Hope is this dangerous thing. It’s quiet and warm and it stays locked away until we feed it, and then it bursts into flame. It can consume us.
It will very well eat me alive.
16
GREYSON
Ihave the briefest warning of my father’s arrival. My phone chirps with a social media alert that I set up forever ago, which pings when his location changes. Well, when his secretary checks him into specific cities.
It’s how I used to keep tabs on him without reaching out. When I was alone in a big, empty house with nothing to do, I could check and see where he was. Nebraska, California, Edinburgh, Dubai. The man traveled overseas a lot—especially for someone who is supposed to be a New York senator.
I’d like to think that it’s his fault I turned out the way I did. Because I was rotting of boredom as a teenager, I sought out my own thrills. I found parties, and if there weren’t any? I created them.
He always gave me access to a credit card that he paid monthly without blinking, as long as I didn’t surpass the high limit, and I knew the combination to the safe where he kept an array of valuables: cash and firearm included.
Anyway, it pings that his private jet just landed in Crown Point, and I scramble to make my room presentable. I hide the photo album in with my textbooks, run downstairs, and shove dishes and cups into the dishwasher. I even get through sweeping half of the lower level when my phone goes off again.
This time with a phone call.
“Hello?”
“Greyson? It’s Martha.”
Dad’s long-time, aforementioned secretary. I didn’t mention that she’s only recently crossed the line into lover. His excuse? We can’t all be saints.
I let the silence fill the call.
She clears her throat. “Your father is in town. He’s meeting with the university president and the mayor, and then he wants to see you for dinner.”
I open my mouth to answer, then close it. It’s not a request, that’s for fucking sure. He didn’t even have the nerve to call and tell me himself.
This is a publicity stunt.
Dinner with the rising hockey star—never mind that I alreadywasa hockey star at Brickell. People tend to gloss over that when my past is littered with slander. And trust me, those articles still exist. They’re buried, and they don’t come up on regular searches. My father pulled way too many fucking strings to give the illusion that scandal didn’t rock our family.
“A car will pick you up at six,” she finally says.
“Okay.”
She makes a noise, like she fucking won something. And maybe she did by getting me to answer. I don’t know what she thinks of me, and I don’t really give a shit. Who knows what my father told her, or the opinions she formed on her own.
I’ve only met her a handful of times.
I gather my swept pile and throw it out, then head back upstairs to make myself presentable. Erik is making noise in the basement—a loud, violent video game, judging by the sounds drifting up—and the other guys aren’t home. As soon as I close my door, the noise fades.
Once I’m clean, I text Violet.
Me
I want to see you later
My phone stays silent for too long. The seconds tick past, and I stare down at the screen. I haven’t seen her in two days—too long. Sundays are our only day without practice, which means most of the hockey team does absolutely nothing. I spent the morning at the gym, then I lounged around and caught up on homework.
But I want to know what Violet is doing.
I want to know what she’s thinking and wearing and where she is.
Finally, the bubble pops up that she’s typing.