‘Uh …’ I glance over my shoulder, looking for Reid and fighting claustrophobia.
‘God, okay you two – that’s enough.’ The other girl pipes up, her voice as tiny as she is. She stands, hands on hips, glowering up at John. ‘I thought you were going to be nice.’
He pulls her in close with his opposite arm. ‘Maybe you should keep your roommate on a leash, Bianca. Or muzzled.’
‘John!’ She shoves him in the chest half-heartedly, the attraction between them obvious.
‘C’mon, Bianca.’ Jo stomps towards the bar setup in the corner.
Bianca heaves a groan, shakes her head and follows her friend.
Watching them go, lips flattened, John mumbles, ‘Well, that was nasty.’
‘Is Bianca your –?’ I stop, unsure how to classify her.
He takes the fluted glass from my hand, quaffs half the bubbly contents – champagne, I assume – and hands it back. ‘We’re on-again, off-again. Can’t stand her charming roommate, though, in case you didn’t catch that.’
‘Hmm. I hadn’t noticed.’
He smiles wolfishly at my sarcastic tone, and I begin to see the place where he and Reid connect. ‘I like you, Dori.’
‘Hey.’ Reid’s eyes are dark, one brow quirked as he draws me from John’s side. ‘Hands off, man. I don’t want to maim you at your own party.’ His threat is all for show, as is John’s theatrical palms-up. Reid’s voice goes softer and he angles his head in the direction taken by the girls. ‘And, uh, what was that about? Why is Jo even here?’
‘Bro, seriously – be realistic,’ John scoffs. ‘I can’t just invite a bunch of guys.’
The implication is unmistakable: there’s no avoiding some things, like the ghosts of Reid’s sexual past. There are too many girls in his social circle, in this city, in this country, for us to avoid them all. His Hollywood Lothario reputation precedes him. My friends and even my parents are all too familiar with it. I’ve made it clear that I don’t want or need to hear the grisly details, and I think he was grateful he didn’t have to confess them.
I expect the general public to wonder what in the world he’s doing with me – I got a taste of that when I tripped and fell on top of him at the Habitat project last summer, sending the tabloids into merciless speculation. I expect to run into starlets and fans who want him, who’ve been with him, even, who might hate me on sight.
Pretty sure Jo is one of those.
But finding out that he was involved with Brooke Cameron for long enough that it was a known relationship? He may have loved her. That unforeseen possibility wells up, a reflux of the only fear I’ve refused to face. Despite the rumours that he’s bedded half of young Hollywood – and the fact that he’s never refuted those allegations, I hoped his heart was mine alone.
I want to reject the jealousy and insecurity that begin to boil in the pit of my stomach. I need the truth, whatever it is, but I can’t ask him. Because deep inside, I don’t want to know.
7
BROOKE
Norman Rogers, Kathryn’s attorney – more of a family friend at this point since he’s been her attorney since her divorce from my dad – sputters, incredulous, when I tell him I want River.
‘But. Are you sure?’ he asks, as if I would set up this appointment and travel from Los Angeles to Texas on a whim.
I grind my teeth. I survived the shocked reactions of Reid, my private investigator and my stepmother. What’s one more? ‘Yes. I want my son back.’ On second thoughts, I should probably get used to this response. Maybe I should call Angelina and ask her how she fielded these sorts of sceptical reactions.
Eyeing me over his glasses, Norman says, ‘All righty, then.’ Tapping his gold-plated pen on the pad, he gets down to business. ‘The first thing we need to do is get in front of a judge and get a home study ordered. I assume you plan to move him to California? If so, we’ll need to get an ICPC to coordinate the case between Los Angeles County and the State of Texas.’ He scrawls his lawyer chicken-scratch across a legal pad, plotting our plan of attack, I assume. ‘It’ll be up to the judge whether the adoption takes place here in Texas or is transferred to a California court …’
‘Adoption?’ I throw some incredulity of my own at him. ‘But I’m his mother. Can’t I just … have him back?’
Norman stares down at the pad and underlines a couple of things, rubbing one thick finger back and forth on his forehead as if he’s trying to buff away the premature creases this conversation will leave there. The silence stretches until, at last, he clears his throat. ‘Brooke, River is in foster care. The State of Texas holds guardianship over him. There are specific procedures in place to make sure what’s done now is in the best interest of the child.’
‘But I’m his mother,’ I whisper, repeating myself, the guilt swallowing me up like quicksand. I can barely breathe.
‘Technically, Brooke, you aren’t.’
This statement slaps me in the face, stealing the remainder of my breath. I feel my mouth fall open and watch Norman’s brows draw together in contrition, his lips tightening. He’s given me the blunt truth, and as much as I appreciate him doing so, I didn’t anticipate this answer.
‘How long? How long until I can have him?’ A tremor runs through my entire body, starting at my neck and shooting painfully to the tips of my fingers and toes. ‘Or are you telling me I can’t – I can’t get him back?’