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It’s a long shot, maybe even down-right insane, but it’s becoming more and more apparent that this might be my only chance to complete my degree on schedule. It’s too late to get into another school, even a community college. And even if I could, it would set me back almost an entire year, because not all my credits would transfer with me.
Getting back into Foltyn for my senior year is the only option.
So, while I have little to no faith it will work, I’m tossing all my eggs in this basket anyway. And praying for a goddamn miracle.
His gaze lifts, eyes narrowing on me. “Cut the attitude. You’re the one who got yourself into a mess so big, no amount of money I’ve thrown at the school in the past makes a difference now. Offering them more only makes it look like bribery to get you back in.”
I almost laugh, because it was all rubbing elbows from the beginning anyway. The entire reason I got into Foltyn in the first place is due to it being his alma mater. That, and the sizable donation he made to the college was more than enough to secure my position on the baseball team—because heaven forbid he say I’m talented enough to earn the spot on my own.
Then again, all he’s ever done is throw money at his problems and expect them to go away. And this is one circumstance where it just won’t happen.
“I’ll put my best foot forward. I promise.”
“You need to do more than that, Avery,” he says sharply. “You need to do everything in your power to win over Colin.”
“I know, Dad,” I say, this time a little more forcefully. “You saying it over and over again isn’t going to do anything but stress me out more when I feel like I’m already being thrown to the wolves.”
I expect him to continue pushing the subject. That’s who Dad is, after all. Driving his point home until I can hear him, word for word, while I fucking sleep. So when he actually listens to me, dropping the subject, I finally feel a moment of relief.
But only for a moment.
“Look,” he says, voice finally taking a softer tone—something entirely different from him. “I hope you know I’m only hard on you because I want to see you succeed. I just hate knowing you possibly won’t get the chance because of one mistake.”
More like a series of mistakes.
A bit of emotion sticks in the back of my throat, so I just nod instead.
He does too before clapping me on the shoulder. “I hope you know I get it. The kind of…lifestyle your teammate has doesn’t sit well with me either. But no matter how disgusted we might be by the things they do together, the kind of crap you pulled can’t happen in the twenty-first century.”
All the blood rushing through my veins quickly turns to ice as his words register.
I bet he didn’t even notice the tone of his voice or the implication of what he’s said; the homophobia and bias laced in a statement that spilled from his lips without a second thought. Not when it came out as easily as it did.
Every time it happens, it makes me sick to my stomach. This time is no different.
Clearing my throat does nothing to help the way my heart is lodged in my throat, but I still manage to choke out my response past it.
“Yeah, Dad. I know.”
It’s something I’ve always known.
Just like I know the parts of myself I’ve refused to give voice to can never come to light. Because there’s no way in hell he’s ever going to accept the real me as his only son.
* * *
It’s a quick hour-and-a-half drive from our house in Vancouver over to where Alpine Ridge Summer Camp is nestled into the forest near the base of Mount Hood. Much too quick for my liking, because I’ve yet to work out a clear plan on how to wriggle my way into the good graces of the camp director, should he already know about my history at Foltyn.
I’d be a fool to think he doesn’t—what happened made a lot of news channels around here—but part of me remains optimistic anyway. I have to, otherwise there’s no way I’ll be able to stick this out.
I doubt I’ll be able to as it is, because while I might be an athlete, I’m the furthest thing from an outdoorsman.
Once I’m parked in the lot, staring at the massive lodge off to the left, the feeling of dread inside me only grows. But instead of melding in it, I shove it down before grabbing my bags from the trunk and heading toward the building—I can only assume—houses the camp director’s office.
And my assumption must be right when a man who looks so similar to Dean Marshall, he has to be his brother, exits the lodge and waits for me at the top of the stairs leading to an expansive deck.
“You might as well be the spitting image of your father, Avery. Glad to see you made it,” he says, extending his hand to me as I reach him.
I accept it before giving it a firm shake, praying to God my hands aren’t as clammy as I think they are, while taking in his warm smile.
