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I slip out of his bed, careful not to make any sudden sounds or wake him with jolting movements. My eyes feel bruised with emotion. I can’t seem to cry no matter how badly I need to. My face feels swollen with exhaustion.
My tote bag sits on the chair by his desk, my phone turned off in the bottom. My instincts told me to shut things down. My father’s call is coming. Or an email or a text, more likely. That’s his preferred method of difficult conversations with me. Always at a distance.
On my hands and knees, I inch my way along the floor and slowly pull my bag to my lap. I tear a sheet of paper from the report Caroline gave me. It’s nothing but a decorative pattern, an unnecessary expense added to a book filled with names. That’s all this report is. It’s not even athank you.It’s a make good. For ten thousand dollars, the names in this book get to exist.
I sift through the bottom of my bag for a pen and write a short note to Cameron, letting him know that I had to go back to my room but will be back before noon. I sign it the way he deserves.
I love you.
I leave the note on his pillow, and despite my craving to crawl back into his arms and kiss him, I let him sleep. I have no idea when he will have this opportunity again. That, and I can’t have the painful conversation I need to with my father if Cameron’s eyes are on me. Nothing about what I need to say makes me proud, and I don’t want to share that shame with anyone. Not even him.
The hallway is clear when I peek out his door, so I tiptoe into the hall and latch his door with a nearly silent click. I pull my phone out to check the time once I make it to the stairwell. It’s a little after seven, which probably means Morgan is asleep in her bed in our room. I pause before I step out onto the campus lawn, faced with another decision point. I would love to change my clothes. A shower would be a dream. I’m not sure which conversation I’m looking forward to least, the one with my father or the one with Morgan. I wish I could sit them both on a sofa and hash it out all at once.
Deciding my father’s conversation is the one that matters most to Cameron, I step outside and head toward the river instead of my dorm. I wait until I’m by the water to dial my father’s number, anticipating I’ll need to call him more than once to spur him to actually answer. Instead, he picks up on the second ring.
“Good morning.” His voice is cheery. He’s probably been up for an hour.
“We need to talk.” My voice wavers, and I hate myself for it.
“I assumed this call was coming,” he says.
A door snaps closed through the phone. He must be stepping outside onto my parents’ patio. My mom has a small garden in the back of their brownstone. Over the summer, when I couldn’t do much else, I sat in one of the loungers and watched her and Eva, my mother’s assistant, plant a variety of herbs and spices. Once campaign season picked up, though, she let the plants go. That patch of ground is nothing more than dead twigs now. Last time I was home, she was talking to Eva about ripping everything out and covering it with brick for an outdoor fireplace. That won’t get any use either.
“Mom home?” I don’t know why that matters, but this conversation will be easier for me to have if my mom’s ears aren’t listening in to his half.
“She’s with the society ladies at the club. They’re hosting a brunch later for the campaign,” he says.
It’s good that he can’t see my face. Normally, I am invested in these things, asking to help. But this world has lost its luster. Looking back on the last year, I think it’s been a gilded cage for a while.
“Good,” I say.
“I’ve already talked to your mother about this, Brooklyn. And she agrees with me.” My feet tumble to a stop on the gravel trail, and I drop my tote to the ground.
“You and mom discussed . . . what exactly?” I know what they discussed, and I know how that conversation went. My father said it would be a bad look for me to date Cameron Hass, and my mother agreed because that’s what she does with everything. Like when I was in the hospital recovering after a horrible accident that took away my best friend, and my father didn’t bother to come because he was “tied up in Washington.” He told her she could handle it. So, she did.
“Brooklyn, I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this. You don’t have the time to be dating boys and having boyfriends anyhow. We have more important things on our plate.”
My mouth hangs open, and after a second, the single laugh that was caught in my throat flies from my mouth.
“It’s notmyplate, Dad. It’s yours. And you have no idea what I do and do not have time for. I’m shocked you know how old I am. In fact,do youknow how old I am, Dad?”
His sigh is heavy enough to vibrate the phone.
“You’re eighteen. We took you to your favorite restaurant on your birthday.” He remembers because it washisfavorite restaurant, and he’s wrong about the date.
“Yeah, it was a week after my birthday, but I guess you were close. You couldn’t fit me in on the actual day.” I snag my tote bag handles with one finger and march to a large bank of rocks by the water so I have a place to sit, not that I’ll be able to quit pacing anytime soon.
“Brooklyn, what’s this all about? You’re being dramatic. There will be other boys.”
I stomp my foot like a child and cup my mouth to keep myself from screaming. It takes a few seconds to put the fire out in my head. I sit on one of the large flat rocks and rest my forehead in my palm, my elbows propped on my knees.
“There will be other boys,” I echo through low, irritated laughter. “Dad, I need you to be honest with me.”
“I always am,” he answers quickly, wearing those three words like a badge of honor. Let’s time test this pledge to always tell me the truth.
“Why don’t you want me seeing Cameron Hass?”
I expect silence. Fumbling through words. False starts. But true to his word, Walden Bennett is direct and to the point.
