I love youis right there. I could say it right now. I know Locke loves me too. I hope, at least, he knows I love him with my actions.
I decide not to say it. I let the silence speak for me, instead. In the quiet, I hold him tighter, lean into him fully, and trust him to catch me if I fall. When it’s time for our love to be spoken in dialogue, we will—but right now, I don’t need it.
All I need is him. If I have that, at least, I know the day won’t always be so cold.
twenty-six
LOCKE
I don’t tellRosie about the video. Thankfully, she’s barely in it. You can’t even see her face in the shadows—just the shape of her body. Telling Rosalie would feel like I’m giving her more things to stress over. Podcast conversations between two money-obsessed finance bros should be the least of her worries.
While she’s focusing on the Xion internship, I’ll face the scandal’s backlash.
Said “scandal” is just me defending my girl from getting bullied in a club. It’s the misogynistic ammo these boys yearn for while doing nothing substantial with their lives.
When I get an ominous text from my father, saying nothing else but “Office. Now.” I know it’s hit its peak. During the Friday afternoon car ride there, I give myself a pep talk.
I don’t regret a single thing I did that night. It felt good to speak my mind for once and act as myself—not as my father’s son. I’m not ashamed of what happened, so I should hold my head up high when standing in Dad’s office.
Old habits die hard, though. With the floor-to-ceiling windows showing a gloomy overcast of the city, I fall back into the empty shell of being his son.
“Do you know why I asked you here, Locke?”
Spine straight. Shoulders back. Chin up.
I’m his son again. I hate myself.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that so?” He smiles. Not smirks, but the corners of his mouth are lifted too high. It’s evil. I keep my focus on them when he slams a fist into his desk repeatedly. I don’t flinch.
“I get a call from my publicist, first thing in the morning, telling me my son is trending because he’s getting into a fucking fight at a club?!”
It was hardly an argument, and definitely not a fight. I don’t correct him.
My father hits his hand on the wood again. I think I hear it splinter, but I can’t bring myself to look. “You know what’s funny? She tells me this, and I think it’s Grant. I thought it was Gran going around, fucking up his life and fucking over my name. But wasyou. Do you want to tell me what you were doing at a fucking night club, Locke?”
I don’t have a response. I can barely focus on anything but what’s going on right now. He just insulted my brother and red is flooding my vision.
“Answer me!”
Blood rushes through my head. I can’t think. I’ve only felt like this once before—a week ago, in front of Jeremiah. My nails are fighting their way into my skin, trying to keep my need to defend Grant at bay, and I don’t know what my father wants from me.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Oh, you don’t know?” His laugh is condescending and disgusting and familiar. It’s the only one I’ve ever heard from him.
I hate him.
“I don’t know.” I repeat myself out of spite, sarcasm dripping from my voice.
He flinches like I’ve burnt him. Probably from my tone. In all my life, I’ve never dared to speak to him like this.
Dad scoffs. Throws his hands up, one of which is bright red and swollen. “Whoareyou?’
Truthfully, painfully, I don’t know the full answer.
I know what I’m not, though. I’m not solely defined by being his son anymore. Despite my inability to say what I want in front of him, I recognize my mind is different. Before, whenever I faced him, the only thing I could think about was being the best version of his son. Now it’s the single thought I push out of my head.
