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It hasn’t been in a long time.
“I need help.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX
PRESCOTT
“I told you; you should have let go of that silly game and focused on your studies. Now you’re behind on your MCATs, and you didn’t win the bowl game.”
I look at the glass in front of me, wishing that the water magically transforms into something stronger. I wouldn’t even be picky about what. But no such luck.
“Not that winning would have made any difference since you had no plans on playing professionally anyway,” Dad continues without missing a beat.
He’s been criticizing everything since the moment I entered the house, and the only moment of silence I got was when I closed myself in my room in the pretense of needing to study, which I did. The MCATs were just around the corner, and I had to start working on my applications for med school.
I shove the peas from one side of my plate to the other, just like Mom’s doing across the table, her gaze fixed on her plate. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought she’d fallen asleep.
She barely looked at me and hadn’t spoken to me directly since I entered the house a few days ago. So much for her asking me to be here.
“Not sure why you care one way or the other since you never wanted me to play football, and you never agreed with me going to med school. Besides, I’m not behind on anything. I’ll be taking my exams in January just like you asked me to.”
“Why do I care? Because I can’t have you going around sullying our name, Prescott! That’s why I care.” Dad downs the rest of his drink, his bloodshot eyes meeting mine. He’s been drinking a lot since Gabriel was first diagnosed with cancer, but it seems like he’s drinking even more these last few weeks. These days he was drunk more than not. And Benedict Wentworth isn’t a fun drunk either.
I watch him as he pours himself another drink, good three fingers filling more than half of the crystal glass as he continues: “If your brother were here, I wouldn’t need to be worried. At least I’d have one son to continue our family’s legacy. And what am I left with?” He scoffs. “You. A good-for-nothing, lazy waste of space. Gabriel would—”
And it always came down to that—Gabriel would.
He would be better. He would be faster. He would be smarter. He would be more charming. He would, he would, he would.
As if I didn’t know that already.
Gritting my teeth, I push away from the table. The legs of the chair scrape against the hardwood floors so loud even Mom looks up from her plate, a look of surprise flashing on her face. “I think I’m done here.”
Dad’s bushy brows connect as his face turns scarlet. “The dinner’s not over yet.”
“Well, it seems like I’ve lost my appetite.”
I leave the dining room without a backward glance. Taking two steps at a time, I make my way up the stairs. The house has barely changed since Gabriel died. The photos of the two of us still line the staircase, all the way up to our thirteenth birthday.
Then it all stops.
Like we’ve been stuck in time.
A prison.
That’s what this house is.
A freaking prison.
I go straight to my bedroom, going to the bottom of my closet where there is one loose board underneath. It’s where when I was a teen, I usually had a bottle of Jack stashed for emergencies like this one. And sure enough, there is a bottle still hidden inside. It’s dusty, a testament to how long it’s been since I’ve last been home.
Home.
What a freaking mockery.
This place hasn’t been home since Gabriel died.
I’m not sure if it’s been much even before that.
