He runs a hand through his hair. “Aside from the fact you’re my son and I’m proud of you, yeah.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him say he was proud of me before and it catches me by surprise. I don’t know what it says about our relationship that I never even considered he wanted me to do it because he’s proud of me. I sit with that for a few seconds, which I guess he takes as my disinterest.
“I’ll let them know you’re not interested.”
“It won’t hurt the show or anything?” I ask.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Worst case they’d just leave me out of it completely, which would be fine by me.”
I nod.
“It’s settled.”
Despite being angry at him, I still feel bad for not agreeing to do the interview. Those feelings only last as long as it takes for him to start yelling at me again when we restart the drills. I’m sloppy and making mistakes I haven’t made in years.
I feel like the biggest joke who’s ever been invited to a showcase. And the worst part is, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. All week I’ve done nothing except eat, drink, sleep, and play soccer. I’m working harder than I ever have before, and it’s like I’ve taken ten steps back instead of progressing.
When Dad’s voice is hoarse and he’s given up on me getting my head out of my ass (his words), he heads home to meet with the film crew, and I text Rowan. If anyone can cheer me up right now, it’s him. When he doesn’t answer, I text Austin.
Me:Seen or heard from Rowan? He isn’t answering my texts.
Austin:He left school after sixth period. He wasn’t feeling well.
Me:Shit. That sucks. Thanks.
As I head out to my Range Rover, I send Rowan a text to check in on him and see if he needs anything.
I go home to shower and eat dinner, but Rick and some film people hover around shushing me politely every time I breathe too loudly. Ten minutes later I’m heading back out of the house.
Rowan still hasn’t responded, so I decide to go over and check on him. The drive to the other side of town is nice. Rowan’s family lives in the richest neighborhood in town.It’s the kind of place people probably expect Dad and me to live, but Dad moved here hoping to make a quiet, ordinary life for us.
Big sprawling mansions are scattered around ten or twenty acres. Each one has a paved driveway lined with hedges and ornate fences. Statues and fountains adorn the immaculate landscaping that looks like it requires an entire team of gardeners. It’s the kind of place that screams generational wealth.
I turn in to Rowan’s driveway. Rowan’s old truck is parked in the middle of the circle, outside the massive brick home. His beat-up truck looks as out of place as Rowan does here. He rarely talks about his parents having money, but then again, he rarely talks about his parents.
I park my Rover behind his truck and approach the house slowly. A few lights are on, but there aren’t any signs of movement inside.
After ringing the doorbell, I step back and wait. Several long minutes pass before the front door swings open and Rowan appears.
“You’re not Uber Eats,” he says, staring at me blankly. His hair is messy, and he has on sweatpants with a blanket thrown over his shoulders in lieu of a shirt.
“You look terrible.” I offer a small smile.
“Feel worse.” He steps back and holds the door wide to let me in.
The entryway opens up to a massive foyer with a spiral staircase on the right and a kitchen almost as big as my entire house directly in front. Rowan heads in that direction, and I follow behind him through the kitchen, noting the takeout containers, to the living room.
The TV is on, and cold medicine bottles and Kleenex are strewn about one side of the couch.
“Parents home?” I ask as he slumps down onto the tissue-covered area of the couch.
I sit in a chair across from him.
“No. They’re in Italy for the month.”
“The month?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but then sneezes three times instead.
