Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
I grab her arm to steady her, but she pulls away, cheeks flushing like she’s embarrassed. She gives me the briefest glance before averting her eyes, refusing to meet my gaze. “Sorry, I, uh… ugh.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “No reason to apologize.”
But there is. That’s what her expression says, and I can guess why. She was trying to sneak out during my absence, to avoid seeing me, but I caught her.
My chest tightens at that. Fuck. Regret is written all over her, like she bathed in shame and can’t get the stench off this morning. She straightens her clothes, and my stomach bottoms out when I realize a bottle of whiskey is tucked under her arm.
“I have to go,” she says, ducking past me, out of the room.
“I didn't drink any of that,” I say right away. “I know it looks bad, fuck, but I didn't—”
“And you won't," she says, "because I'm taking it.”
“Okay.”
“I'm pouring it out,” she says. “You shouldn't even have it. It's stupid. You're stupid.”
“Me and my stupid fucking face, huh?”
Her cheeks turn red as she stammers, “I shouldn’t have... ugh, I should’ve been home hours ago.”
“I understand,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest as I lean against the doorframe, watching her scrambling. “You didn’t plan on staying here last night.”
“Or even coming,” she mutters.
Coming. “Pun intended?”
She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t find that funny. She just starts down the steps to leave, done with being here. I watch in silence as she hesitates halfway down.
“You, uh... you can take her,” she says, her expression guarded. “I mean, if you were serious about it, if you wanted to take her, you can.”
Those words stun me. “Yeah?”
She nods. “We’re gonna have to talk about, you know, things, but if you meant it…”
“I did.”
“Well, then, okay.”
She’s gone then. I hear the front door as she rushes out, probably running to get away from here.
Sighing, I pull out my phone, using the last bit of battery left to send Cliff another message. I’m going to need those tickets.
As usual, his response is instant. Are you drunk? Because I swear, Johnny, you and these tickets…
An audience is gathered in the auditorium of Fulton Edge Academy. Nearly every seat is filled. Students, families, administrators, donors. The girl sits in a seat along the aisle in the back, her parents beside her. Her father hadn't wanted to come, blaming the thirty-dollar cost of the tickets, but the girl knew he wanted to steer clear tonight for other reasons. You.
Saturday evening. Drama Club’s production of Julius Caesar. There’s a rumbling in the audience. People are growing restless. The play was supposed to start ten minutes ago. Hastings frantically runs around, dressed in his elaborate costume. They’re scrambling as an announcement is made.
There has been a last-minute recast.
The role of Brutus will now be played by—
Not you.
The blue Porsche is parked in the parking lot. There’s a reserved spot up front for your father. Although his seat is empty, the limo arrived earlier—which means you’re both around, just not here.
The girl gets up from her seat as the play starts. Her father tries to stop her, but her mother doesn’t let him, saying, “Let her go, Michael.”
She runs out, heading toward the parking lot.
You’re out there. So is he. The two of you are standing in front of your car, your father’s security detail lurking as you argue.
The deadline to accept admission to Princeton was last night, so he accepted it on your behalf.
You tell him you’re not going. Becoming him isn’t your dream. He tells you to get your head out of the clouds—it’s time to be the man he raised you to be.
You tell him he didn’t raise you to be a man. He didn’t raise you at all. He’d have to be a father to take credit for that, but he’s not. He’s nothing but an egotistical asshole that only cares about his job. You tell him you’ll never be like him. Becoming him is your worst fucking nightmare.
The moment you say that, he loses his composure. He swings. He hits you. You’re braced for it. You knew it was coming, but you don’t expect the second hit... or the one after it.
He swings, again and again. You try to block the blows, but he’s not stopping, so you shove him off. That gives you a moment of reprieve, but it doesn’t last. He comes back at you, so you react.
You swing. You punch him right in the mouth.
It’s the first time you’ve ever struck back. Your father is stunned, staggering. You hit him hard. Security rushes over, restraining you.
Your father’s lip is busted. He runs his tongue along it. You’re bleeding—blood runs from your mouth. He stands in front of you, staring you in the eyes as he says, “You’d never amount to anything without me. A waste of a life, just like your mother.”