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Dad’s eyes narrowed. “Niles said nothing about that.”
“Of course not. Because the cops think they’re fucking saints.”
“What happened?”
I sighed. “The party I was DJing got raided. The place was a madhouse, and people were scattering everywhere. I went out the back with Eli, but the cops grabbed him, so I doubled back and went into a closet. Planned to just wait them out.”
“And this Matthew Prism was in the closet too?”
I wasn’t surprised Dad knew his name. I was sure Niles already gave him a full report. “They hauled us in, separated us. I refused to talk until I could make my call. They let me sit for a while, probably thinking I’d get scared and confess.”
“Just bad police work,” Dad muttered.
“When I saw Matthew again, he looked bad off, really stressed. Guess he had enough and threw a punch. So they tossed him in lockup.”
“And you followed him, why?”
“He looked pretty upset. Didn’t want to leave him there alone.” Just the thought of Matthew in that jail cell all night in the inky darkness made the French toast in my stomach churn. The vivid picture of him huddled against the metal as he rocked himself back and forth was grim.
It unsettled me too much. I started to reach for my phone so I could call him, hear his voice, and make sure he was doing okay.
But I didn’t have his number.
“I appreciate your empathy, son, but as I’ve said ad nauseum you can’t be doing these things. Especially with the election approaching. I want another term, and I won’t get the votes if my son is out being arrested for possession and assault. I’m in the public eye, so that means you are as well,”
“I know,” I said, voice tight. I didn’t need a reminder that I was supposed to be the shiny perfect son of a senator.
“If the press were to find out about this…”
I snorted. “Please. Like you haven’t already done damage control.”
“What else would you have me do? This is my career. Your legacy.”
His career was not my legacy, but I didn’t bother to waste my breath in telling him for the twelve thousandth time. My legacy would be my actions. I didn’t do hand-me-downs, something that probably made the parentals wish they had more than one kid.
Shoulda had a backup.
To their credit, though, they let me be me. Mostly. It took a few hellacious teenage years, but eventually, we settled into a grudging sort of stalemate where they let me pursue what I wanted as long as I did so at their fancy university. They pretended to be okay with my edgy style choices and tattoos as long as I kept the ink in places a suit would cover and the piercings could be removed for events.
A few years ago, I heard my mother tell my father that it was “just a phase,” and the more they fought against it, the more rebellious I’d become.
She was partially right. I would have continued to rebel, but my interests were not just a phase. Music—sound—is who I am. Politics seemed like a smokescreen for real life, and they could pry my plaid chinos, Metallica T-shirts, and chain wallet out of my cold, dead hands.
In exchange for their reluctant acceptance (aka hope that I would change), I stayed out of trouble, smiled at their dog and pony shows, and kept myself out of the spotlight so my father could be who he was.
When I was asked about my course of studies at the very prestigious Westbrook University, I said “the arts” instead of campus DJ with a side hustle of making ASMR videos online.
Funny how the arts were only impressive when it was something like orchestra or art history.
I considered it a small price to pay and motivation to prove people wrong.
But right now, this wasn’t about me. Or even my father. This was about Matthew and how I’d refused to leave him alone in a cage.
“I’m sorry you had to do damage control, but he needed me, and I made a choice.”
His face pinched as if he’d heard the words I didn’t speak. My choice wasn’t you.
“What kind of relationship do you have with this boy?”
