"And Lockwood made the boat."
"My father didn't. And the worst part—Lockwood barely thought about him. The whole rivalry was in my father's head."
Liam was quiet. Processing.
"So how did it become a real thing?"
"Money." I turned my coffee cup on the table. "After college, my father started donating to Kingswell. Got his name on buildings, got a board seat, made sure everyone knew the Harrington name still mattered. And Robert Lockwood saw what my father was doing and decided he wasn't going to be outspent. When my father funded the boathouse renovation, Lockwood funded the new erg center."
"A dick-measuring contest with tax write-offs."
"Basically. But then it got personal. Lockwood blocked my father from chairing the alumni board—called in favors, made it political. My father retaliated by getting Lockwood's name removed from the regatta trophy sponsor list. Petty, ugly, rich-people warfare."
"This is dark Alex," Liam said with his face twisted in disgust. "Glad I'm not rich."
I shook my head. "By the time Braden and I were twelve, both our fathers were using us as the next round. Same elite rowing clubs. Same junior regattas. Every time I won something, my father made sure Robert Lockwood knew. And every time Braden won, his father called mine."
"So Braden's not just competitive on his own."
"No." I set the cup down. "We didn't choose this rivalry. We inherited it."
"So it's not just about the double."
"No. And now I'm rowing the featured boat at the Charles with someone from Riverside instead of him." I paused. "In his head, that seat should be his. By birthright."
"By birthright." Liam's mouth twisted. "Must be rough."
"I'm not defending him."
"I know." He picked up his sandwich. Took a bite and chewed. "It's weird. Your world. Everything's about who your dad was. Who your grandfather was. Like you're not even a person—you're a sequel."
A sequel.That's exactly what it felt like. Not my own story. A continuation of someone else's.
"Yeah," I said. "That's exactly what it is."
"For what it's worth—" He looked at me across the table. "You're a pretty cute sequel."
I almost laughed. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
He kicked me under the table. I kicked him back. The barista glanced over. We both looked away, and Liam's mouth pressed shut against a grin he was trying to kill.
We finished our sandwiches. Drank our coffee. The conversation drifted—Liam telling me about Brackett Lake in winter, how the ice fishermen set up shacks and his mom would make soup from whatever they caught. The old bridge near the inlet where he used to skip rocks with friends and stare at the big houses on the north shore. "I used to make up stories about the people who lived there," he said. "Convinced myself they were all miserable."
"And?"
"You tell me. You lived there."
"My family was miserable. Does that count?"
"Sadly, yes."
I told him about Christmas at Peninsula Point. The formal dinners. Dinner at seven sharp—not 6:59, not 7:01. The housethat felt like a museum with a dress code. My father at the head of the table and my mother at the other end and the space between them filled with polished silver and absolutely nothing real.
"That sounds awful," Liam said.
"It was beautiful and awful at the same time. The lake was beautiful. The house was beautiful. Everything looked perfect from the outside."
"Yeah." He looked at me. "I know something about that."
