Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(76)

I hug her tightly. She doesn’t say anything, just lets me hold her. I love her. I think I’ve loved her for a long time and didn’t know it.





Alice


Dallas and Brock follow in Cole’s car. The rest of the guys on the team meet us at the Episcopalian church in Beverly Hills. Inside, it’s wall-to-wall flower arrangements. The expensive kind. Not a single carnation to be found anywhere in the entire church.

A closed, lacquered maple casket sits in the middle. A glamorous picture of a young and very handsome Brian Reynolds sits up on an easel next to it. I can see the strong resemblance now. Not so much when I met him in person.

By the time we arrive, late, it’s already standing room only. Judging by the ages, most of the people here must be friends of the Dr. and Dr. Reynolds.

As we walk up the aisle, Reagan stops to hug and backslap a small black man with silver hair. His dark eyes move to me, and when I hold out my hand, he hugs me.

“Foz Whitaker. You must be Alice.” I hug him back and pull away far enough to speak but he beats me to it. “Brian told me all about you.”

Inexplicably, tears burst from my eyes. Embarrassed, I hurriedly wipe them away while Foz pats my shoulder.

“You better get on up there,” Foz tells Reagan and he nods in agreement.

As we continue up the aisle, I spot his parents for the first time since we got the call. Sitting in the first row, Deborah Reynolds’s expression is stoic. Her makeup flawless. Her hair a hip, carefully styled mess. The dress she’s wearing––tailored, black, and sleeveless––contours every inch of her slender body. It actually looks a lot like my dress with the exception of the price tag. I’m fairly certain hers had a few more zeros attached at the end.

Pat Reynolds is wearing a navy suit and his usual expression of boredom. As if he has somewhere better to be.

Can I say that I hate them? Is that allowed?

Noting our arrival, they move down the pew to make room for us. “You’re late,” I hear Pat Reynolds tell his son.

“Where’s your tie?” his mother adds.

Garbed in an ivory robe with gold trim, Pastor Peterman, who looks exactly like an older Brock Peterman, walks to the podium––or whatever you call those things. Clearly church is not a thing in my family.

The service is a short one. No mention of all the years of struggle, or the demons that haunted Brian. Only a passing mention of the pitfalls of human desire and how we should do our best to curb them. Along with a short list of his accomplishments in high school.

Reagan keeps hold of my hand on his lap throughout the service.

Once it’s over, we all file out slowly. The sun shines brightly in a cloudless sky, the air crisp and cool. I wonder if Brian is at peace now. I wonder if he can see us. I wonder about my mother. I wonder.

We all get in our cars and a long, fancy procession follows the hearse to the graveyard. At the grave site, we crowd around the casket. His parents take a seat while Reagan remains standing among his friends, with me by his side. Pastor Peterman begins to speak.

That’s the first time I see her, a lone tall figure in the distance smoking a cigarette and shifting nervously on her feet. She’s painfully thin with stringy red hair and dressed in tattered jeans and a dirty, oversized L.A. Lakers t-shirt. It’s kind of hard to miss her.

When she catches me looking her way, she moves behind a giant oak. I squeeze Reagan’s hand. He looks down at me and I motion with my chin in her direction.

Once Reagan’s intense green stare locks on to her, everything happens quickly. He immediately drops my hand and strides in her direction. Everyone turns to stare. Even Pastor Peterman pauses the service.

“Reagan? Where are you going?” His mother makes a feeble attempt to stop him, outrage in her voice. She has no clue who her son is.

We all watch as Reagan approaches her with his hands raised. She looks ready to run so I understand the gesture. Her gaze flies between the casket and Rea while he talks. Then slowly, together, they begin walking back to us. Halfway, she gets antsy, her steps sticky, and he reaches out and takes her hand.

I love him. I love him like I never knew I could love someone.

The crowd parts to make room for her, this tall skinny stranger with hollow eyes and weathered skin, and her face cast down––too scared to make eye contact with anyone. With her comes an undeniable smell, and still, Reagan holds her hand.

I love him. I love him for everything he is and even more for everything he’s not.

The skinny stranger gets major credit for bravery. This is an intimidating crowd but she came anyway. I give her credit because she did it for Brian.





Chapter 28





Reagan


“The G wagon is, at best, a second car. Too uncomfortable for everyday use. I always end up driving my S-class,” says one of my father’s asshole friends to the other.

The idle chatter is like battery acid on my nerves. I finish off my whiskey, my third, and glance around from my chair in the corner of the room. Leave it to my mother to have the service at the Beverly Hills Hotel because she “didn’t want people traipsing all over her rugs.”

Priceless.

The only kernel of anything good to come out of this shitshow was Lisa. She refused to come along, but at least she took my number and promised to call if she needed anything. I have to help her. I want to help her. I’m going to get her into rehab. Brian would want me to.