Paperwork is spread across his modern metal desk, along with folders. His laptop is open, showing the reflection of the windows behind him, and he looks tired.
Very tired.
“I don’t know what to say.” Dad finally breaks the silence and turns away from me. “Do you understand how important everything you do is for your future? People’s perception is everything! On top of that, it’s in the early morning, and you have a practice and a scholarship at risk, and you’re…” He pauses like he almost can’t say it. “You’re in your foster sister’s room taking her clothes off?”
I flinch. “We were just kissing.”
He turns around so fast that I take a step back. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“No, sir.”
“Clearly, you do!” He pounds his fists onto the desk, papers go flying, and then he shoves more off before sitting in his chair and holding his head in his hands. “Son, I created an empire, for you, for our family. The press is all over this situation with Mary-Belle. What’s going to happen when your friends say something? Or when you get caught like you just did? I know you’re not related, but it’s not right. You need to be focused on you, on our family, on sports, on taking over the dynasty one day—“
“—What if I don’t want that?” I press my palms onto his desk, onto all the other papers that make me feel sick to my stomach. “Whoever asked me if I wanted this perfect fucking legacy? You? Mom?”
He glares. “Don’t for one second think you’re untouchable because you’re rich!” His voice shouts louder, making me take a step back. “I did this for you, and you do nothing but mouth off, nothing but make mistake after mistake, nothing but do the exact opposite of what I ask!”
I smirk at him, angry that he’s making sense but also angry that he doesn’t see me or care about my feelings or wants. “Maybe you should have told me to screw her first, then I probably wouldn’t have.”
He comes barreling around the corner of his desk, hand flying across my right cheek before I can move.
I’m so pissed he slapped me that I don’t even know what to do or what to say. Eyes watering, I shake my head and press a hand to my cheek. “Really? That’s what it’s come to?”
Dad grabs the hand touching my cheek. Dark circles frame his blue eyes. What the hell has him so stressed out?
Everything’s always perfect.
So why isn’t he right now?
“Why do you even care?” I ask. “You’re never home. And we live a fucking lie. Everything is perfect and has to be, or you lose your shit. Who cares if I’m kissing the girl you took in all because you wanted people to look at you like some sort of savior!” I’m raising my voice and can’t help it. “Look, just leave me alone. I’ll be the perfect son, even when I’m home, but I’m not touching your legacy. Because you never really did it for us. You did it for yourself. Everything is for you, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of pretending. Do you even realize the only time you played catch with me was when the cameras stopped by for a photo op?”
Dad pales. “You never asked.
“I asked all the time!” I shout. “I begged you to give me five minutes, and you told me that your five minutes cost at least five grand, so I finally stopped asking!”
Dad stumbles back. “I was trying to take care of you the only way I knew how!”
“Wow.” I toss up my hands. “Good job. When all your son wanted was time. Not money. Fantastic job. I hope you enjoy your expensive whiskey and lonely office.” I sneer. “I’m done here.”
For once, he doesn’t yell at me to stay or demand I apologize.
So I walk off and stomp my way up the stairs directly into Mary-Belle’s room. She’s sitting in her bed, staring down at her hands, breathing slowly like she’s trying to calm herself. Hands shaking, she slowly looks up, tears streaming down her face.
I rush to her, jump onto her bed, and then pull her into my arms. She rests her cheek against my chest. “You should go.”
“Not going anywhere, sorry.” I rasp back.
“No, really.” She looks up at me. “Your dad was right.”
“He was wrong.” She shivers next to me. “Besides, what’s the worst that can happen at this point? He finds us cuddling. You know he slapped me? I’m so pissed at him, so fucking pissed—“
“—go find him, talk it out. You at least have a dad, Ambrose. I don’t condone hitting your kid, obviously, but he loves you.”
I roll my eyes. “Perfect, now you too?”
“I’m serious.” She grips me by the shoulders. “Go back downstairs and make it right.”
“You know I came in here to comfort you, and now you want me to leave?”
“Ambrose, I just think—“
“—you’re all the same! All of you! Everyone trying to think for me, decide for me, tell me what to do. I’m so over it!” I jump out of the bed, knowing I probably messed up again but so pissed and exhausted that I grab one of my team sweatshirts, run down the stairs, grab my tennis shoes, and go for a nearly four am run.
I blame them.
Both of them.
Why can’t I just live my life?
Why does everything have to be so complicated?
I’d left my phone in my room, so I don’t go far. About twenty minutes later, after laps around the neighborhood a mile over. I run back.
Only to find an ambulance and cop cars at the house.
What the hell?
Panic washes over me as I run up, all sweaty. “What’s going on?”
“Sir, this is a private matter we’re going to—“ It’s like the cop suddenly realizes who I am. “I think it’s best to talk with your mom.”
“Is she okay?” Oh God, what if my mom fell? Got in an accident? She hasn’t been feeling well lately.
I run my hands through my hair just as Mary-Belle comes out of the house covered in a blanket, her eyes haunted.
“Mary-Belle!” I yell her name, but it’s like she doesn’t see me as she stumbles to the ground and sits. “Mary-Belle.”
“I tried,” she whispers. “I tried to fix it.”
“Fix what?” I’m wrapping the blanket tighter around her when my mom walks up to me, tears streaming down her face. “Fix what?”
“You!” Mom screams at Mary-Belle.
“Mom!” I yell. “Stop it! Can’t you see she’s scared?”
“Scared? Scared?” Mom’s voice raises. “She killed him!”
“I was trying to fix it,” Mary-Belle whispers again and again. “Fix it to make Ambrose and his dad happy. When I walked in, he was already on the ground, so I tried to fix it, to save him.”
“You.” Mom shoves Mary-Belle back against the cold grass. “You didn’t fix it. You killed him!”
Chapter Nine
Mary-Belle
“Sir?” I yell and run toward him. “Sir?” He’s on the floor, his salt and pepper hair—normally slicked back—off to the side. His mouth is open, his eyes too. I rush over to him, put him on his back, and start CPR right away.