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“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Away from here. Your mom needs eggs.”
He scans our surroundings and checks his mirrors as he pulls onto the main road. I’m pretty sure there are two dozen eggs in the refrigerator at the apartment. This trip suddenly puts me more on edge.
“You’ll be splitting time with Toby tomorrow,” he finally lets out.
My jaw locks at the news and I blink my gaze from his profile to the empty roadway ahead.
“Is thisyourdecision?” I know it’s not, and his silence is the only confirmation I need.
“This place isn’t like Public, son. There are games going on here that I don’t understand, and frankly, your mom and I don’t have the money or clout to compete in them. But Saturday—Saturday there will be a lot of important people in attendance. And if you can show the glaring difference between this team with you taking those snaps versus Toby, I think we’ll be all right.”
“You think,” I repeat, a hint of skepticism showing in my voice. I laugh silently and turn to look out the passenger window.
Un-fucking-believable.
“He’ll lose the game for us. You know that, right? He’s terrible. He’s a joke, Dad!” I turn back to face him as he pulls up to the stop light and he shifts in the driver’s seat, leaning into the center console and hitting me with a serious, hard expression.
“I won’t let that happen. Just do your job, and I’ll do mine.”
The red glare on his skin changes to green and he breaks our stare, sitting upright again and pulling into the intersection.
Trust. That’s still what it comes down to. I need to trust him as much as I expect him to trust me. My dad’s twice the coach anyone has ever let him be. He’s never had the pieces to be truly great. He doesn’t have those pieces here, but I believe in him, and I’ve seen the things he can do when working with very little.
I don’t know how he plans to give Toby plays that he can’t fuck up but still show his weaknesses, but I need to believe he will. And I need to deliver on my end. I have to shine.
We pull into the grocery store parking lot and my dad slows near the entrance.
“Your mom needs eggs,” he says, leaning forward and glancing beyond me out my window. I follow his gaze into the store where I spot Headmaster Powell loading up a cart with liquor. Whiskey, to be more exact. The same kind I swiped from the alumni dining room a few days ago to supply our little underground campus party.
“Yes, sir,” I respond, my words quick and tainted with a little shame. I leave the truck and let my dad park and wait for me to buy eggs we don’t need.
I know what this trip was really about. And I showed up just in time for him to let me catch the headmaster in action. While the head of Welles may not know why his whiskey inventory is down a few bottles, someone does. And that person is sitting in the truck cab right now.
Chapter7
Morgan
My mom will be thrilled when she sees me. I’m wearing the black pinstripe pants with the fitted jacket she bought me for her New Year’s soiree last year. I didn’t wear it then—on protest—and it’s not my style at all. But I figured I may as well walk into this breakfast with her on my side, and pant suits are the way to that woman’s heart.
The bistro isn’t far from Welles. Two stops away on the T. This early on a Saturday morning, the train is typically empty. But there’s a college game in the city, so I get stuck standing for the few miles I hop on. That wouldn’t be so bad, but I wore the heels my mom picked out for this outfit as well. I’m a size nine, which for whatever reason, my mother finds unladylike. I can’t do anything about the size of my feet, but my mom insists on buying me eights as if somehow shoving my feet into a smaller size will make them shrink.
Blisters. That’s the only outcome of her stubborn, passive-aggressive ways. Every time. Blisters.
I’m early to the bistro, but I expect my mom to be here. A quick glance around the restaurant patio, though, clues me in that I’m the first to arrive. I’m not sure who is joining us, or how many will be in our party, so I eye the four-top near the window and by the heater. I’m about to ask for it when a man stands from a table on the other side of the window and waves emphatically.
“Miss Bentley?” A tall, slender woman with a hint of an Irish accent draws my attention to the hostess table to my right. I don’t recognize her. She must be new since my last visit.
“Yes, that’s me,” I say.
“Your party is here, ma’am. Mr. Flannery is waiting for you.”
I look back to the man, who is now standing by the chair across the table from his seat, holding it out for me, I presume. Two chairs. Not three. Not four.Two.
“I see him. Thank you,” I say, biting my tongue and not questioning the hostess about who made this reservation, and whether there’s any chance a Mrs. Ambrose Bentley will be joining us. My mom won’t be. She was simply playing the part of Father’s secretary.
Tucking my clutch under my arm, I lift my chin and march toward my apparent date for the morning. He’s young, but still much older than I am. I’d put him at twenty-three, maybe.
