We pulled up to a yellow,two-story house with a white fence. Weston had to get out to unlock the gate so we could drive through. A padlock made a loud clunking noise as he let it fall from his hands onto the ground. The unpaved driveway made the truck rock a bit as we crept towards the front driveway.
“They’re not here?” I said in need of another confirmation.
“My parents like to stay in New York during the fall. And my brother hasn’t been back home since he got a job in Cali a few years ago,” Weston explained. “This place stays empty until the summer. When they want to show it off.”
Weston came over to my side of the truck to help me down. I followed him up the walkway of uneven stones. My eyes scanned the surrounding woods in the backyard. In the distance, I spotted another equally large house. Their fence was made of stone and iron with a driveway paved with black cement. The other houses we passed by on the way here had a similar aesthetic: rich, clean, and intentional. The Briggs’ estate - there was no other word that better suited the house - looked rundown compared to the others. Their lawn was overgrown. The walkway lined with various holes of dirt where I assumed flowers were once planted.
Weston brushed away a few cobwebs before putting his key in the front door lock. When we stepped in, the moon shone through the curtain-less windows. My nose wrinkled from the stale smell of a shut-in home. Weston ventured into the darkness of the foyer. I could hear his hand running along the walls, trailing to a light switch. When he found it, the chandelier above us brightened with white light.
“How many houses does your family have?” I asked while marveling at the expertly crafted piece above us. The crystal painted small circles along the ceiling. It looked like something out of a British ballroom.
“Technically?” Weston said while heading towards the living room. He flicked on a few lamps there, revealing couches covered with dusty, white sheets. “None.”
I frowned and walked towards the stone encased fireplace. A row of framed family photos was spread across the mantle. “None?”
“My grandfather owns this place,” he explained while pulling white sheets off the couches, one by one. Dust clouds filled the air. “And all of our other places.”
My mouth released a barely audible, “oh,” as I scanned the photos. As a kid, Weston’s blonde hair was lighter, nearly white. He wore it shoulder length until his teen years. Most of the photos featured him and his older brother. The guy looked nearly identical to Weston except for his brown hair and a slight ridge in his nose - potentially indicating a break that didn’t heal correctly.
“What’s your brother’s name?” I asked, suddenly feeling weird that I’ve never wondered about his life outside of university. The school felt like a world within itself. Nothing mattered outside of it until we left.
“Warren,” Weston said while tugging off a sheet that protected a black piano.
“What does he do in California?”
Weston coughed a few times at the dust before answering, “He’s a plastic surgeon.”
“Woah,” I whispered, impressed. I paused in front of a black and white photo of the two. Weston stood on his toes, trying to reach a football Warren held out of his grasp. The two were laughing. They looked close. I had no siblings and never gotten close enough to my cousins to warrant a decent photo.
“Golden boy,” Weston said with a roll of his eyes. He shook out a sheet before carefully folding it.
“I thought that was your role,” I joked and moved to help him fold. He grabbed one end of a wide blanket while I grabbed the other.
“Only on campus.” He moved towards me to match up our sides. His fingers brushed against mine as we met in the middle. “Next to Warren, I’m completely uninspiring.”
I shook my head. “I doubt that.”
“You’d ignore me in a room full of Briggs.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “I promise.”
“Self-deprecation,” I noted while folding the blanket again and giving him my half. “That’s unlike you.”
“It’s been a long day.” He set the blanket on the couch and reached for the last one that needed folding. “Losing sucks. And finding out your teammates don’t trust you is even more disappointing.”
“Dakota trusts you,” I assured. “I think he was just embarrassed.”
“Regardless. I didn’t see what was happening right under my nose.” Weston’s jaw was stiff as he spoke. “I thought David was an ass who enjoyed getting in fights that earned him bruises. I thought Dakota’s dark moods were because he was going through family crap.”
“You’re not responsible for what Axe and Bill did. You get that, right?”
“I am responsible. I’m supposed to look out for them.” He tightly rolled the rest of the blanket, giving up on the crisp folds. I watched him roughly tossed the sheet on the couch and fell next to it. He rubbed his hands across his face.
“It can’t be just up to you,” I whispered while lowering myself in the cushion beside him. “There are people who can fix this the right way.”
“And what way would that be, Covee?” He raised his eyebrows. “Tell me. This is the part where I consider your plan.”
I took a deep, uneven breath. “We could write a letter to the Dean. I’ll do it so the coaches don’t catch wind and try to trace it. I could say I witnessed some abuse ,which I did and they’ll open an investigation.”
“The Dean?” He shook his head with a ghostly smile on his lips. “The same man that put all his effort in funding the football team’s latest facilities? The man who was in the same fraternity as Axe? Our Dean will sweep this under the rug as soon as he hears people talking.”
