AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Lennon elbows me in the ribs.
My mother tracks the movement. Her eyebrows rise higher. She thinks Lennon encourages antagonism toward my parents, not that she’s the main reason I’m even here.
“I was just dropping off some towels. There are extras in the hall closet if you need them.”
“Okay,” I state.
“Okay,” my mother repeats. “I’ll let you two…” She quickly turns and leaves the room without finishing the sentence.
I glance at Lennon and smirk. She rolls her eyes.
We unpack, which doesn’t take long. I try to talk Lennon into hiding out in our room until dinner, but she ignores me and heads back downstairs. I follow with a sigh.
My father has appeared in our absence. He’s settled in the leather armchair by the fireplace, sipping bourbon and studying a packet of papers I’m certain are business-related.
He rises when we walk down the stairs, flashing his most charming smile. I don’t think he approves—actually I know he doesn’t approve—of Lennon any more than my mother does, but at least he doesn’t act like it around her.
Austin Winters thrives on being well-liked. On being the easy-going guy who just happens to be wealthy and powerful. He rarely lets that mask slip, and he most certainly doesn’t allow it to around anyone besides me and my mother.
“Lennon! So glad you could join us.”
“Hi, Mr. Winters,” Lennon greets politely. “Nice to see you.”
“Austin, please.” He gives Lennon his trademark, charming smile, then turns his attention to me. “How are you, son?”
“Fine, Dad,” I reply.
“Classes going well?”
“Yes.”
“George Coleman sent us an article about your last scrimmage, honey,” my mother says, appearing from the kitchen with a glass of wine in hand. “Seems like it will be a great season.”
“Yep.” I take a seat on the couch facing the wall of windows. Lennon sinks down beside me.
I could have predicted my father would ask about academics and my mother would bring up baseball before we came downstairs. Add in my mom’s meddling and my dad pretending our last conversation at Earl’s funeral never happened, and this is following the same pattern of every other interaction I’ve ever had with my parents.
“Did you hear about the scrimmage, Lennon?” my mother asks politely. She seems to be on her best behavior now, but I don’t trust it will last.
“Uh, yes. I was there, actually,” Lennon replies. “Caleb’s pitching was very impressive.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize. Caleb said you didn’t make it to many baseball games,” is my mother’s response.
I send her a sharp look for that comment.
“It’s easier to go to his games now that I live ten minutes away from the baseball field, rather than three hours,” Lennon says.
“Ah, yes. I heard that you transferred. How are you liking Clarkson so far?” my father asks her.
“It’s been great,” Lennon responds. “I’m really enjoying all my classes. Richardson’s journalism department didn’t have anywhere near the same amount of resources.”
“I would imagine not.” My father chuckles. “Have you given any thought to what you might do with a journalism degree?”
I grit my teeth. “People typically becomejournalists, Dad.”
“Difficult industry to get a foothold in,” he comments, taking a drink of bourbon.
“It is,” Lennon agrees.
