotel bathroom post-shower, I wrap a towel around my waist. My razor is charged and ready to give me the perfect shaved-yesterday trim. While I wait for the steam to subside, I shift between watching myself gradually emerge in the steamed-up mirror, like a suspended, developing image in a darkroom, and staring, again, at the photo Brooke texted.
Some children don’t resemble their fathers. I look nothing like Mark Alexander, for example. But this child, next to me, would be like seeing John next to his dark lord CFO father – too much resemblance to be anything but related.
Zooming in on the kid’s face, I compare his features to mine. Similar face shape. Same eye colour. Same mouth – full, almost feminine. I got into my fair share of fights as a boy over my girly lips. Until I got to be around eleven and it became clear that girls weren’t bothered by that fullness. Quite the opposite, in fact. I wonder if anyone will tell him that.
River’s mouth isn’t smiling, and I wonder if he ever laughs. The straight, pale lines of his eyebrows are barely there at all, and their shape, too, matches mine. But where my straight brows express confidence, and when necessary – conceit, he just looks … solemn.
As though summoned, a new text appears from Brooke. I never called her back after I ignored her interruption during Dori’s call. She called again this morning – also ignored. She didn’t leave a message either time.
Brooke: I need to talk. I can’t talk to anyone else about this. Please.
Reluctantly, I dial her back, imagining some sort of ill-omened soundtrack in the background, intensifying with each ring like a swelling threat of doom.
‘Thanks for calling,’ she answers. ‘I’m not – not asking for your opinion or your advice. I just need to talk, and I need you to listen.’
Seriously? Just listen and keep my opinions to myself. When has that ever applied to me?
‘Brooke, you can’t just unload on me and expect me to not tell you what I think.’
She’s quiet for a moment, and I think maybe she’s about to deliver a terse Never mind and dead air. Or Fuck you and dead air. Or just dead air.
‘Okay. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to follow – or even consider – what you have to say.’
‘Then why tell me? Why not tell Kathryn, or –’
‘Because it’s a career thing. And usually, I would call …’
Graham. Damn that f**ker. I get it, and we’re even cautious friends, now – but damn.
‘Okay, okay. Fine.’ I run a hand through my hair. The fact that she just wants to discuss a career crisis is sort of a relief, though I have to wonder what she’d have to say to me that she wouldn’t much rather talk over with her agent or manager. ‘Spill.’