“I answered your question. So now it’s my turn.”
He doesn’t look happy, but he shrugs, and I figure that’s as close as I’m going to get to a go-ahead.
“You asked me what I’m afraid of . . . now I want to hear your answer.” He opens his mouth, and I cut him off. “And I don’t mean getting kicked off the team. I want to know what’s behind that . . . what happens if you do get kicked off the team? Why is that the worst thing that could happen?”
The stare he pins me with is dark and clouded, and his jaw is clenched so tight it might as well be wired shut. And I take pity on him.
“You don’t have to tell me right now. But that’s part of this, Silas. If you’re not willing to eventually let me in, there’s no point in me sticking around. Think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it. I’ll do what I have to, but . . .”
“But you need a little time. I get that. We’ll start small.”
“With what?”
I think for a moment and then ask, “What are you doing tomorrow?
The expression that pulls at his face is excruciating.
“Nothing. I’m suspended from practice for a week.”
“Good. Then I’ve got an idea. I’ll pick you up at eight forty-five in the morning. Wear something that you don’t mind getting messed up.”
I turn to leave, but I get precisely two steps away before he catches my hand and pulls me to a stop. His thumb rubs over my knuckles once, and then he lets me go.
“He’s right, you know. I will pull you down with me.”
I lift my chin and reply, “If I go down, it will be because I jumped, not because you made me fall.”
He shakes his head and laughs once under his breath.
“I don’t even know what that means.”
I want to tell him that that’s exactly what he’s been doing. Whatever it is that he’s worried about has him so messed up, so afraid that he’s going to fail that he’s sabotaging himself. Self-fulfilling prophecy. But I think he’s been preached at enough for the day, so I just smile and say, “See you tomorrow.”
Hopefully. Provided my father doesn’t lock me in my old bedroom and never let me out. I’m almost out of the kitchen when Silas calls out again.
“Dylan?”
I turn.
“He was wrong about the other thing, though.”
“What other thing?”
“If they hadn’t walked in . . . I wouldn’t have been done with you. Once never would have been enough.”
I leave.
I leave before I give in to the need to touch him again, to coax that look back to life. I leave before I fulfill my own prophecy and dive headfirst into something that could ruin me. Ruin us both.
It’s not until I’m climbing back into my car that I realize that I didn’t get my underwear back.
I drop my head against the steering wheel and groan. So much for keeping things simple. “You are in so much trouble, Dylan Brenner.”
And trouble’s name is Silas Moore.
“YOUR FATHER ISN’T here.”
That’s the first thing Mom says upon opening the door when I arrive for dinner that night. I let out a breath and allow my rigid posture to relax. I changed clothes before coming over because I couldn’t touch my shirt or skirt without remembering the way Silas had pushed my clothes aside. I’m at my most comfortable in flowy skirts, oversized shirts, and sandals. But in my parents’ world (and Henry’s world), I got used to slacks, pencil skirts, and fancy blouses. Mom sweeps her eyes down my form, and she doesn’t say anything, so I assume my black pants and cap sleeve top meet her expectations.
She doesn’t work, unless you count serving on various boards and charities, but even at home, she’s always dressed in business attire. I step inside the house. My heels click against the familiar shiny hardwood floor. Even after all these years, being in this house still feels a little like being in a hotel. Everything is a little too polished, a little too decorated, a little too clean to feel like home. Or at least the kind of home that I see in movies and read in books, a place where you’re at ease and feel comfortable and safe. I’ve never really had that kind of home, not even now that I live on my own.
My roommate, Antonella, is even more of a perfectionist than I am. I organize everything into boxes and shelves and drawers. She’s the same, only armed with a label maker and a tendency to color-code . . . well, everything. I was really lucky to meet her in my history class the year before last. We sort of gravitated toward each other because we were both quiet, serious, and studious. I’ve branched out a little from that . . . found things I like doing outside of school, but Nell is still all about class, class, and more class. She takes an ungodly number of them, and our roommate bonding only consists of doing homework in the same room.
I follow Mom into the kitchen with its sleek, modern lines, stainless steel, and professional equipment.
“Where is Dad?” I ask as she checks on the food she’s keeping warm in the oven.
“His flight had a slight delay, but he should be here soon.”
I nod, grateful for the tiny reprieve to continue thinking about how best to approach the conversation of my arrest with him.
“Is the table already set?” I ask. It would be good to have something to do.
“It is. I’ll admit, I’ve been a little bored with your father gone. I actually set the table nearly an hour ago just to pass the time.”
I laugh because even though she’s not my birth mom, she might as well be. We’re alike in so many ways.
“Do you want to practice your speech on me?” she asks.
I pull my lips up into a smile that feels too frail. “No thanks. I’ve thought through it so many times that it’s kind of playing on a constant loop in my head.”
“Then we’ll talk about something else.” I love her. So much. Sure, she’s not the homey, coddling mom that I dreamed of having as a kid. She never snuggled beside me in bed or played board games with me or let me eat cookies before dinner. But she’s kind. And I’ve never met a more levelheaded, understanding person in all my life. All I ever wanted was to be like her, but if this week is any indication, levelheaded is going to take some work.
“How’s Henry?”
She is stubborn, though. Something I could live without.
“We haven’t spoken.”
“Oh, honey. You realize this is just a phase, don’t you? It happens in every relationship, especially ones that begin as young as yours did. He’s a man and he’s young and stupid, and he thinks he needs to see what’s out in the world in case he’s missing something. But he’ll see soon that there’s no one out there better for him than you.”
I don’t answer. He might decide I’m what’s best for him, but one of the few things I do know right now is that Henry breaking up with me was the best thing that could have happened. It’s not that Henry was bad. He’s a really nice guy, and I could certainly do far worse, but . . . he’s just Henry. And I don’t want to live the rest of my life with someone who is just anything.
“You’re handling it really well, darling. I’m proud of you. It shows how mature you really are.”
She’s not referring to the arrest, of course. Because that’s the opposite of handling anything really well. She means emotionally . . . or the lack of emotion anyway.
I was here when Henry broke up with me. He’d asked to come over and we’d sat on the wooden porch swing outside while he explained that he didn’t feel the same way about me as he used to. When it was over, I went inside and told Mom, and I think she expected me to lose it. To break down and sob right there in the foyer. Instead, I’d gone into the dining room to set the table like I always did when I stopped by for dinner.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it, but you can tell me if this protest business was about Henry. You’ve always been so mature for your age, and your father and I both understand that emotions can make
people behave erratically.”
“It’s not about Henry,” I tell her.
He was just the catalyst, the first string to snap before all the rest followed. I wasn’t lying when I told her that my explanation was running on a loop in my head, but what I didn’t tell her is that there are other words I can’t get out of my head, words that keep drowning out that practiced speech.
I think you’re starting to suffocate.
I hear the front door open then, and the thump of my father’s briefcase being dropped by the door. Mom places a cool hand on my cheek and leans in to press a kiss against my forehead.
“You’ll be fine. You know your father loves you.”
As he enters the kitchen, he’s loosening a maroon tie. He’s old enough that his hair is silvering on the sides, but his face still looks young and healthy. I don’t know how he does it with all the stress from work. Nor do I really even have a great grasp on what “work” is. All I know is that he inherited money from his father, and then invested it in a number of places that paid off. I know he owns significant shares in a number of different companies, still invests in the occasional start-up, and serves on multiple boards, including the board of regents at Rusk.
He kisses Mom on the cheek and then says, “Dylan,” in a quiet greeting before kissing me on the forehead.
“How was New York?” Mom asks.
“Hot,” he answers. “Miserable, actually.”
She clucks her tongue and helps him remove his suit coat.
“You go get settled at the table. Dylan and I will bring in the food.”
She goes off to hang up his coat, and I grab a potholder to start removing the food from the oven. Mom is one of those women who won’t serve the food in the same container they make it in. Instead she lays it all out on nice plates and platters like every night is a dinner party.
Another thing I’ll never get used to. That’s just something else to wash when dinner is over, and for what? To look pretty for the two minutes before people start digging in? It’s not until after we do just that, ruining the presentation of Mom’s food, that Dad speaks up.
“Well, then, Dylan. Let’s hear your case.”
I take a deep breath and start in.
“I know you’re disappointed. I behaved in a way that didn’t reflect well on myself, this family, or the cause for which I was advocating. I’m not giving you excuses because I don’t have one. I made a mistake, a rash decision, and though I regret it, I’ve learned from it. I let frustration and impatience rule me rather than acting reasonably and intelligently. And I’m sorry.”
It comes out how I rehearsed it, to a T.
“That’s all well and good, sweetheart, but it doesn’t tell me why.”
My brows furrow, and I try not to frown. “I let frustration—”
“You’ve said your speech, Dylan. It was well thought out and respectful. Thank you for that. Now let go of the pretense and give me a real explanation.”
My lungs are filled with dust, I can’t seem to inhale or exhale. Having an incredibly intelligent and resolute businessman for a father really sucks sometimes.
“I don’t have one.” Or rather . . . I don’t have one that won’t make me sound like an ungrateful, spoiled brat. So what if being part of this family is a little suffocating? It’s still a family. It’s still something that wasn’t supposed to be in the cards for me, but somehow these two people who literally have enough money to have anything they want . . . somehow they wanted me. And I’m not going to drag that through the mud. Not after all they’ve done for me, the things they’ve given me that I could never have dreamed of having.
I want to be perfect for them. That’s all I’ve ever wanted . . . to make sure they never for one second regret taking me in.
“Sweetheart,” Mom says, laying a hand on Dad’s arm. “You know she has a lot on her plate right now.” Henry. She’s blaming it on Henry. “Perhaps she was feeling frustrated about other things and misplaced those feelings.”
I shouldn’t let her talk for me, I should say what I’m feeling. That’s what Silas would tell me to do.
I close my eyes. Now is not the time to think about him. He is so far away from this world, this life I have here . . . it’s not even funny. If I bring him into this place, even in my thoughts, one of two things will happen.
This place will win, and I’ll drown in guilt over the things I’ve done with Silas.
Or Silas will win. The new, unstable me will win, and it will shatter this last remaining façade I have. My parents will know just how far I am from living up to their expectations.
And neither of those is something that I want. So, as of this moment, I put up a wall, and refuse to let either world cross into the other.
Besides . . . Dad is still going, so I’m not out of the woods here yet. He says, “Be that as it may, she has to think about the repercussions of her actions.” He turns to me. “We’ve raised you to think for yourself, to be smart. And while I understand and respect your feelings about the shelter, you have to remember that I work with the city council on a regular basis. Your mother went to college with the mayor’s wife. It’s one thing to participate in a group protest, I won’t deny you that, but to single yourself out in such a way as you did, puts this entire family in a difficult position.”
I hadn’t even thought about that. It’s a small world in the elite circle my parents run in. Of course they would know all the big players in town, the ones who control where the money goes.
“You’re right. I didn’t think about the ramifications of what I was doing. I just . . . I wanted to make a difference. And this is something happening in our backyard, not some big political movement in another state or another country. It’s so close, and I let passion cloud my judgment.” And even though I make a habit of not talking about my childhood, of pretending like it was another life, another world, I mention it then. “And I know what it’s like not to have the basic things, not to have a home. That’s hard enough; it shouldn’t have to get harder for those people.”
I try and fail at keeping the emotion out of my voice. My parents respect logic, not feelings. And one has no place with the other.
“You can’t fault her for being compassionate and for acting instinctively, Richard. That’s how you do business, and she’s just emulating her father. And really, as far as mistakes go, it’s a small one in comparison to what other children her age get up to. And people talk, I happen to know for a fact that several of the councilors’ kids have been in trouble for far worse. They’ll understand.”
“Yes, but I hold Dylan to a higher standard. She’s better than other kids her age, more aware.”
I’m not. I’m just better at pretending.
“And she’s met that standard for years without any issues. She’s not an employee, Richard. She’s your daughter.”
Dad lays down his knife, and it clangs against his plate. He frowns down at the food that he’s only really been pushing around since the conversation began.
“So what do you propose I do? Let her off without any form of reprimand?”
I speak up then. “I decided to sign up for the Renew Project that the university is sponsoring, the one where students are repairing homes for the underprivileged and elderly in town. It’s three days a week until school starts, and then every Saturday through the end of September. I thought it might be a good way to channel my frustrations into something positive. To give back.”
“There,” Mom says. “That sounds like a perfectly respectable way to redeem her actions.”
Dad frowns, but says, “Fine. I suppose that works.”
Under the table, I unclench my fists, the indents of my fingernails smarting on my palms. With that settled, Mom picks up the conversation for the rest of dinner, asking Dad questions about his trip, telling him about the few days she spent without him and how miserable she was.
And for the first time, I look at the two of them and wonder if they love each other. Or if the
y’re just like Henry and I were . . . a good fit.
I think then about my birth mother. I never think about her. There’s not much point since she died before I was put in foster care. But I can’t help but wonder now how different my life would have been with her. Would I know myself better? Would I even be myself?
It’s too much to think about. And it can’t change anything anyway. That part of my life is long gone.
When I’m getting ready to leave and head back to my apartment an hour later, Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close. “I don’t like being disappointed in you.”
Something pinches in my chest, and somehow, even though he’s hugging me tight, that one sentence is the worst moment of the whole night.
“I don’t, either.”
Even after he lets me go, it still feels like his arms are constricting around me, like there are these bands that are always there, but now they’ve gotten just a little bit tighter, a little bit more noticeable.
I try to forget about them all the way home, try not to feel them as I crawl into bed. But there are too many things I’m trying to forget, and I can’t seem to block any of them out effectively.
And Silas was right.
I so badly need to breathe.
Chapter 13
Silas
Brookes is in the kitchen when I head downstairs in the morning. There are few things that can make me get up this early in the morning. Football is one of them. Dylan is apparently another.
I walk past him for the pantry, where I dig out a couple of protein bars for breakfast. Dylan should be here any minute, so I don’t have time for anything more.
“So, I guess you’re not coming to practice,” Zay says.
I look down at the old jeans I’d pulled on instead of athletic clothes.
“Coach told me not to.” I peel open the wrapper on one of the bars and take a bite.
“For how long?”
I shrug. “A week.”
He whistles. “And two games?”
“At least. He threatened worse if I don’t get my shit together.”
“I’m sorry, man. I should have said it yesterday. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling.”