I bite down a smile as I sip champagne. “What do you mean you didn’t have the heart to sell it?”
Dom exhales, eyes on the ocean. “This house…” he pauses, “it marked something for me.”
“Your first paycheck?”
“No.” His eyes cut toward me. “My escape.”
“Escape from what?”
He drags a thumb along the rim of his glass before answering,
“My parents.”
Two words. Something tugs in my chest. He doesn’t clarify; he just looks at the horizon, jaw set. I think of the text I saw on his phone that morning—from his mom, calling him a disappointment.
“Why would you need an escape from them?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately. After a few seconds, I reach for a ceramic plate and place a pastry on it, giving my hands something to do while he works through the silence. I don’t want to rush him. I don’t want to say something that makes him shut down.
“They had a plan for me,” he says at last. “Hockey was supposed to be a phase. Something that looked good on college recs. Then I went pro, and that wasn’t part of the plan.” He watches the ocean as though it’s easier to say this without eye contact.
I set the plate down beside me, careful not to interrupt.
“So this house is a symbol of freedom?”
“Yeah. The first place I could breathe without them sniffing my ass.”
“Do they ever come here?”
“They’venever seen it.”
I want to reach out and touch him, to say something comforting. Instead, I stay close, hungry for more of him and his story.
“Tell me about them,” I try, softly.
He watches the waves with familiar stillness. “I come from… a particular kind of lifestyle.”
“Were your parents hippies or something?” I joke.
Dom laughs. “Complete opposite.”
“How rich are we talking?”
“I didn’t know what a mortgage was until I was seventeen and learned about it in school,” he admits.
“Seriously?”
“Mm.” He nods. “My parents never talked about money like normal people do.” He leans back. “My father forced me into social studies, law, political science. Hired private tutors. Made me shadow politicians, diplomats, and CEOs. I was supposed to follow in his footsteps.”
“And what footsteps are those?”
“Senate,” he says. “He’s running. Again.”
“Your dad’s a politician?”
Dom nods. “He knew every move of my life before I made it. My mother handled my personal life like PRon crack. She arranged dinners with donor daughters, senators, family friends. Told me what to wear, what to say, who to stand next to, how to smile in pictures.” He shakes his head. “Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to call them Mom and Dad. It was ‘Ma’am’ and ‘Sir,’ like they were my commanding officers, not my parents.”
I sit stunned. This explains a lot.
