The next few are photo dumps of her and her friends over the school year. Her and Willow with their cheeks pressed together, grinning at the camera. Her and Jack, his arm looped over her shoulder. I swipe past that one angrily.
And even worse when I get to the last one in that grouping. His lips are pressed to hers.
Besides that, there are only a few other recent posts. I get so far back, I watch a video of her and Willow opening their acceptance letters to CPU at the same time. There’s hesitation when they both unfold the paper and scan it, their anticipation and nerves visible even to me. Then the realization that they both got in.
I let out a sharp exhale. I was happy to go to Brickell, sure. It was a good school, and the hockey coach had come to watch me play a few games for Emery-Rose Elite. But I didn’t have that jump-for-joy excitement that Violet has with her best friend. I thought I’d made it in terms of success, but… now I’m questioning it.
And then my success turned out to be an epic failure.
My alarm goes off, and I splash water on my face, then head downstairs. Right on time, the doorbell rings.
“Who’s that?” Erik asks, coming around the corner. He sees what I’m wearing, and his brows hike. “Now I’m more intrigued.”
I roll my eyes and smooth my shirt. “I’m being summoned.”
He grunts, and jealousy flares in his eyes. “By Coach?”
“By my miserable fuck of a father,” I reply. I yank the door open.
The driver my father’s skank sent smiles at me. “Mr. Devereux—”
I stalk past him, down the concrete steps and walkway. He scurries after me, leaving the house door open, and makes it to the car just a moment before I do. I climb into the back seat, right where he probably wants me, and give him a bland expression when he drops his arms to his sides.
Poor guy. He’s probably been catering to my father—or politicians like him—his whole career. The car is nice and clean. There are mini water bottles in a polished black cup holder in the center armrest. I take one and crack it open, bringing it to my lips. The driver finally shuts my door and returns to his seat.
I smirk to myself and tip my head back.
We go past the campus, to an upscale restaurant on the water. Crown Point got its name for the point it comes to, like the centerpiece of an actual crown. A lake spreads out below it, but it’s the cliff that’s truly impressive.
Perfect for jumping—which is exactly what the hockey team did as a sort of initiation and bonding experience at the beginning of the year.
Swimming back to a spot where we could easily climb out was a bitch, and hiking back to our clothes was even worse. But, whatever. The drop was exhilarating.
Now it’s cold. An icy wind travels off the water and up.
The car rolls to a stop outside the restaurant, and I spot my father through the glass. His secretary isn’t with him.
He probably wants to have a little chat about how things are going, and as much as he likes her, he doesn’t trust anyone except himself.
I get that from him.
The driver opens my door, and I blink. Shocked that I actually let myself get so focused on him that I forgot to get out.
“Thanks.” I slide a twenty-dollar bill into his palm, then stride inside with my game face in place.
Smile. Charm.
Everything a politician’s son needs.
The host takes me to my father’s table, and the latter rises on my approach. I hesitate, unsure what he wants. A handshake? A hug? In a split second, I understand. The latter—all for the show. I should’ve known.
His arms wrap around my shoulders, and he pats my back hard enough to leave prints on my skin. He smiles widely and gestures for me to take a seat. He’s all show, and I’m hyperaware that we’re in the center of a well-lit room. There’s an awareness here that sticks to my skin, like eyes on us for the wrong reasons.
I don’t know why he’s in town. His true motivation, I mean, beyond meeting with the president of the school and whoever else the secretary mentioned. There’s always an ulterior motive when it comes to my father.
“How has Crown Point University been treating you?” he asks.
I tilt my head. “Fine…”
I didn’t see him over winter break. He was in California, schmoozing with the governor and his wife, while I was here. A world away. Training and pretending it didn’t matter that I was celebrating Christmas alone.
“The president says you’re an excellent addition to the hockey team.” He appraises me, steepling his fingers in front of him. His elbows on the table. “I have to wonder if that’s all you do.”
I bristle. “It’s one of my main areas of focus, yes.”
“Because…？”
“I’d like to play for the NHL.” I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
He looks a bit like me. Gray hair, because polls say that people trust men more when they show their age in their hair. Smooth skin from routine Botox appointments—because polls say that people don’t actually want their politicians to look old—and manicured eyebrows. Everything is a fabrication, right down to his spray-tanned skin.
It’s like leather against his white shirt.
Still, there are hints of similarity. The color of our eyes, for example. The square jaw. Even our noses. I pulled some features from my mother, like her dark-blonde hair, her fair skin, her smile. Maybe that’s why Dad wrinkles his nose in disgust whenever I show happiness.
“You need to set more reasonable expectations,” he says. “There are a lot of eyes on us. Voters haven’t quite forgiven us for your mess-up.”
Ah. I knew he’d cut to the chase sooner or later, but I am surprised it’s this. His own stupid political campaign.
“What are you saying?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “There’s a reporter sniffing around. Picked up the story by dogging the local police for a scoop, and some rookie gave him a soundbite to run with. Pointed him in the direction of the junkyard that took the cars.” He waves his hand, then busies himself with the silverware.
I watch, dumbfounded, as he shakes out his napkin. The fabric snaps before billowing down to his lap. He straightens his wine glass, the water glass.
“I’m taking care of it,” he adds.
An afterthought.
“What does that mean?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from fidgeting. He’s always hated my desire to move. Still waters run deep, he used to tell me. As if to insinuate that if I move too quickly, I can’t have a single complex thought or emotion.
“The reporter won’t find anything.” Dad smiles at me. “Your grades are good?”
Another question to tick off his checklist.
I nod along. “Yep. Straight A’s last semester.”
“And this one?”
“Should maintain the four-point-zero just fine.” Probably.
I lean back and kick my legs out, taking another look around the room. I clock a journalist—probably one hired by my father to document the father-son bonding time—and Dad’s security at a separate table. Their gazes are alert, too, as they scout for signs of trouble.
“Good, good.” Dad checks his phone, then looks up.
A waiter approaches with food, quickly setting it down in front of us. Food I didn’t order. Grilled salmon, asparagus, coconut rice. I lean down and sniff it, my stomach already turning. I haven’t eaten fish since I was seven. Coconut irritates my skin, makes me break out in hives. The smell does something to me, too, because the churning in my gut doesn’t ease.