Page 52 of My Family

Franklin was the name of Aspire's director. We hardly ever saw him. I’ve seen him maybe twice in my whole time there. Franklin Hoffman. Reed's uncle.

Harry stares at his father for a long moment.

"Yeah," Harry says. His voice is quiet. "I'm done. I promise."

Richard nods. "Your friends here are witnesses to that promise. If you lie to me, they will tell me, won't you, gentlemen? And there will be consequences."

We all nod, even though I'm not sure I would.

"For fuck's sake, I know, Dad," Harry says. "I never lie to you."

"That's true," Richard says, turning to us. "He never lied about any of his failed scams. He always owns it."

"Yeah, I own my shit," Harry says, defensive.

Richard looks proud again. Harry smiles and rolls his eyes.

"Good, so it's settled," Richard says. "I'll make some calls tomorrow."

I glance at Liam, and he's already looking at me, and in his eyes I see the same recognition: Harry was afraid. Not of punishment, not of anger, but of the one thing worse than both. His dad's disappointment. That's why he needed us here. Moral support, more than anything.

We keep eating our dessert. Jack asks Richard about the fountain. Richard tells a story about buying it drunk at an auction. Harry steals the last piece of garlic bread. Liam leans back in his chair, his knee pressed against mine under the table.

Richard raises his glass. "To my son's terrible judgment," he says, "and his excellent taste in friends."

We drink. We all have Diet Coke, except Richard. Harry catches my eye across the table, and for once, I can see the thank you he can't quite say.

Chapter 20. Liam

The days melt together like sticky playdoh. Yes, my metaphors are the best, and also that's the only word for it: they blend together like cotton candy when our fingers are wet with our own spit. Yucky but yes. Perfect metaphor. I wake up on the second morning and don't know what time it is. No buzzer at 6am. No roll call. No schedule at all. By the time I'd normally be at breakfast, I'm still asleep. Here, I can simply sleep in until eleven am, nothing bad happening. Actually, only good things happening: Ethan is by my side, breathing slowly, also asleep, and we're in a real large bed, with real comfy pillows and sheets.

By the third day, we've developed a routine that would horrify Griff into an early grave. We wake when we wake, which for me means ten or eleven, my body catching up on a sleep debt so massive it should have its own credit score. Breakfast is prepared by chefs. Perfect eggs, toast with actual butter, not the yellow petroleum jelly they serve at Aspire, pancakes, fruit, chocolate. Swiss chocolate. I eat without thinking.

The pool becomes our church. We worship there from noon until the sun drops, stretched out on lounge chairs that recline so far back they're practically beds, our skin darkening by degrees we measure against each other's arms. Jack burns on the first day because he refuses to wear sunscreen. I'd have refused as well, but before I could complain, Ethan is already putting it all over me.

"Hey, Daddy!" I scream, without even thinking that someone in Harry's house might hear. Ethan holds my arm in place, firm as a rock, while he spreads the thick, white cream all over me. Not my favorite white cream by far. Sorry, I feel I need to make this joke.

"Look at Jack and learn your lesson," he says. I roll my eyes, but I stop protesting. Feeling his hands massaging all over my body is worth it.

Harry floats on an inflatable flamingo in expensive sunglasses instead of his regular ones. Ethan does laps, because of course he does. I watch him from behind the sunglasses Harry gave me. He looks fucking hot.

On day three, Harry orders pizza from five different restaurants because we somehow get into an argument over whether Domino’s is better than Pizza Hut, which is better than Papa John’s, which is better than Little Caesars, which is better than Cici’s. At least, that's my ranking of pizzas. Of course no one agrees, so we have to taste them all.

We line up slices on the marble kitchen island like a forensic investigation, each one labeled with the restaurant name on a Post-it note. Jack pretends he's a pizza sommelier, sniffing, chewing slowly, holding each slice up to the light as if checking for counterfeit dough. We all laugh.

"Cici's is the best hands down," Harry says.

"Hell fucking no, nothing beats Domino's," I say. Ethan shakes his head slowly.

"Pizza Hut."

"Proof," Jack says, jabbing the air with a crust, "that money can't buy taste. You're all wrong."

For dessert, one day, the staff gets us gourmet ice cream in flavors I didn't know existed like black sesame, lavender honey, something called "burnt caramel with Himalayan sea salt."

It's all ridiculously good. I guess being rich makes everything taste good.

We can't leave Harry's house, but why would we fucking need to? He even has a theater room. It's underground, windowless, with black leather recliners and a screen the size of a wall.