How do I explain that this is nothing like that? That for the first time in my life, I'm not trying to prove anything to anyone except maybe to myself? That Rachel is sunshine and music and everything real—the way she hums while making coffee, how she fights for her students, the sound of her laughter when surrounded by her friends. She's not some move in a game of chess with my father. She's the first genuine thing I've ever had.
Her brow furrows, and something flashes across her eyes—hurt, maybe even embarrassment. My father has harmed this woman, who is everything he isn't and never could be. A woman who pours her heart into teaching kids to find their own path, who fights for what matters without caring about profit margins or social status. Who makes everyone around her feel seen, worthy, just by being herself. And he's reducing her to a bargaining chip. A rebellion. Another thing to control.
I can't let him stand here and whittle away at her the way he's always done to me, using words like scalpels until nothing remains but doubt. I've watched him do this my whole life—take bright, beautiful things and reduce them to numbers on a spreadsheet. I won't let him dim her light. Not Rachel, who brings melody and rhythm to everything she touches.
There's only one way to make him stop. One way to protect her from the full force of his disdain.
"You're right, of course," I say, the words aching in my mouth. I straighten my spine, let go of Rachel's hand, and smooth down my shirt. I become the son he wants. "This has gotten… out of hand. I'll close up for the day."
"Grant—" Rachel starts, but I step closer under the pretense of collecting my things, letting my hand brush hers.
"I'll explain everything later," I whisper so quietly only she can hear. "I'm so sorry. Please trust me."
Her eyes—usually so bright with mischief and excitement—are shadowed as they search mine. For a moment, I see every doubt my father planted taking root. But then, she gives me the slightest nod. Even dulled, there's still trust there. Still hope. It's more than I deserve, but I'll spend every moment making this right once he's gone. She slips away, and it feels like sunshine draining away when I'm certain it will never rise again.
"We have things to attend to," Father says. "Tomorrow morning we'll discuss the California expansion over breakfast. I expect you to come dressed for business."
"Yes, sir." The words come automatically, and I hate myself for them even as I understand their necessity.
I wipe down the already spotless counter and straighten supplies that don't need straightening. Rachel retreats to her cart, and each step feels like another test of faith—in her, in us, in my ability to find a way through this that doesn't end with everyone I care about hurt.
Owen catches my eyes, and I recognize the sympathy in his expression. He's been there before—caught between what Father demands and what his heart wants. Two years ago, he wanted to open a small gelato shop in Florence and study under the masters there. Father shut that down in a single conversation. Now Owen runs our West Coast operations with perfect efficiency and never mentions Italy. I used to catch him looking at travel magazines when Father wasn't around, but that's all that's left of that dream.
My siblings and I have lived our entire lives under his expectations, each of us carrying dreams we're forced to bury, reshape, or ignore. We learned early on that anything beyond the family business was simply a distraction—and distractions were never allowed.
"Very well then." Father checks his watch. "Owen, help your brother finish packing up. We have meetings to prepare for."
Owen rushes to do his bidding. As we always do. It's almost funny how predictable we are—three grown children dancing to our father's tune like marionettes on strings. Even Vivian, who married and got as far from Father and the business as she could manage, still flinches when his name comes up. Some habits are carved too deep to break.
I follow my father up the boardwalk, but my mind is running through how to explain everything to Rachel tonight. How to make her understand that my retreat wasn't a surrender. I just pray she'll listen when I find the words.
Rachel
The moonlight streaming through the music room windows feels different tonight—colder somehow, casting harsh shadows instead of the soft glow I've grown used to. My fingers tap against the piano lid. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. The rhythm's too fast, too anxious, but I can't seem to slow it down.
"Rachel." Grant's voice from the doorway makes me jump. He looks exhausted, his usually perfect hair disheveled. His tie is loose, his shirt wrinkled—so unlike the polished image he normally maintains. Even the rumpled linen shirts he wears on the beach look intentional, but this feels different—like he's barely hanging on. "I've looked everywhere for you."
My fingers still against the piano lid, the familiar rhythm faltering as I study him. Just hours ago, his father had looked at me like something stuck to the bottom of his Italian leather shoes.Local entertainment, he'd called me, the words oozing with disgust. And Grant, my Grant who plays fairy tale piano songs at midnight and kisses me like I'm precious, had just… stood there. Let his father reduce me to a rebellious phase to outgrow.
A small, poisonous voice whispers in my head:What if his father was right? What if I'm just another conquest in Grant's journey of rebellion or self-discovery—or whatever this phase is?The barista he'd mentioned—she probably felt special too. Probably believed in gentle hands and soft words. Then discovered she was only a move in a chess game with his father.
I feel foolish, sitting here with bare feet against the linoleum, sheet music scattered around me like confetti from a party that's long since ended. How naïve I must look to them—the small-town teacher who actually believes in things like grassroots community efforts and publicly funded middle-grade music education. Things that would make Grant's father sneer, I'm certain of it. Three sentences from the man had made me insignificant, like a child playing at being a grown-up.
The melody in my head—the one that's been soundtracking our summer romance—fades into something minor, something discordant. Despite that, I turn around and stand to face Grant.
"Really? I thought you'd be busy with your father's meetings." The words come out sharper than I intend. "Planning your triumphant return to California?"
He winces but steps into the room, closing the door behind him. "About that… I need to explain."
"Explain what? How you let your father treat me like I'm some kind of gold-digger? Or maybe how you just stood there while he implied I was another one of your rebellious phases?" The piano keys dig into my back as I lean against them, producing a discordant sound that matches my mood.
"That's not…" He grips the back of his neck. "I was trying to protect you. You don't know what he's like when he really wants to hurt someone."
"So instead you hurt me first?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Very noble, Grant."
He crosses the room in three long strides, and before I can protest, his hands are cupping my face. His touch is gentle, desperate, and for a moment, I let myself lean into it. Let myself remember all the other times we've been in this room—his jazz playing, me sorting through paperwork for the upcoming school year, both of us finding pieces of ourselves we thought we'd lost.
"Rachel, please." His voice breaks a little. "I never meant to hurt you. These past few months have been… everything. You've shown me what it means to really live, to chase dreams instead of just expectations." His thumb brushes my cheek, and despite my anger, I lean into his touch.
