grades started tanking, Mr. Hale threatened to ship his son to a military academy for young boys, thinking the structure would be beneficial for a rowdy teenager. I’m not even sure he connected the events and understood that Lo’s real problem was alcohol.
In reflection, he needed AA or rehab, not a blue blood manufacturing camp. Instead, I gave him me: a scapegoat for his constant bingeing. That summer, we made the deal. And as soon as he told Jonathan that he started dating Greg Calloway’s daughter, his slate wiped blank. Mr. Hale slapped him on the back, told Lo that I’d be good for him, and if I wasn’t, he’d find a way to change his behavior. So we masked our lifestyles in order to continue them.
Even though Lo hardly became a model citizen in his early teenage years, my parents were overjoyed at the news of our relationship. The sound of a Calloway-Hale union surpassed the quality of the man on my arm. As if it’s 1794 and our marriage will garner military power and land rights. Hello, we are not royalty.
With our new alliance, we lied for each other and hid our infidelities, playing the role of doting boyfriend and girlfriend. The deeper we sink, the harder it is to crawl out. I fear the moment where neither of us can breathe again—when someone discovers our secrets. At any moment, everything can crumble beneath us. The dangerous game both excites and terrifies me.
I return to Lo’s room and relax when I see him fully dressed, leaning his side wearily against the bedframe. His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked.
At least he has pants on.
“Can you help me?” he asks casually. Without slurring!
I nod and take small steps towards him. I skim the hem of his button-down, and his hot, liquor breath prickles my skin. To avoid any bubbling feelings, I make a mental note to grab a pack of mints before we leave.
“I’ll be fine by the time we get there,” he assures me.
“I know.” I avoid eye contact as my fingers fumble with the button by his taut abs.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly and then laughs. “At least I gave you something to fill your spank bank.”
I sigh heavily. I don’t purposefully fantasize about Loren Hale to get aroused. That would be way too awkward each time I meet his eyes. It’s already bad enough it happens on accident. “You’re not in my spank bank, Lo.” I think he might complain or laugh, but he looks confused and kind of hurt. I don’t have time to dig through the meaning.
“Sorry then,” he snaps, agitated. He feels bad, and I suddenly wish I just played along. He loses his footing in his drunk stupor and falls back into the mattress. To catch myself from tumbling to the floor, I hold onto his arms tightly, but that sends me right into him. And when time starts to slow, I realize that my hand is planted firmly on his chest; my legs are pressed against his, and the only thing that really separates us is his pants and my dress.
He breathes heavily, his muscles constricting underneath my weight. Something deep pulses in me, something bad. His hands stay on the small of my back, on the dip above my ass. And as he licks his lips, watching me peruse his body with eager, wanting eyes, I tap into the sensible part of my brain. I mutter, “Your dad is going to be at the luncheon.”
His face blanches, and he lifts me up onto my feet like I weigh nothing. “We need to go,” he says, leaving the last few buttons undone. He eyes the clock. “ Now. ” His worry clears most of his hangover, and I hope that it will be gone by the time we reach Villanova.
{4}
We’re ten minutes late, but we’re not the only ones.
My father missed his flight from New York back to Philly because his personal pilot had the flu. He had to arrange a new one to fly his private jet. The whole ordeal shouldn’t take long, but my father requires a background check on all his drivers. The new pilot will probably have to prove his competence with at least an hour of test flights. My
In reflection, he needed AA or rehab, not a blue blood manufacturing camp. Instead, I gave him me: a scapegoat for his constant bingeing. That summer, we made the deal. And as soon as he told Jonathan that he started dating Greg Calloway’s daughter, his slate wiped blank. Mr. Hale slapped him on the back, told Lo that I’d be good for him, and if I wasn’t, he’d find a way to change his behavior. So we masked our lifestyles in order to continue them.
Even though Lo hardly became a model citizen in his early teenage years, my parents were overjoyed at the news of our relationship. The sound of a Calloway-Hale union surpassed the quality of the man on my arm. As if it’s 1794 and our marriage will garner military power and land rights. Hello, we are not royalty.
With our new alliance, we lied for each other and hid our infidelities, playing the role of doting boyfriend and girlfriend. The deeper we sink, the harder it is to crawl out. I fear the moment where neither of us can breathe again—when someone discovers our secrets. At any moment, everything can crumble beneath us. The dangerous game both excites and terrifies me.
I return to Lo’s room and relax when I see him fully dressed, leaning his side wearily against the bedframe. His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked.
At least he has pants on.
“Can you help me?” he asks casually. Without slurring!
I nod and take small steps towards him. I skim the hem of his button-down, and his hot, liquor breath prickles my skin. To avoid any bubbling feelings, I make a mental note to grab a pack of mints before we leave.
“I’ll be fine by the time we get there,” he assures me.
“I know.” I avoid eye contact as my fingers fumble with the button by his taut abs.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly and then laughs. “At least I gave you something to fill your spank bank.”
I sigh heavily. I don’t purposefully fantasize about Loren Hale to get aroused. That would be way too awkward each time I meet his eyes. It’s already bad enough it happens on accident. “You’re not in my spank bank, Lo.” I think he might complain or laugh, but he looks confused and kind of hurt. I don’t have time to dig through the meaning.
“Sorry then,” he snaps, agitated. He feels bad, and I suddenly wish I just played along. He loses his footing in his drunk stupor and falls back into the mattress. To catch myself from tumbling to the floor, I hold onto his arms tightly, but that sends me right into him. And when time starts to slow, I realize that my hand is planted firmly on his chest; my legs are pressed against his, and the only thing that really separates us is his pants and my dress.
He breathes heavily, his muscles constricting underneath my weight. Something deep pulses in me, something bad. His hands stay on the small of my back, on the dip above my ass. And as he licks his lips, watching me peruse his body with eager, wanting eyes, I tap into the sensible part of my brain. I mutter, “Your dad is going to be at the luncheon.”
His face blanches, and he lifts me up onto my feet like I weigh nothing. “We need to go,” he says, leaving the last few buttons undone. He eyes the clock. “ Now. ” His worry clears most of his hangover, and I hope that it will be gone by the time we reach Villanova.
{4}
We’re ten minutes late, but we’re not the only ones.
My father missed his flight from New York back to Philly because his personal pilot had the flu. He had to arrange a new one to fly his private jet. The whole ordeal shouldn’t take long, but my father requires a background check on all his drivers. The new pilot will probably have to prove his competence with at least an hour of test flights. My
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