I glance hopefully at my phone, but there’s no response from Wes and he still hasn’t read it, so I place it back on my nightstand. He might be busy. After all, I have no idea what his family situation is like. He might be hiding from a bazillion nieces and nephews right now, too.
“Sol!” Jacey’s voice carries through my door. “Are you coming up? The board’s ready.”
Every Thanksgiving, we have an epic family game of Monopoly and I have a three-year streak going. I grab a fresh shirt and pull it on.
“On my way!”
My gaze snags on my phone and I stare at it, wondering whether to leave it in my room or not. If I bring it with me, I know I’ll be distracted, so I force myself to walk away, closing my bedroom door behind me. He probably won’t text back. I took two days to message him, so he’ll likely do the same. Or wait until the day we head back to campus.
Even as I head upstairs, trying to convince myself, I know the cold, hard truth. When I go back down to my room tonight, if he hasn’t messaged, disappointed isn’t even going to begin to cover it.
WES
I’m a coward. As I help wash the pans next to my dad, all I can feel is shame and disappointment. And it’s all coming from me.
I’d planned to tell my dad about my plans for next year. I had my speech all prepared having rehearsed it almost nonstop on the drive to Seattle from Franklin West. Then I put it off on Wednesday, deciding to wait until I received the offer letter from Alex. After all, there was a chance he wouldn’t come through. Of course, I’d already told him who was responsible for posting Sasha’s diary entries, but honestly, I’d have done that for free. It’s some messed up shit.
But he was true to his word, and when I woke up this morning, an offer of employment was sitting in my inbox, leaving me right out of excuses. I sat through Thanksgiving dinner, talking about swimming and my course, and listening to my mom’s latest venture ideas, all with a strained smile. If they could tell, they didn’t mention it.
“You know,” Dad says, leaning closer from where he’s drying the saucepan. “I might have convinced your mom to let Josephine cook Thanksgiving dinner next year.”
My eyes widen. “Really? I don’t know how I feel about that.”
Josephine is our chef. She’s worked for our family for years, but Mom insists on cooking our own Thanksgiving dinner. Her excuse is that Josephine should spend the holiday with her family. Even though Josephine is British and doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. We all know the real reason is because she enjoys it, even if it stresses her to the point of tears.
Dad chuckles and shakes his head. Mom gives all our staff holidays and weekends off. We’re not old money. Both my parents came from nothing and worked their way up to where they are. Dad with WebWeb and my mom with her ethical beauty product brand, Ethycal Beauty. Maybe that’s why I want to do the same. I’m not ungrateful. I understand that one of the reasons they’ve worked so hard is because of me, and that they want to give me everything, but I want to know that I can do it by myself.
“Are you almost done in there?” Mom calls through from the living room. “The movie’s all set up.”
“Almost done, honey,” Dad replies.
The new theater room is my dad’s pride and joy after getting it installed in the summer. Like pretty much everyone at Franklin West, we have money. Not Alex Rainer money, but we’re more than comfortable. I could have flown home for the break, but honestly, I’d rather spend three hours alone in a car than in airports and trapped on a flight with strangers.
“Are you sure you’re not working too hard, Wes?”
My dad’s question pulls me up short and I blink down at him. He’s not short, but his five foot ten to my six foot three leaves me towering over him. Mom’s five foot eleven, so I figure I got the height from her genes. Everyone always says Dad’s an older version of me, even down to the glasses. He came to a swim meet once and Aldo thought Taye Diggs had shown up, until he took his hat off.
“What makes you say that?” I ask, handing him a Pyrex dish and dripping soap bubbles onto the tiled floor.
He gives me a nervous smile and looks away. “Well, we were kind of hoping that you might, you know . . .”
“No,” I say, my mouth twitching. “I have literally no idea where you’re going with this.”
He finishes drying the dish and places it on the side, mopping his brow with the towel. “I told your mom I wouldn’t say anything.”
“But you did. Spit it out, old man.”
He chuckles, and I take the towel from him, wrinkling my nose before picking up a clean cloth to dry my hands.
“We were hoping you might bring someone home with you.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, you’re twenty-two next month and you’ve never brought a boyfriend home.”
All I can do is stare. “You’re serious?”
My dad tugs at the neck of his sweater “Unless you’re not interested in relationships. I mean, I know you identify as gay, but there’s a woman at work who’s ace and—”