Oh, like the fun you had this weekend? You hated it.
“Not every second. Sure, I felt out of my depth, but that feeling won’t last forever. If I move in with them, it’ll get less and less, right?”
My brain doesn’t have a quick comeback for that, so I give my head a sharp nod and keep talking to myself.
“I’m sick of being on the outside. I mean… I think I am.” I cringe and mutter, “I don’t know. I don’t know!”
I run a hand through my hair, wishing I didn’t make every decision in my life so damn hard.
I sigh. “They invited me. They want me. That’s kind of huge. I can’t just reject that. And I don’t want to live on my own anymore. These guys could help me lighten up, learn how to have some fun.”
Your parents willhatethe idea.
And I have no counterargument for that, because they will. And trying to persuade them to put their money toward that instead of my little apartment is going to be a really hard sell. Although, the money I get from my athletic scholarship will be enough to cover the bulk of the rent. Maybe I should just leave the money out of it. My parents may be multimillionaires, but they’re tight asses too. I can just dip into my savings, or heck, not even tell them and use the top-up money they send me every month toward this new place instead of the apartment they arranged for me.
Dude, you have to tell them. Stop being such a pussy.
The voice in my head is sounding just like Mac, and I shake my head. He’s right, even though my brain’s rebelling against the thought of having to be honest with them.
My parents don’t want to hear what I really think and feel… unless I’m agreeing with their choices for my life.
I guess it really comes down to… do I want to put in the effort it’ll take to convince them?
Do I have it in me to fight this battle?
Or do I take the easy route and just do what they want me to?
The second I pull into the garage, the internal door swings open and my mother is coming down the stairs demanding details.
“What did you do? What team-building exercises did you take part in?” She follows me back into the house, yapping at my heels. “Or was this some drunken orgy?”
My skin flushes. I am not about to admit to the blow job.
“It was! Did you get drunk? You did!”
“I didn’t,” I quickly counter, because I hate the taste of alcohol. I’ve tried sips of wine and beer and spirits—it’s all disgusting to me.
So I don’t drink. Unless my mother’s making me because it looks more sophisticated to have a wineglass in your hand at a function, apparently. It doesn’t seem to bother her that I’m underage. She’s been treating me like an adult since I was ten, acting like I’m already the businessman son she wants me to be.
I never got to be a boy around her. I never got to have fun.
The thought stops me in my tracks.
“What did you do, then?” she snaps.
With a weary sigh, I drop my bag at the bottom of the main stairwell and turn to face her. “I hung out with my team. We talked. We laughed together. We ate food. We?—”
“Was it healthy?”
“Ma!”
Her face buckles into a scary frown. “Don’t you use that tone with me!”
Closing my eyes, I dip my head as my father clips into the entrance. “Son, you’re back. Good. I want to tell you about the evening you missed. I managed to secure some good connections, and I’d like you to play golf with me next week. One of our potential clients has a son your age, and he’s a golf enthusiast. You can make a friendship with him, and it’ll only help seal the deal.”
“Bàba. I hate golf. I’m terrible at it.”
“Perfect. The son will feel wonderful beating you, and it will help boost their mood. We’ll have contracts signed by the end of the week.”
