Between the Lines

Page 28

I breathe a sigh, trying to clear the stab of hostility I suddenly feel towards Emily’s coworkers. “Em, I don’t understand how you work at Hot Topic, dress twenty-first century Gothic, and are attracted to guys who look like Reid.”
“Opposites attract?”
“Not usually,” I say, and she shrugs.
“So, the fan pages are speculating that you and Reid are having hot sex all over Austin.”
“What? God. Well, we’re not.” I cover my face and Hector meows in complaint until I begin stroking him again. “I still don’t know what kind of relationship he wants. Or, you know, if. He’s used to girls throwing themselves at him. I’m sure I’m confusing the crap out of him.”
“Hmm.” He stares at us from the back of her door. “Official dilemma.”
“Seriously.” Hector rolls over, flopping between us on the bed, legs in the air, begging for a tummy rub. “Um, is Hector on drugs or something?”
“Maybe one of Mom’s plants is a cat narcotic. God knows he chews on them enough—every plant in the house has teeth marks. Drives Mom insane.”
“Grandma tried putting Tabasco sauce on the leaves. Worked pretty well.”
We laugh, imagining the effects of this on an unsuspecting Hector. “Your grandma was an evil genius.”
I remember her so much more clearly than I remember Mom. “Yeah, she was.” I stare at the ceiling. “Right before you picked me up, my father asked if I wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning, ‘like old times.’ I was standing there in that revolting yellow room with that flowery duvet and furniture that looks like an animal has gnawed on it, and I was thinking ‘old times’—like when I was what, five?”
She’s silent for a couple of minutes. “Are you afraid if you talked to him, you might actually tell him how angry you are?”
It’s true. This is not standard annoyance. I’m livid. “Maybe. Why now? Why now do I give a crap?”
“You’ve always given a crap, Emma. You just pushed it inside. Acted like a miniature grownup. What else could you do? Of course you’re angry.”
I suddenly burst into tears like one of those geysers in Yellowstone erupts—pop, pop, gush, and she sits up and grabs me, pulls me close and stretches her arms around me.
“What am I supposed to do now?” I hiccup, sniffling.
She sighs. “Maybe it’s not the best timing, right in the middle of filming the biggest movie of your career so far, but emotional self-awareness doesn’t always sit around waiting for the perfect time to reveal itself.” She hands me the tissue box. “You’ll wash your face so you don’t scare my parents, then we’ll eat the pasta and sausage meatballs they’re making, watch some bad television or a good DVD, and munch something calorific. And after that, we’ll figure this shit out.”
I take a shuddering breath and lean my head into her lap. She strokes my hair, pulling it from my wet face and tucking it behind my ear, which makes me ache for my mother. I can’t recall her face, exactly, but I remember vividly the feel of her fingers threading through my hair. People are right about time healing wounds. But the scars are always there, waiting for something to poke them. I close my eyes and just let myself miss her.
Chapter 30
REID
I’m geared up for another hour or so of awkward silence on the drive back to LA—even more awkward now that we’ve seen Mom, now that her damage is out there, undeniable, visible to us both. The therapy session was like being cut in a hundred tiny invisible ways, and it’s inexplicable to me how that kind of opening up is helpful.
I pull out my phone to text John, but before I get far, Dad says, “I made reservations for dinner tonight.” My first thought is why are you telling me? Then I realize he means reservations for us. Oh, hell no.
“I’ve already made plans with John—”
His jaw tightens. “Push them back. Our reservations are early. Seven.”
My jaw mimics his and I fight to relax it. “Fine. I’m staying over with John. Probably tomorrow night, too.”
He nods curtly and I send John the text telling him to pick me up at ten. A late party is better than no party.
“Have you thought about what’s next, after School Pride wraps?”
What’s this? Interest in my career? “George sent a few scripts for me to look over.”
“I guess there’s no more cold auditioning for you, is there? You’ve arrived, as they say.”
I shrug.
The waiter fills our water glasses from a Perrier bottle and leaves it to the side. “Would you gentlemen like to peruse the wine list, or have a cocktail before dinner?”
“I would,” I say.
Dad shakes his head. “No thank you. We’ll be ready to order in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” The waiter snaps the wine list closed and removes the wine glasses with one hand, crossing them like Marcie crossed her legs earlier today. Thinking about her doesn’t help my already fed up state of mind.
“What the hell, Dad?”
He fixes me with one of the stares he’s perfected after years of cross-examining hapless witnesses. I wait him out. “I’m aware that you drink, despite the fact that you’re considerably underage. You’ve been out from under my direct control for a while now, so I know there’s little to no hope of me influencing that behavior. But you’re not doing it in my presence, out in public. I have a reputation to maintain. So do you, not that you spare any concern for it.”
Wow. This trip is just one joy-infused moment after another. I should have stayed in Austin. “Why, exactly, did you decide we needed to have dinner together?”
He exhales through his nose, his patience as close to snapping as mine, though I can’t imagine why. He could have saved himself the agony by simply leaving me to my own devices for the evening. “I thought you might have questions about your mother’s rehabilitation process. Also I wanted…” he exhales again, his mouth a thin line, “…wanted to thank you for coming this morning. If nothing else, I know you care about her, and I appreciate the effort.”
If nothing else? What the hell kind of backhanded accolade is that? “I didn’t come for you, so you don’t need to thank me.”
“Nevertheless, I’m thanking you.”
“Awesome. Well, you’re so very welcome. Will that be all?” I sit up, put my napkin on the table.
“Why are you so hostile?”
“Why are you?”
“Look, I’m doing the best I can—”
“This is the best you can do, Dad?”
“Jesus Christ, Reid. Let’s not do this here.”
“I concur, counselor. Let’s not do it at all.” I sit back, fix an unnatural smile on my face and try to appear relaxed. “I don’t have any questions concerning Mom’s rehab at this time. I’ll let you or Marcie know if I do.” Marcie had given each of us her card and told us to call or email any time. Riiiight, that was going to happen. “Also, George and I are considering an action flick for my next project. They want someone older, bigger and more buff to do the part, but George is selling them on the idea that I can be each of those things. I’ll have to train like hell to get the role, but if they give it to me, I’m doing it.”
“Hmph,” he says, but it’s an impressed hmph. I haven’t gotten one of those in a while. I hate how good it feels—it totally pisses me off.
*** *** ***
Emma
“Have you told Emma about Derek?” Emily’s mom asks as we sit down to dinner.
“Abercrombie boy.” Jason, Emily’s twenty-something brother, moved back home three weeks ago, temporarily between jobs. Again. He makes a hobby of torturing his little sister.
Emily jerks the basket of rolls out of his reach. He’s already eaten two and was going for a third. “At least Derek has a job.”
Mr. Watson starts to laugh and tries to turn it into a cough as his wife gives him a tight-lipped look. Mrs. Watson believes that in order to succeed, young people need emotional support and encouragement. She’s the queen of cheerleading her kids, which worked well with Grant, the oldest, but appears to be backfiring in Jason. Em migrated to her dad’s way of thinking (that sometimes a person needs a swift emotional kick in the pants) when Jason moved back in for the third time.
“I’ve had jobs.” Jason scowls and digs into his pasta.
“That’s true,” Emily answers, “but keeping one seems to elude you. And really? The getting is easy; the keeping is the important part.”
“Like you know anyth—”
“Children!” Mrs. Watson says, and I wonder how that one word doesn’t make Jason go job-hunting immediately, and stay out until he finds one. “Emily, have you asked Emma’s opinion on the homecoming dance?” Uh-oh. I know this is a loaded question before Emily sets her jaw, because when Mrs. Watson invokes my view on something, she’s grasping for already rejected straws.
“Mom, seriously. You’ve gotta stop with the dance thing. We aren’t going.”
“So Abercrombie boy didn’t ask you?” Jason snatches a roll from the edge of Emily’s bowl. “What, he didn’t want to waste the money to see you wear a new shade of black?”
“Bite me, mister perpetually unemployed.” Emily takes a roll from the basket to replace the one he’d stolen. “You can’t afford to take someone to the Mini-Mart.”
“Enough! We have a guest!” Mrs. Watson says.
“Emma’s not a guest,” Jason scoffs. Which is kind of true. I’ve slept over at Emily’s house hundreds of times in my life.
“Jason, do you want dessert tonight or do you want to just go to your room?” his mother asks, no differently than she would have asked (make that did ask) when he was twelve.
“What? Mom, are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“I’m an adult! You can’t send me to my room.”
“The hell she can’t.” Mr. Watson glares at his son. I’ve watched them do this tag team maneuver on all three of their kids. Resistance is futile. You’d think Jason would know that by now, but I guess not.
“Dad, Jesus—”
“That’s it! To your room.” Mr. Watson points as though Jason needs directions. I bite the inside of my cheek and sneak a look at Emily. Her lips were pressed so tightly together that they’re losing color. On the counter is some sort of berry cobbler, and a big scoop of that stuff has our names on it, so we’re not getting ourselves sent anywhere.
“This sucks.” Jason pushes away from the table, taking his roll. “I need my own place.”
As soon as Jason is out of earshot, Mr. Watson mumbles, “Now there’s a notion.”
Emily turns to her mother. “Mom, no one goes to that incredibly sucktastic dance. Everyone just goes to the game. Things have changed since you went to high school.”