Good for You (26 page)

Chapter 46

REID

“I haven’t seen your friend’s car out back in a while.” Mom is perched on my bed, skimming through the pages of that novel with the hot-but-sul en fictional boy who reminds me of my Wil Darcy role from
School Pride
—if Wil Darcy had been created in the pages of a dystopian novel. (What the hel is it about brooding guys that’s attractive to women, anyway? I’ve become one since Dori’s cal three weeks ago, and it’s made me
more
of a chick magnet. I shouldn’t be surprised—being a dick never hurt my appeal before.)

“That’s because she hasn’t been here.” I would wonder that Mom noted her absence, but she has a way of noticing everything, even when she seems to be in too much of a stupor to notice anything but her own feet, shuffling through the house. Her eyes seem clearer now, however, staring at me like a reflection.

“Did you two have an argument?” She asked this same question when Brooke stopped coming over, after we broke up.

I shrug. “There was no fight at al , actual y. Her parents didn’t want her seeing me, so she just gave up.” I don’t know if this is true, but it feels true. I should have known she’d submit to their wishes eventual y. Did they make her feel ashamed of spending the night with me, or just spending time with me at al ? Did they threaten to kick her out? I’ve never understood the ultimatum-delivering parent.

Part of me rises to that—I could have rented her a place if they’d fol owed through. Or hel , I could have gotten
u s
a place.

Wow, shit. Gotten
us
a place? I am
gone
. Over Dorcas Cantrel , a girl who convinced me in a one-minute phone cal that I meant nothing to her:
I’m grateful for everything
you’ve done for me—you probably saved my life. But I
can’t see you anymore. I’ve got too much going on right
now, and I don’t know what we’re doing anyway, you and I.

It’s just… my parents need me, and it’s time I get back to
my life and let you go back to yours. I’m sorry.

She’d choked back a sob then as I lay in my bed with my phone to my ear, trying to wake up and waiting for her to say something else. To take it back. She hadn’t.

After I hung up, I threw my phone across the room where it struck the wal with enough force to leave a dent in the sheetrock and crack the screen irreparably. And then I found her note next to the bed. The one with “Don’t worry” preceding her scripted D. An hour later, after I calmed down enough to form coherent thoughts, I dug the crumpled note out of the trash, smoothed it out on the desk and read it through fifty times, trying to make sense of the combination of her spoken and written words— absolute antitheses of each other.

“Hmm,” Mom says, going back to reading.

“What?”

She angles one eyebrow, but doesn’t lift her eyes from the book. “Maybe
you
gave up too easily.” I laugh.
Right
. If only it was that simple.

She checks her watch, slides off the bed, and walks over

—steadily—to ruffle my hair. “I have a meeting to get to. We can talk later, if you want?” Newly manicured fingers under my chin, she tilts my face up, and I notice her eyes
are
clearer. She’s trying to stop drinking again. I don’t want to ask. Don’t want to jinx it.

I stomp down the burst of hope in my chest, nod into her hand. “Sure, Mom.”

***

“Wil there be anything else, Mr. Alexander?” The rep delivering my new Ferrari FF is smokin’ hot and practical y purrs this question. She’s taken every opportunity to brush against me or lean in such a way that I can see right down her silky top, the top three pearled buttons unfastened.

We’ve gone over every spec and completed a thorough inspection to ensure that not a single surface scratch mars the metal ic pewter gray paint or the pale gray leather interior. No further reason to keep her here unless I want to do her on the hood (total y possible—this girl is
not
in the running for a subtlety award).

In my head is John’s voice—
Why the hell not?

My newly enlightened thought processes, that’s why not.

Such as wondering what she sees in me, aside from a young, rich celebrity. None of that counted worth a shit to Dori. I don’t know what
did
count to Dori. I don’t know what changed between the day I met her—when she couldn’t wait to be rid of me, to the kiss in the closet, to the night out before Vancouver and Quito, to the moment she agreed to defy her parents and hang out with me several nights a week. What happened to make that last night together possible?

“Thanks, I’m good,” I tel her, and she huffs a disappointed sigh. No doubt she’l report to everyone she knows that I’m definitely gay. I don’t give a shit.

“I’l just, uh, cal for a car to pick me up then.” She gives me a pouty glare while I’m wondering why she didn’t just ride back with the delivery truck.

“No problem, I’l drop you off. We can test the zero to sixty in what was it—3.7 seconds? This baby needs a little breaking in before I park it in the garage.” She perks up for a moment, until she figures out I’m actual y interested in the car, and only the car.

My sunglasses are almost unnecessary with the darkest legal tint possible on the windows. Though I hit sixty before the end of my street, I’l have to wait for a deserted highway to test the highest recorded speed of 200 plus. Within minutes, we’re on Santa Monica and turning onto Wilshire.

“If you’re sure there’s nothing else you need—” she begins, leaning towards me al surplus cleavage and lacy bra when I pul up in front of the showroom window. I’m ready to shove her out the door because yeah sure, I can’t help wanting some of
that
when it’s tossed onto a platter and served hot.
Why. The. Hell. Not?
the John voice says.

“Nope, nothing.” When you final y figure out what you real y want, everything else pales in comparison. I never got that before. I get it now. “Thanks, uh…”

“Victoria.” She bestows a tight smile and hands me her card.

“Yeah. Thanks.” As I shove the card into my wal et, it sticks on a scrap of paper amongst the receipts and cash

—Frank’s cel number, scrawled on the back of an IN-N-OUT receipt. I haven’t talked to Frank since August—my last day at the Diego house. Maybe I should check in.

*** *** ***

Dori

Three days until Christmas. Four weeks until school begins.

Talking to Nick helped me realize that part of my absentmindedness can be attributed to the fact that I have nothing mental on which to focus. I began regarding school as something to ground me, rather than something too chal enging to handle. I saw an advisor, registered for classes, and got very lucky on a vacated dorm room, al within the past two weeks.

I’m dumping pasta into the colander when Mom comes home from visiting Deb. “Dinner on the table in ten minutes,” I tel her, turning to stir the sauce.

When she doesn’t reply, I glance back and she’s dropped into a chair at the table with a bewildered look. My stomach drops at her expression. I should have gone with stomach drops at her expression. I should have gone with her this afternoon instead of evading her let’s-pretend-Deb-responds display by spending hours in the kitchen making a from-scratch sauce that could have just as easily come from a jar.

“Mom? Is something wrong?”

“No.” She’s stil frowning, but she looks perplexed, not distraught. “They needed my approval to move Deb to a different room.”

“What? Why?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Someone set up a trust to pay for a private room.”

“That’s—that’s great. Who?”

Her head is stil moving placidly side-to-side. “They have no idea beyond the law firm that administers the trust. I could cal them tomorrow… but wouldn’t that be looking a gift horse in the mouth? This is a miracle…” And just like that, Mom’s crying, Esther is resting her head on Mom’s knee and whining, and Dad is bul eting out of his study in a panic.

“Maybe it’s someone from church?” I offer, while my brain suggests
Reid?

“What’s someone from church?” Dad says, moving to Mom’s side.

They discuss the likelihood of anyone putting that kind of money out for Deb while I turn back to the bubbling sauce, reducing the heat and stirring. If Reid had anything to do with it, his attorney father would set it up, right? Easy enough to check. “What’s the name of the law firm?” Mom shrugs. “I don't know. I was so shocked, I forgot to ask.”

***

I’m ashamed to admit that this is the first time I’ve visited Deb without Mom or Dad. At the same time, I was relieved when Nick agreed to come with me. He says hel o to my sister, sticks around long enough to make sure I’m not going to freak out, and then tel s me he’l be in the lobby chatting up the receptionist if I need him.

I grin at his shy smirk. “Her name is Sophie, and she likes cats and historical memoirs.”

He taps his lip with one finger. “Cats, huh? I think I could work with that.” Squeezing my hand, he says, “Text if you need me.”

I glance at Deb, tel ing Nick, “Go talk to Sophie. We’re good.”

I haven’t been alone with my sister since we moved her to LA. Before we came in, the nurse told me, “She’s just finished lunch fol owed by a couple hours in the sun room, so you two can just spend time talking in her room if you’d like.”

Talking. Right.

I strol around the room, straightening things, until there’s nothing left to rearrange, and then I perch on the upholstered chair in the corner. Deb’s new room is located on the second floor, and has a window shaded by tal oaks, overlooking the landscaped commons area— home to a native flower garden, slate pathways, and smooth, worn wooden benches. Several residents sit with guests or wander the trails admiring the winter blossoms, flanked by aides. Deb sits in her chair, staring out the window, her eyes fol owing nothing.

In my pocket is a slip of paper the office manager just gave me citing the law firm administering the trust paying for Deb’s new room. It’s incredibly upgraded—not just in privacy, but in understated touches like the chair and the south-facing window, the better-quality bedding and furniture, the patterned rug underfoot. When I get home, I’l explore the law firm’s website and look for clues to the anonymous benefactor. For now, I’m here with Deb, alone in the mute space between us, missing her laughter and her listening ear.

“Hey Deb,” I say, my voice just above a whisper but crashing like waves into the silence. She doesn’t stir, of course. “I like your new room.” Out her window, clouds move in streams across the leaden sky, lazy and slow. It never gets frigid in LA, but winter is stil chil y. “Next time I come, I’l bring a heavier sweater and we’l check out the garden.” Staring at her, I wonder if it’s possible that she can hear me, even if she can’t respond.

I clear my throat. “I’m going to find out who your secret admirer is, too.” I remember giving Bradford the box of clothes and the ivy plant, and I can’t speak around what feels like a fist in my throat. I’ve discarded the notion that the room is from him. He’s too immersed in medical school debt to do anything so extravagant. He checks in with Mom now and then, but the frequency is fal ing off. Bradford is moving on with his life, because he can.

“I decided to go ahead and start at Berkeley next month.” I glance at my watch. “But I’l be around for a few more weeks, and I’l visit on long weekends and breaks.” I’ve only been here
eleven minutes
. How does my mother stay here, chattering to
herself
, basical y, for an hour or more at a time?

“I’m starting a new Habitat project in a couple of weeks.

Roberta’s the crew leader on this one. I’m cal ing her tonight, to get details. I’l tel you about it next time.” I adjust her chair so she can see out the window without catching any glare should the sun emerge. I don’t know what she sees, or if she can perceive or mental y process what she sees. Kissing her forehead, I squeeze her limp hand. “I’l be back soon. I love you.”

Using the cal button, I let the nursing staff know I’m leaving and walk down the hal way. Not until I reach the stairwel do my eyes wel up with tears. I breathe in and out, concentrating on keeping control, and I congratulate myself for visiting my sister, alone, for twelve whole minutes.

Chapter 47

REID

“Okay, I’m returning your cal —or should I say
calls
—since apparently, blatantly ignoring you doesn’t work like it does on normal people. What d’you
want
, Reid?” I knew this wasn’t going to be painless, but good God, Brooke can stil wind me up as much as she did at fifteen.

When she’s pissed, her Texas drawl shows up. So as much as she’d like me to believe she’s only bothered, the accent tel s me she’s stil angry.

My therapist would say this is a good time to utilize those anger-management tricks I’ve been practicing when dealing with my father. One deep breath, in and out, and then another. Counting to three or ten or fifty before replying. “I don’t want anything, Brooke. I just need to say something, and I’d like you to let me say it. Please.” Silence. Shock? Considering the things we said to each other during our last few conversations, shock would be about right. “So talk,” she says, not as tough as she’d like to sound.

“I want to apologize—”

“Are you
kidding
me? Is this some kind of twelve-step bul shit? We haven’t spoken in months. You made what you think of me loud and clear. This, Reid, is what’s known as
too damned late
.”

I run a hand through my hair and over my face and I admit, my first instinct is to abandon this whole plan. After al , Brooke hating my guts matters nada in the general scheme of things. I’m a bigger Hol ywood entity than she is, so I don’t need to worry about her vetoing my ability to obtain roles. But this isn’t about
me
.

Sucking in another deep breath and pushing it out, slowly, I’m determined to get this apology out or die trying.

“Brooke, I was wrong to abandon you when you found out you were pregnant, no matter what had happened between us. You were my girlfriend, and I should have been there to support whatever decision you made.” She’s not butting in, so I plunge ahead. “The only excuse I have is that I was a
child
then. Stil , I screwed up, and I’m sorry.” There’s no answer, and I count seconds, wondering if she hung up somewhere during that speech. Almost two minutes tick by. And then, “I was thinking about… trying to find him,” she says. “Not to interfere or anything. Just to make sure he’s okay. Would you… would you want me to let you know what I find out?”

My jaw clenches while I fight the deep-rooted soreness of her betrayal, like a toothache that’s never been dealt with. Not for the first time, I wonder why she acts like she
knows
it was mine. I’m not saying that to her, though. Not again. With time comes perspective. It doesn’t matter if it—

if
he
—was or wasn’t mine. “Sure. That’d be fine.” She sighs. “I know what you’re thinking. At the risk of trashing this little interlude, I’l repeat what I’ve said before.

He’s
yours
. He can’t possibly be anyone else’s because when I turned that stick blue, I’d never slept with anyone but
you
. So unless it was an immaculate conception, he’s
yours
.”

Okay, wait. “Brooke, the story, the photos, that guy—”

“Complete tabloid lies. I
never
cheated on you. Yes, after we had that fight I dirty danced with that guy at that club. I wanted to make you crazy jealous. I wanted you to come running back to me and say I was yours and no one else could have me. I did not, would not have cheated on you. Not with him, not with anyone.”

I’ve been pacing my room, and now I sit heavily on the edge of my bed, suddenly
really
glad I didn’t cal her when I was out driving around because the surge of adrenaline is making my whole body quake.

“Brooke, why did you let me think—”

“Because I thought you loved me and I didn’t think I should have to
convince
you that I hadn’t done something
I
hadn’t done!
And then I found out I was pregnant… and you didn’t—” She stifles a cry. “I can’t talk about this anymore.

What’s done is done. If I find him, I’l send you the info. If you want.”

My thoughts are spinning too quickly to take shape. “I do.

I do want.”

She sniffs, her voice smoothing out. “Okay. I’l let you know. Goodbye, Reid.”

She hangs up before I reply.

I don’t know why I believe her now, but I do. I have a son.

Correction: I
had
a son, for a few minutes. Now he belongs to someone else—and that’s definitely just as wel . We were children. We would have had no business trying to raise one. That kid is, what, four? And this is the first time I’ve ever real y thought about him. That’s fucked up.

*** *** ***

Dori

The wal above my desk is covered in cork squares.

Tacked to these are photos of those important to me—my parents and Deb, Kayla and Aimee, Nick, and of course, Esther. In one corner are two group shots of my VBS kids from last summer—one taken the night of their parent program, everyone standing straight and tal around me, al toothy smiles and Sunday best clothes, and the second with Mrs. K at the pool—the kids clustered al around her like bees on a honeycomb, Jonathan clinging to one hip and Keisha to the other, grinning at each other. There are snapshots of people from Habitat, from church, from Quito, and people from school I may never see again. Everyone who matters to me is represented on this board.

Except Reid.

I checked the law firm administering Deb’s trust. It isn’t his father’s firm, and I didn’t recognize any of the attorneys on the site by name. I couldn’t find a connection.

I’l be helping out on a new Habitat project for the next couple of weeks, until I leave for Berkeley. When I talked to Roberta last night, she told me that an anonymous someone donated three new cars to the Diegos the day they got the keys to their house. I was in Quito then, and hadn’t talked to her about anything but Deb since I got back.

“You have no idea who did it?” I pressed.

“None at al . I confess, I thought perhaps Mr.

Alexander… but he’d have wanted the publicity, wouldn’t he?” I heard the other question in her voice. Like everyone else, she’d seen the reports of the two of us together and she suspected I knew more than I was letting on.

“I don’t know.” It’s been a month since that last phone cal . I’m fine when I’m busy, when I purposeful y throw myself into anything that wil block out the thought of him. Like when I was in Quito, though, the nights are the worst—

staring into the darkness and recal ing everything I’d begun to love about him, from the way he chal enged me to the way he touched me.

“We have a celebrity group helping out this time,” Roberta said, switching gears. “I thought you’d be ideal for this project, with your celebrity experience.” I wanted to interrupt her to ask exactly what experience she was referring to, but decided against it. “There may be paparazzi issues again.” She actual y sounded a bit enthused by this idea, and I fought not to snicker. Roberta, starstruck. “People filming from rooftops and leering over fences—insanity!”

I shook my head, glad she told me this over the phone so she couldn’t see me fighting back laughter. “Who are the celebrities?”

“They’re from some movie that’s coming out soon,” she said, vaguely. “These publicity things are so helpful.

Remember when we had those people from that soap opera? Donations and volunteers were up for months afterward.”

“Which movie?”

“Hmm, I can’t quite recal …” Too weird. Roberta is never unfamiliar with the people showing up on her worksite. She launched into project talk, and I forgot to ask again.

Now I’m staring at an email from Ana Diaz, the mission director in Quito. We’ve been emailing about what had happened to Deb, and how I plan to start at Berkeley a semester late, and whether or not she can use my help this coming summer.

Dori,

I can’t believe I forgot to tel you—several months ago, we received a large donation from an anonymous source. It was enough to balance our books for the first time in a decade. Then, just before Christmas, a law firm in Los Angeles contacted us about a trust someone set up. The disbursements are enough to run the entire program, leaving other donations to rebuild schools and fund medical programs. I only wish I knew who to thank!

Ana

I hit reply to ask the name of the law firm, and minutes later, I get her answer. It’s the same firm administering Deb’s trust. Ana included the name of the contact attorney

—Chad Roberts. I have no idea who he is, but I’m determined to find out.

“Popsicles,” I mutter, staring at the search engine results. There are a
lot
of guys named Chad Roberts in the world, and none of them are directly connected to Reid Alexander. I don’t have time to do a more thorough search now. I have to be at the new Habitat project in twenty minutes—we’re restoring two foreclosed homes in the same neighborhood this time, with the help of an entire group of celebrities, apparently.

Oh, joy.