That’s when I met Graham, who resisted and spurned me. No one rejected me, not when I was offering straight up no-strings screwing around. We were on location not too far from LA, just beginning to film a movie. I’d known Graham for a week, and I already detested him for his high-handed dismissal.
And then I figured out that it had been a while since I’d had a period. I peed on a stick and was stunned to find out I was pregnant. Abortion? No problem. Sign me up. Until the doctor said how far along I was—almost ten weeks.
Which meant it was Reid’s. Absolutely Reid’s. I told them I couldn’t do it. Not when my mother pleaded with me not to ruin my career. Not when my father was called in to order me to comply (because yeah, that’s always worked on me).
“I’ve made the appointment, and we’re going tomorrow,” Mom said, as though I had no opinion in the matter.
“Be a good girl and listen to your mother,” my father added.
I hated them both.
Graham heard me crying in my trailer that night, and knocked on the door. I don’t know why, but I took one look at those warm brown eyes and I told him everything.
Holding me while I cried, he told me that he and his ex-girlfriend were having a baby in a few months. She was planning to hand it to him and walk away, but he was hoping for a reconciliation.
“Brooke, this might be the most important decision you ever make. It doesn’t matter if you didn’t plan this—there’s a choice to make, and you should make it. Decide what’s right for you, whatever that is, and then do it.”
No one had ever said that to me before, and here was this boy, who wasn’t quite a year older than me, sounding so wise and sure. Of course, I know now that in that moment, Graham still had completely undeserved faith in Zoe, so he wasn’t exactly the soul of discernment he appeared to be. Still, he had a point about taking over the decisions for your own life. That was the moment I started doing just that.
If I’m capable of loving anyone, it has to be Graham.
The ends justify the means, right? The ends justify the means.
Me: I’m in town for a couple of days. Meetings over that fall project. Dinner?
Graham: Bad week. I’ve got finals and papers due through friday. When are you leaving?
Me: Early friday. :(
Graham: Damn, not the sad face! I could maybe get away for an hour or so tomorrow?
Me: Yes please! :) Text me your address and I’ll pick you up at eight.
*** *** ***
REID
Brooke: We’re having dinner tomorrow night. Photos should be up thursday. Make sure she sees them.
Me: Yep
Brooke: That answer doesn’t leave me with warm fuzzies
Me: Are you capable of warm fuzzies? I’m thinking cold ice shards.
Brooke: Do you ever STFU??
Me: Quit freaking out. I’ll handle it.
***
Emma and I are on our second day of local television morning show interviews. These are like an annoying, unnecessary rehearsal for the ones that matter—the nationally syndicated talk shows, the late night network and cable shows.
Most of these local morning anchors will never make it out of their thirties in front of a camera, especially the women. Not because they can’t do the job, but because there’s always some fresh-faced, ambitious twenty-something who wants that job, will take less to do it, and will look hotter doing it. No wonder some of them look at Emma and me like they’d give anything to just punch us in the face.
I may be exaggerating a bit.
This morning, though, the female anchor is interrogating Emma as though she’s personally responsible for a host of swept-under-the-rug hate crimes. Leaning so far forward that Emma moves closer to me, Wynona narrows her overly-lined, heavily-mascaraed eyes. “Emma, you can’t tell me there isn’t something going on between you two. Look at the photographic evidence!”
Without her eyes ever leaving Emma’s face, she points to a huge monitor in between her chair and our small sofa. I stifle a laugh. The cell phone photo I suspect Brooke of taking during Walt’s show? Really? Everyone saw and picked apart that photo, months ago. “Um…” Emma says, and I lean up, chuckling slightly.
“Wynona.” My voice is like honey and her attention swings to me. Professional thirty-something women aren’t quite sure how to react when I take such a familiar, somewhat condescending tone. “That’s a really old, really fuzzy photo.” I shrug. “As we’ve said in previous interviews, the whole cast got along really well during filming. We were all very close.” When Emma almost turns to look at me, I press my knee against hers and she freezes in place. Good girl.
“Reid, I believe you had an old flame in the cast, as well?” Wynona clicks the device in her palm and the photo on the wall is suddenly a four-years-younger me, leading Brooke by the hand as we leave some LA hotspot. Both of us are smiling—me, right into the camera, and Brooke, looking at me. I haven’t seen this photo in a very long time.
“Yes.” My smile is similar to that of the boy on the screen, if Wynona doesn’t look closely enough. That boy is not yet the uncaring bastard sitting in front of her.
She scoots an inch closer. “Were you and Ms. Cameron in contact between your tween romance and the filming of School Pride?” I can tell from her cold eyes she knows damned well we weren’t tweens in that photo, but I ignore her pointless taunt.
“Sure,” I lie.
Ignoring me, she asserts, “Because there are rumors that the two of you had—issues—on the set of your recent film.”