be irritation or pain.

The doctors yel at her in attempts to provoke a response, and Mom sits stoical y, while I can barely stand to watch my sister flinch over and over. They ask me to try, hoping she might respond to my voice.

“Deb, can you hear me?” I say, and they insist louder, louder. “Deb, can you hear me? Can you hear me, Deb?” I’m screaming, but the volume only makes her recoil, and I run from the room, weak and ineffective, gasping for breath and slumping against the hal way wal , sinking lower and swal owing tears. I bury my face against my knees, wishing this was al a nightmare, and I could just wake up.

My mother joins me as I huddle on the floor, opening her arms. “It’s okay, Dori. They won’t ask you to do it again.” I let myself cry, because I don’t want her to let go. This embrace is for me, and I want it desperately even while I berate myself for leaning on Mom for comfort. She doesn’t need me to break down and add to her burden.

Bradford remains close by, but I wonder how long that wil last. He and Deb weren’t married; their relationship wasn’t even public knowledge. Excluded from decisions concerning her care except where his opinion is quietly sought by my parents, he has no official place in her life—

this woman he wanted to marry, the person with whom he intended to link his future. As Mom and the chaplain prayed over her stil form yesterday, requesting miracles on her behalf, my eyes met Bradford’s. I saw my grief mirrored there, as wel as my recognition of her prognosis. The girl we love is not coming back.

There’s no discussing reality with Mom when she constantly addresses Deb as though she’s capable of making a coherent reply at any moment. “How are you feeling today, sweetie? Looks like your hair is growing back in—time for a trim, don’t you think?” Her fingers run lovingly over the sparse spots on Deb’s head as my sister stares straight ahead at nothing. Mom chatters on about the weather and I fade from the room, because it’s almost as unbearable as watching people yel at my sister to get a response.

When I’m home in LA, I see my friends, fel ow church members, or Nick—who brings me food and stays to sit and talk when he’s home from col ege, though we skirt sensitive subjects like my newly aimless life or Deb’s increasingly unlikely recovery. Two months ago, I confided in my sister and counted on my parents. They each encouraged my independence, but they were always there.

Now there is no hand to steady me and no net beneath me, and I’m more isolated than I thought it was possible to be.

“Dori is such a little rock for Doug and Jocelyn,” I overhear Mrs. Perez tel Mrs. K one Sunday. “They don’t have to worry about her fal ing apart.”

Too late, I realize what my show of strength costs me.

I’ve become disconnected, and the people in my life have become mirages. When I reach for them, my fingers go right through.

There is only one exception—Reid.

I can’t explain it, but whenever I catch sight of him on television or a magazine cover, I’m connected to my former life, my former self, even if it’s just for a moment. I’ve memorized times and channels for entertainment news programs that I’ve never watched, flipping rapidly between channels in the first two minutes. My pulse quickens when he appears in the teasers, like a monkey who’s learned to press a lever and get a treat. He’s a drug, and I need him. I tel myself that this is a safe obsession, because he has no knowledge of it.

Sometimes I wake from dreams of him, shuddering with longing. In these waking moments I come back to reality unwil ingly, grounded by Esther, who sleeps pressed to my chest like an extension of me. She is proof that I’m alive—

my ear snuggled against her chest, attuned to the faint gurgles of her soft stomach and the steady drum of her heart, my nose breathing in her familiar doggy scent, my face and fingers buried in her fur, stroking her beloved warm body.

“Stay, stay, stay,” I whisper.

She does, and I do.

Chapter 35

REID

“It’s not true, is it?” Chelsea says, plopping down next to me at lunch as I go over the sides for afternoon shooting.

“Of course not.” I have no idea what she’s talking about.

She crunches through a salad of mostly raw veggies while I eat as many rol ed up slices of meat as I can stomach. The filming has become more cardiovascular, and my body is burning off muscle as fast as Olaf and I can put it back on. Chelsea doesn’t enlighten me about the true or untrue topic of her question, but she’s aware I’m curious as hel . She shoves another bite in her mouth and chomps away, grinning like mischief incarnate.

“Okay, fine, is what true?”

She finishes the bite and cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Haven’t checked the Internet lately, huh?” I steal a couple of carrots from her bowl. “I never check it, where I’m concerned. I’d have been convinced I was the devil by now if I did.”

She shrugs. “Or gay.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s the newest rumor in Reid Alexanderland. Ostensibly, since arriving in Vancouver, you’ve been seen with no one interesting outside of Chad and me—unreservedly in love and married to each other, your friend Tadd, who’s gay, and his hot, unknown, probably gay friend. Also one of our bodyguards—who’s male and therefore fodder for the gay buzz.”

I almost choke on the swiped carrot and she slams my back with her palm while I fight to breathe. Final y, I manage, “Wel , that’s a first.”

“So, true or not true? For the record, I don’t care either way. Although I do have a brother who would drop everything and bounce up here on a pogo stick to be your love slave—”

“Hold it right there, Cupid. Not true.” My phone rings and of course, it’s Tadd. I would bet a new Porsche he has seen the Internet and is laughing his ass off. “Awesome,” I grumble, heaving a sigh and pressing talk. “Thaddeus.”

“Hel o, lover,” he says.

“You wish.”

“That’s for me to know, and you to never quite be sure of.”

I laugh, covering my face with one hand. “What does Rob think?”

“Oh he’s for it.”

“For what, exactly? Never mind. Don’t answer that.” I know better than to word-spar with Tadd.

“Aw, come on,” he says. “What good is the press if not for dishing up a serving of innuendo sprinkled with a few unsubstantiated lies?”

I sigh. “Wel , as long as Rob isn’t upset about getting roped into the Hol ywood rumor mil .”

“Nah, this was something we discussed before taking our relationship public. I’m just not as wel -known as you, plus I’m brazenly out of the closet, so it doesn’t stir up much interest. You on the other hand—if the rumor was true, there’d be suicide watches and black arm bands in one camp, and rejoicing in the street in the other.”

“Stooooop,” I say.

“So. Have you been practicing?” he asks, switching subjects. Tadd plays the guitar, and when I brought up the crazy notion of trying to learn, he insisted I buy the instrument while he was here.

“Yes, Dad.”

Learning to play the guitar is just one of the new things I’m trying out while I search for ways to fil my free time with activities that don’t include my usual pursuits. At first, this was both more and less daunting than I’d assumed. I could dream up plenty of things to try, as it turns out. Motivating myself to actual y do them was another matter. There are hours ful of nothing but video games and eating crap Olaf would kil me for eating.

When Tadd and Rob were in town, we spent one night checking out local clubs. I didn’t want to impose my no-drinking constraint on anyone else. Having never exactly practiced resisting peer pressure (hel , I’m usual y conducting the peer pressure), I joined the two of them in a few too many shots of Canadian whiskey and a round of karaoke (Tadd and I killed doing a medley of Ke$ha and the Stones).

The entire next day I was renewing my vows of sobriety, especial y when Olaf caught sight of my impaired gaze. I knew I was in for it when he narrowed his eyes and al of the sizeable muscles in his upper body seemed to expand with displeasure at once. “One hundred push-ups,” he barked, pointing to the floor. That was only the beginning.

When it comes to morning-after consequences, spending the evening with the guitar is exponential y less dangerous. I’ve also tried meditation—an unqualified fail because I can’t clear my mind worth shit, and reading—

slightly better, same reason. One of the bodyguards hikes, so we’ve been exploring trails through New Brighton Park.

The leaves are turning every possible shade of gold and red, and the weather is cooler but stil amazing.

No matter what I do, though, I can’t break the habit of talking to Dori in my head. I think about cal ing her, asking how her classes are going and coaxing satirical observations out of her—the type she’s reluctant to voice for fear of sounding il -mannered. I imagine sitting with her at one of the hole-in-the-wal cafés I’ve discovered here, tel ing her about al the on-set insanity.

I remember kissing her. The kiss in the closet that made her run. The kiss in front of her house that didn’t. I could have gone on kissing her for much longer that last time, because nothing in her response showed wariness. The trouble was my response. If our mouths had been joined for another minute, I’d have dragged her right back into that car.

Clearing Dorcas Cantrel from my mind is not proving to be a simple task.

***

“Reid, I’ve listened to your voicemail three times. Am I fol owing this correctly—you want to donate money to some missionary organization in South America?” I’m confusing the hel out of my father—an unexpected bonus. “Yeah, that’s correct.”

“Should I be worried about a cult, brainwashing, Hari Krishnas?”

“Yeah, Dad, there are tons of Hari Krishnas in Ecuador.” Before he retorts and we end up in a battle of wits (where the loser is pretty much always me), I add, “I heard about it from a girl at Habitat. If she’s involved, it’s legit. I thought it would be a good use of my charity budget.”

“Oh-kay.” He draws the word out, derisive as usual. I turn the receiver up and away from my mouth for a moment and force myself to breathe and not react. “I’m not used to you guiding your charitable contributions, not to mention those recently purchased cars—which, I remind you, are not tax-deductible since they went directly to the recipients and you insisted on anonymity.”

I’m silent for a moment. “We’ve already discussed my reasons for that decision, Dad, so I’m waiting for your point.”

“Hmph,” he says. “How much do you want to donate to this… mission organization?”

I tel him, and there’s no reply. “Dad?”

The sound of air hissing through his teeth is unmistakable. “I think I need to meet the girl who’s inspired al of this uncharacteristic— giving.” Jesus Christ. I wouldn’t introduce Dori to my father if he begged. “I haven’t seen her since she went to Quito, actual y. She should be at Berkeley now.”