I kick Annabelle under the table and when she looks up I wink. She doesn’t giggle out loud, but I can see laughter in her eyes and that’s enough for me.
Our parents talk between themselves during dinner, at least until the inevitable question is sent my way. “How’s your school work going, Brody?”
My stomach drops instantly, and my knuckles whiten on the knife and fork in my hands. My mother’s query appears innocent, but the innuendo beneath her words is not. God. Can’t they just leave it alone? I know I’m a crushing disappointment. Do they really need me reminding them of it every time I come to dinner?
I glare at her. Don’t do it. Just let it go. Lie.
I draw in a deep breath and let it out. “Fine.”
Her brows rise and her expression is not only skeptical, it’s cold. “Fine?”
“Is that all we get from you, Brody?” My father joins in, and now I have the both of them double teaming me. Awesome. “We’re the ones sinking our hard-earned money into your education and all you can give us is fine?”
I might be attending CPU on a full sports scholarship but my father pays for the apartment, my car, and everything else. He wants to control what I drive, where I live, what I damn well wear, because the Maddens have a public image to maintain. God forbid I embarrass the family.
Annabelle sits quietly, not eating, her eyes focused on the table. My expression stony, I lift my chin, eyes shifting to my father. “What would you rather hear?”
“The truth,” he bites out.
“Come on, Dad, really?” I force a chuckle. “You’re a politician. You deal in lies, right? I’m just learning from the best.”
His face reddens. I’ve riled his temper and that’s never good. I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t seem to help myself.
“You want to know how it’s going?” I put down my knife and fork with a clatter. What little I’ve eaten sits heavy in my gut. I won’t be eating anymore tonight. “Two weeks in and I’m already flunking out. I’m going to take a stab in the dark and guess you both had that figured out already.” With hardened eyes, I turn a glare on my father, unable to restrain the sarcasm from my voice. “But there are no expectations, right, Dad? So you could hardly be disappointed. On the plus side, Uncle Patrick arranged a tutor because he’s willing to acknowledge just how low the levels of my stupidity go, so at least he gives a shit.”
My gaze slides back to my mother. A glass of chilled white wine sits poised in her hand, and her jaw is tight. She doesn’t like the reminder of my failures, so why she asked the question in the first place is beyond me. Every time a teacher suggested outside assistance during my formative years, my father always vetoed the idea. Knowing her place, my mother agreed. I hate that she’s so weak. I hate that she doesn’t care. I swallow hard, not allowing the hot prick of tears to reach my eyes.
“So yeah, it’s going great, Mom.”
Before I can draw breath, my dad reaches across and cracks his open palm across my face. My jaw snaps sideways, and I blink back stars.
Annabelle cries out and I hear her cutlery fall to her plate.
I take a deep breath and fix steady eyes on my little sister. “Go upstairs, Moo Moo.”
Her bottom lip quivers. “Brody.”
“I’ll come see you again soon, okay? We can go out on the horses.”
She hesitates.
“Go!”
Annabelle shoves her chair back, putting her napkin on the top of her plate with shaky hands. She aims a glare at our parents before leaving the room. It’s not until I hear her footsteps reach the top of the stairs that I turned to face him.
“What the fuck, Dad!” My mom flinches as I rip the napkin from my lap and toss it on the table. “Don’t you ever do that in front of Annabelle!”
Mom’s brows draw together, her expression stern. “Brody—”
Dad cuts her off. “Your mother asked you a simple question. Don’t treat her with such disrespect again.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with quiet sincerity. I didn’t mean to lose my shit in front of my sister. “I guess I just got sick of all the crap.”
“You little sonofabitch!” Dad shoots to his feet, his chair tipping and skidding back on the timber floor with a crack. He fists my shirt in his hand and hauls me to my feet. I stumble and my elbow bangs on the table, sending my plate crashing to the floor.
“You want to go at it?” he growls. My body tenses. It’s taking all my restraint to keep from shoving him out of my face. “Is that what you want? For me to smack some manners into your sorry ass? We’ve given you everything. Everything!” he roars in my face. “And you throw it back in our face by flunking out? And don’t think I didn’t hear about your loss to UCLA over the weekend. Everyone made sure I heard about it. It just proves you won’t get anywhere if you don’t try hard enough. You’re an embarrassment, Son, not to mention a sore loser. Be a man and handle it rather than taking it out on your family.” Dad heaves air into his lungs, his eyes wild. “Fucking useless,” he snarls when I remain silent.
He shoves me away—hard. My head smacks into the wall. I suck in a breath, feeling my brow split on impact. When I touch a hand to it, it comes away covered with blood. Dizzy, I lurch backwards, planting a shaky palm on the wall. It smears blood in a long, messy arc.
“Hattie!” my dad yells as I blink blood from my eye. “Come in here and clean up this goddamn mess.”
“Fuck you!” I slur, lightheaded and sick from the white-hot pain. Straightening my shoulders, I turn and draw back a fist, slamming it in my father’s jaw. Mom screams when the impact sends him sailing into the dining table. Dishes crash to the floor and food stains his suit.
I laugh. My knuckles are throbbing and my face aches, but I don’t care. All I can do is laugh, but it’s not remotely funny because it feels like I’m losing it.
“Get out!” my mother shrieks at me. Her face is pinched and her side sweep of blonde hair has loosened to fall on her forehead. “Get out of our house!”
Jordan
Two days prior…
Fielding messages from Brody, and the subsequent riot of butterflies every time his name pops up on my phone, I cut my Saturday morning run short. I don’t want to like Brody messaging me; in fact, I don’t want to like Brody at all—but I do.
After a long hot shower, Leah suggests going out for a late breakfast. I know a short stack of gingerbread pancakes will go a long way toward making everything better so I agree. But it’s not until we’re at a table, eating, that I realize Leah’s purpose for this little breakfast outing: pumping me for any and all information Brody Madden related.
It’s only the day after the party, but I’m beginning to notice that people somehow know my name. They pass by our table, saying hello. I’m not a social butterfly. I’m the reluctant caterpillar in the corner. It’s awkward.
One girl with a group of friends actually snaps a photo of me with her phone. She’s blatant about it too. Not seeming to care that I see her do it or that I have my mouth stretched around a forkful of pancakes. Usually they taste like little round slivers of doughy heaven. This morning they sit like rocks in my stomach.
“So spill it, Elliott. Leave no stone unturned. I want to know everything.”
Of course she does. Leah’s dark brown eyes are round and eager as she eyeballs me expectantly. The only reason she didn’t get anything out of me this morning was because Leah is as dedicated to her training as I am. Or usually am, if I don’t factor this morning’s pathetic effort into the equation.
I swallow my mouthful quickly, mindful that people are watching me eat. “I bumped into him on campus.”