When I hear a loud, boisterous laugh from the other side of the room, I turn my head to see my father squeeze the ass of a woman. A woman who is not my mother and is closer to my age than his own. It takes everything in me not to actually flip the small pink bar table next to me with a four-foot-tall pink flower arrangement on it. Not for my mother. She wouldn’t even care or notice that my dad is fondling another woman in public. She left an hour ago so she’d have plenty of time to fuck her driver before my father comes home.
I’m about ready to rip this constricting tux off my body and climb out of my skin because this is my future. All of this. I’m friends with these assholes because my father is friends with their fathers. They are the sons of politicians, celebrities, and the wealthy and elite, who have never had to work hard for anything they have. These are the people my father has deemed as the “right” people to associate with to further my career and make him look good. I’m graduating from Stanford in the spring, just like my father. I’ve been accepted to Harvard Law, just like my father. I already have an internship at my father’s firm waiting for me, as well as a job when I graduate law school, and I’m well on my way to becoming a card-carrying member of the Douchebag Frat Boy Club, just like my father.
By the time my mother wakes up from her Xanax and red wine coma, and my dad leaves the bed of whatever woman he goes home with from the party, Christmas will be over, and I will have already opened up the same present I’ve gotten from them every year, all by myself, just like every year—a coffee-mug-stained envelope filled with cash left on the kitchen counter. This is my future. Cold and empty Christmases, attending parties with people I can’t stand, waking up alone, without anyone who really cares about me. My life will be filled with kissing asses, taking bribes, covering up bad shit my clients do, chipping away at pieces of my soul until I’m a narcissistic asshole just like my father, or a drunk with a pill problem just like my mother.
What the hell am I even doing? Is this really who I want to be?
“Looks like Santa just delivered my present.” Trent’s voice interrupts my pity party as he nudges my arm and then grabs his crotch. “Hey, Millie, I’ve got a package for you to open that will be very satisfying.”
Millie Chamberlin, whose father is one of Hollywood’s favorite leading men and mother is one of the highest paid and most well-known supermodels, and who is four years younger than us and attended the same prep school we all did, pauses next to our small group and looks Trent up and down. Bringing a straw up to her mouth from a McDonald’s cup she’s holding in one hand, she takes a loud, slurping sip, making me chuckle for the first time in months. Only Millie Chamberlin could walk into one of the fanciest Hollywood parties of the year, wearing a sparkly gown that costs more than most people make in a year, with her elbow bent and wrist cocked, holding a paper bag of fast food daintily in her fingers like she’s holding an expensive Birkin bag, while sipping from a fast food cup like it’s a glass of Dom Perignon.
“You couldn’t satisfy me if Dr. Ruth was in the bedroom with us coaching you along every step of the way. What are you even wearing?”
I chuckle again as Millie looks at Trent’s tuxedo with disgust like he’s standing here wearing dirty rags he pulled out of the trash.
“It’s Armani.” Trent scoffs, soundings less confident than a few minutes ago as he adjusts his tie.
“You look homeless,” Millie mutters, taking another loud slurp of her drink. “Go away.”
Turning to face me, a bright smile lights up Millie’s face as she leans in and air kisses both of my cheeks before pulling back.
“Bodhi Armbruster, the only bright light in a sea of douchebags,” she greets me.
“Heeey,” Trent and Brandon both complain at the same time.
“Oh my God, why are you still here?” Millie asks my friends with a roll of her eyes, waving her cup in their direction. “Run along now. The adults need to speak.”
I have to bite down on my bottom lip so I don’t laugh out loud when Brandon and Trent immediately scurry away with their sexual harassment tails tucked between their legs. They’re too afraid to piss Millie off and land themselves on a Hollywood blacklist, never to be invited to another party again. Born with the same silver spoon in her mouth as the rest of us, Millie—more than most—literally has no idea there are people out there who don’t have so much money it’s nauseating. She’s not an outright asshole like my friends. She’s just… Millie. But she knows who she is and makes no apologies for it, even at eighteen years old. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her; she just lives her life and does what makes her happy, no matter how insane it is. And her parents support her as long as she’s content. That’s what’s most mind-boggling of all. There isn’t one person in my life who would support me if I decided not to go to law school.
“What’s with the McDonald’s?” I ask Millie, nodding in the direction of the bag she’s still holding like an expensive purse as I reach up and loosen my tie, suddenly feeling like I’m having a hard time breathing.
“I made a new friend!” Millie gushes with a big smile. “I found the twins’ older sister hiding in a guest bathroom upstairs. She’s a sad, pale little thing with no fashion sense who hates people, but I’m sure she’ll warm up to me in no time, especially since I procured her some nuggs.”
“The twins have an older sister?” I ask in shock, forgetting about my breathing trouble for a minute. Everyone knows who Tori and Zoey Parker are, seeing as they’ve had the number one YouTube channel since the day they posted their first video. It’s pretty crazy that I never even knew there was another sister in the Parker family.
“Yes. Her name is Allie Parker, she’s the same age as me, and we’re going to be best friends forever.” Millie takes another sip of her McDonald’s drink and then points the straw at me, changing the subject. “You should let your hair grow out. That blond, closely shaved on the sides, slicked back on top look isn’t good with your bone structure. I see you with more of a shaggy, surfer look.”
I start coughing and choking on my own spit so hard when Millie says “surfer” that she has to set her drink down on a table and reach over and pat me on the back a few times while she continues talking.
“Do you even own a T-shirt? I’d like to see you in something of the soft cotton variety, like an old concert tee. Dare I say, you could even pull off cargo shorts? You just… don’t look right in a tuxedo, my sweet friend. Handsome as hell, don’t get me wrong. But you look like that time I was out with Britney and we ran into Justin. A little pukey and very uncomfortable.”
My closet is filled with nothing but designer suits, polo shirts, button-downs, and dress pants. I don’t own cargo shorts. Or any concert T-shirts, because I’ve spent my entire life studying, and always being good, and always making the right choices so I don’t end up in the tabloids and mess up my father’s career. It doesn’t matter that all the people he thinks I should be friends with are literally the scum of the earth who make all the wrong choices. And I’ve had a standing appointment with my father’s stylist for a haircut every six weeks since I was ten years old. I don’t even know if my hair can grow out any longer, but now I have the sudden urge to never cut it again.