I hear Astrid laughing as she paddles after me, her splashes sending droplets everywhere.
For the next half hour, we’re childish and loud. People trickle outof the pool area, leaving us to our own chaos. It’s awesome. And for the first time in a long while, it feels like I’m home.
I sit at the glass table on the restaurant patio. The clinking of utensils on ceramic plates breaks the otherwise tense silence of the meal. From my seat, I can see part of the beach in the distance, littered with debris. The ocean is still choppy with huge knits of algae floating along the waves. I promised my sister I’d take her fishing this week, but no one is on the water today.
I’m sure the dock is closed after the storm. I wonder if the workers are down there right now, sitting at the edge of the dock and chatting like they used to. Singing and laughing, starting a bonfire that will go all night.
In comparison, I look around at the resort. Despite the damage on the beach, this place has an unsettling normalcy. Other than a few bent flower stems, nothing at all seems out of place. Except me, I guess.
Astrid’s hair is still wet as she sits wrapped in a pool towel. Not exactly the impression my mother was hoping to make around the other esteemed guests. Astrid picks at her chicken strips, darting looks between her food and me. She’s always been able to tell when something’s off, even when no one else notices.
My mother occasionally glances in my direction with a soft look, like she’s urging me to talk. I’m trying to get up the courage, but at the other end of the table, the formidable Brent Matthews sits with a heavy presence. He’s eating a steak, a full slab of steak for lunch. My mother nods in his direction, encouraging me again to start the conversation.
I try to gauge my father’s mood. He’s staring down at his meal, his face a mask of concentration as he saws into the meat. He looks like his thoughts are far away, but I know he’s always listening, always aware.
“Hey, Dad,” I say casually, testing the waters. “Have you heard anythinglately about the Chasers? The locals,” I correct, not sure how familiar he is with the term.
His gaze rises to meet mine, curious. “Why do you ask?” he replies, setting down his fork and knife. He takes a sip of red wine.
I shrug. “A few guys were talking about them yesterday,” I say. “The rivalry seems to go pretty deep, but I don’t know why. I thought maybe you’d have the real story.”
I take a bite of my cheeseburger, and when I glance at my father again, he sniffs a laugh.
“Not much to say really,” he says, noncommittal. “Some of those locals—Chasers,” he allows, “are probably decent people. But they’re not the sort you want to spend your time with. What matters for you,” he continues, his expression growing more serious, “is the type of people you align yourself with. You want to be around those who are making real moves, people with money, people with power. Successful people.”
His comment irritates me, but I swallow it back for now. “So why do people at the resort hate them so much?” I ask, sure he’s avoiding the topic. “They said there was a murder.”
“Murder?” Astrid repeats loud enough that a couple from the table next to us looks in our direction.
“Astrid, please,” my mother says quietly, putting her hand over my sister’s to quiet her.
When I turn to my father again, his expression has darkened. He shakes his head slowly, and then laughs. “What the fuck are you doing, James?” he asks, still smiling.
My heart sinks into my gut. “Nothing,” I murmur. “I… I was just curious. Never mind.”
“Just stay focused on what’s in front of you,” my father says. “That’s what really counts.”
I’m embarrassed. My questions were valid, but he has a real talent for making me feel small. And still… I just keep trying with him. Why do I keep trying? And why the hell is he avoiding the topic of the Chasers?
My mom catches my eye then, a gentle request to leave it alone. Especially in public.
She smiles around at all of us. “Why don’t we talk about something else?” she offers to the table.
I try to focus on my food, but I’ve lost my appetite. I take a gulp of soda, and when I notice Astrid’s look of concern, I reach over and steal one of her chicken strips to get her attention. She grabs it back and eats it quickly.
“Brent,” my mother says to my father. “James has been considering applying for one of the internships at the company next year. I thought it would be a wonderful idea.”
Back in the spotlight, I straighten my posture.
My father looks up from his plate, his expression blank for a moment before he leans back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of him. “Internship?” he repeats, seeming confused. “But we don’t take high school dropouts.”
The words hit me like a slap. My chest tightens, and I feel a flush creep up my neck. His comment stings, not because it’s true, but because of how easy it is for him to say it. Like it’s a simple fact. Like I’m nothing more than a failure in his eyes.
Before I can respond, my mother quickly speaks up, her voice steady and firm. “He didn’t drop out, Brent. He finished his degree online. It’s the same thing.”
I want to thank her for stepping in, for defending me, but my father’s reaction to the idea of my internship seems disproportioned, like he’s punishing me for asking about the Chasers in the first place.
I clear my throat, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “I got mydiploma, Dad,” I say. “I got top scores. I’m a good candidate. I’ve finished all the trainings—I know the software. I can contribute.”
