He squeezes my hand. “Not as pretty as you.”
I roll my eyes, but still smile. He unlocks his BMW and walks me around to the passenger side. I love that he still does this. Even six months into our relationship, he makes me feel special. Like every day is a first date.
Before I can get in the car, he stops me. Placing his hands on either side of the car, he traps me between the vehicle and his body. My heart speeds up. I smile up at him, thinking he’s going to kiss me again. But he doesn’t. His vivid green eyes drill into me with unusual intensity.
“Davy. You know what you do to me, how you make me feel. . . .”
I touch his chest, flattening my palms against him. “You make me happy, too.”
“Good. Because that’s all I ever want, Davy. To make you happy.”
“You do,” I assure him.
He nods but he still doesn’t move. He stares at me like he’s memorizing me.
I angle my head, wondering at his odd seriousness. It’s not like he goes around declaring himself all the time. “Zac?”
“I love you,” he murmurs, the words falling slowly.
Everything inside me tightens. He’s never said those words before.
My heart clenches and the ache there is so sweet. It’s a perfect kind of agony. I suck in a sharp breath and then release it in a rush. Words are impossible. They stick inside my closed throat.
His gaze darts around and he almost looks nervous. “I didn’t know I was going to say that here. Right now. In the parking lot. I mean . . . I’ve known for weeks that I love you. You’re all I think about—” He grins down at me. “I’m babbling.”
“I noticed that.”
He kisses me. We’ve shared some amazing kisses before but nothing like this. Zac loves me. He. Loves. Me.
He breaks for air and mutters against my lips, “God, I’ve been trying to get up the courage to tell you that. Sorry it wasn’t someplace more special.”
I swat him on the shoulder. “Why would you be afraid to tell me that?” Probably the same reason I’ve been afraid to say the words, too.
His expression sobers and his arms tighten around me. “I don’t know if I can handle you not loving me back.”
I touch his face. Place my fingertips against his jaw. It’s a little bristly. My fingers move over his skin, reveling in the texture. “Well, that’s not possible. I think I loved you before you ever even asked me out.”
Relief washes over his face. He kisses me once more, sweet and lingering before we finally move and get inside the car.
It’s a short drive to my house. I sit there in a daze, absorbing the sensation of his hand holding mine between us, and everything it means. Me. Zac. Forever. That’s what it feels like. I know I’m just seventeen, but why not? Why not forever?
We’re at my house in ten minutes. In this instance, I wish I didn’t live so close to campus. Wish we could stay in our little world for a few hours more.
Two extra cars sit in the circular driveway. I don’t know who they belong to, but my gaze drifts to Dad’s Range Rover. Home in the middle of the week in broad daylight. That never happens.
Zac gets out with me. He quickly reclaims my hand. We’ve barely reached the wide rock steps leading to the double front doors when one of them swings opens.
Mom steps out and I stop.
She looks pale, her normally smooth complexion drawn tight. Mom’s key to looking young is to never get in the sun. As in—never. She only swims in our pool at night. But right now, even those efforts seem lost.
“Davy,” she says my name on a breath, staring at me in an intense, devouring way that makes me want to touch my face and check that I haven’t broken out in a rash suddenly.
Her gaze skitters to Zac. She nods at him. “Thanks for dropping her off.” The translation is clear: leave. My parents adore Zac. If I didn’t already know something is wrong, then I do now.
Zac gives my hand a squeeze and locks his impossibly green eyes on me. The concern is there—the love. I’d seen it before but now it has a name. Now I know. “Call me.”
I nod.
With one last look, he walks back to his car.
Then it’s just Mom and me. She looks over her shoulder and I can hear the voices drifting out from somewhere in the house. I recognize Dad’s baritone and not just because it’s familiar. It’s the loudest.
“Mom? What’s going on?”
She motions me inside.
I drop my backpack inside the foyer. We walk across the dark wood floor into the living room. I inch inside warily, toeing the Oriental rug.
Immediately, I see Dad, standing, pacing. His arms and hands are all movement as he talks. No Mitchell though. My gaze sweeps the cavernous room. I recognize my headmaster, Mr. Grayson. He rises when we enter. He’s never been to our house before, and it’s strange seeing him here and not on campus. As though the only place he belongs is at Everton.
And there’s another man. I’ve never seen him before. He’s dressed in a cheap suit. The cuffs stop well before his hairy wrists and the fit is all wrong, too loose at the shoulders. I’ve been taught to appreciate good suits. Dad wears Caraceni and Gucci. The stranger stays sitting, looking almost bored.
Mr. Grayson tucks one hand inside his suit pocket. He addresses Dad in a placating voice, “Patrick, listen to me. My hands are tied. There’s protocol—”
“Wasn’t there protocol with Mitchell, too?”
Mitchell graduated three years ago. He’s always been in trouble. Drugs. Failing grades. Nothing really improved when he started college, either. He came home first semester and currently lives in the guesthouse. Dad keeps pushing him to work at the bank. An “internship” he calls it. It sounds better than saying, “My son’s a teller at the bank I own.”
Hamilton Bank has been in my family since my greatgrandfather founded it. It looks like that legacy would die with Dad. Mitchell’s not cut out for it, and I have other plans.
Dad waves an arm wildly. “I wrote a check then. A fat donation and everything was fine. Why not this time? This is Davy! She’s a damned prodigy. She sings and has been playing God knows how many instruments since before kindergarten. . . . She even performed for the governor when she was nine!”
I blink. Whatever this is, it’s about me.
“This is beyond my control.” Mr. Grayson speaks evenly, like he’s rehearsed what to say.
Dad storms from the living room, passing me without a word.
Mr. Grayson notices me then. His entire demeanor changes. “Davy.” He claps his hand together in front of him. “How are you?” he asks slowly, like I might have trouble understanding.
“Fine, Mr. Grayson. How are you?”
“Good!” He nods enthusiastically, reminding me of a bobblehead. Weird.
His eyes, however, convey none of this cheer. They flit nervously over me and then around the room—as if sizing up all possible escape routes. Marking the French doors leading outside, he shifts his gaze to the man on the couch.
The headmaster motions to him. “This is Mr. Pollock.”
“Hello,” I greet. “Nice to meet you.”
He doesn’t even respond. He looks me over with small, dark eyes set deeply beneath his eyebrows. His mouth loosens, the moist top lip curling in a vaguely threatening way. The thought seizes me: he doesn’t like me.
Ridiculous, of course. He doesn’t even know me. He’s a stranger. How could he have formed any opinion of me at all?
In the distance, I hear the slap of Dad’s returning footsteps. He enters the room breathlessly even though he didn’t walk far. Even though he plays raquetball every week and is in great shape. His face is flushed like he’s been out in the sun.
He brandishes his checkbook as he sinks into a chair. With his pen poised, he demands: “How much?”
Grayson exchanges a look with the stranger. He clears his throat, speaking almost gently now. “You don’t understand. She can’t come back tomorrow.”
I cut in. “Come back where? What’s going on?”
I move farther into the room. Grayson takes a notable step back, his gaze flying almost desperately to Pollock.
Staring down at his checkbook with fixed focus, Dad shouts, “How much?!”
I jump, my chest tight and uncomfortable. Prickles wash over the skin at the back of my neck. Dad never yells. He’s too dignified for that. Everything about this is wrong.
My stomach churns. I look at Mom. She hovers at the edge of the room, her face pale. Her mouth parts and she moistens her lips as though she’s going to speak, but nothing comes out.
Mr. Pollock rises from the couch, and I see just how short he is. His legs and torso appear almost the same length. His square hands brush over his bad suit. He takes a long, measuring look around our living room, his gaze skimming the furniture, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the heavy drapes, and grand piano in the corner that I’ve played ever since I sat down in front of it at age three.
Dad lifts his gaze now, watching Pollock with almost hatred. And something that resembles fear. Although obviously not. Patrick Hamilton fears nothing and no one. Certainly not this man with his beady eyes and ill-fitting suit.
Watching Dad, I marvel at the harsh glitter of his gaze . . . the heavy crash of his breath. A part of me wants to go to him and place a hand on his tightly bunched shoulder. For whatever reason. Maybe to just make me feel better. Because Dad like this freaks me out.
Mr. Pollock stops before Dad and looks down at him. My father rises, still clutching his checkbook in his hand, crushing it.
Pollock jerks his head in my direction. “You can’t buy her way out of this.”
I stare, at a total loss. What did I do? Fear crawls up my throat in hot prickles, and I fight to swallow.
“Dad?” My voice is a dry croak.
He turns to me, the whites of his eyes suddenly pink, shot with emotion.
Mr. Grayson moves to leave. He gives me a small, sympathetic smile as he passes, lifting a hand as though to pat my shoulder and then drops it, changing his mind.
Then it’s Mr. Pollock before me, so close I can smell his sour coffee breath. He flips out a small card. “I’ll be your caseworker. I won’t come here again. From now on, we meet at my office. Be there tomorrow at ten sharp.”
The unspoken words or else hang in the air.
My thoughts jumble together. I glance down at the card but can’t focus on the words.
Then the men are gone. It’s just me and my parents.
I spin to face Mom. “Why do I have to see him tomorrow? I have school—”
“No,” Dad announces, slowly sinking down into a chair. “You don’t.”
Mom moves inside the living room, her hand gliding along the back of the couch as though she needs the support of something solid under her fingers.
Dad drags a hand over his face, muffling his words, but I still hear them: “Oh, my God.”
Those barely there words shudder through me.
I wet my dry lips. “Someone please tell me what’s going on? What did that man mean when he said he’s my caseworker?”
Mom doesn’t look at me. She fixes her stare on Dad. He drops his hand from his face and exhales deeply, shaking his head. “They can’t do this.”
“Oh, Patrick.” She shakes her head as if he just uttered something absurd. “They’ve been doing it all over the country. What can we do?”
“Something,” he snaps. “This isn’t happening. Not to my daughter!” He slams his fist down on the desk and I flinch.
My eyes start to burn as apprehension curls through me sickly. Part of me feels the irrational urge to run. To flee from whatever horrible truth has my parents acting this way. Find Zac and hold him, bury my face in his chest and listen to him tell me he loves me again.
Mom looks at me finally. Her lips compress and flatten like it’s hard for her to even look at me. “You can’t go back to school.”