Blind Ambition | ✓

33 | If You Wanna Be My Lover

My father and I didn't speak the entire ride back to Connecticut. In Patrick Gunther's perfect fucking universe, we would have checked out of our hotel early the morning after being nauseatingly social at the Cornell Club and made the four hour drive out to Ithaca to parade me around campus like the school's blatant heir apparent. But after my ineloquent, whiskey-induced confession, I'd essentially nuked his perfect fucking universe into oblivion.

We still woke up early and checked out of our hotel room, but took the hour ride back to Connecticut in staunch, awkward silence.

Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, I knew I'd done this to myself. I'd set a bomb, and it was only a matter of time before it blew up in my face. Sure, I was mad at him, but I was more angry with myself. It was just easier to pin blame on other people. He already expected me to go to Cornell. He made me feel like I couldn't tell him no. But I could have, couldn't I? Monday Morning QB strikes again.

When we pulled into our driveway, I wasted no time jumping out of the car before my father even put it in park and bolted towards the front door.

"Dallas!" he called after me.

What did he expect me to say? Sorry? For what? Being an 18-year-old who was too nervous to disappoint his father? I swung our front door open and slammed it shut behind me before my father could catch up.

"Dallas?" my mother emerged from the den, but there wasn't a shred of confusion on her face. She already knew.

My father came in after me, and a tense silence hung in the air. I knew the calm was only temporary. The eye of the storm often was.

"Let's sit down and talk about this, okay?" She addressed us both.

"About what? There's nothing to talk about," I grumbled. I stomped up the stairs without looking back, despite the fact that they'd both called after me again.

When I reached my bedroom, I tossed my overnight duffle to the floor and slammed the door behind me. I was used to having all the answers. I was used to being in control. For the first time in my life, I felt control slipping through my fingers like sand, and the tighter I tried to hold on, the more I seemed to lose.

It was late afternoon on Saturday by the time my mother finally ventured into my bedroom. I hadn't been able to get myself out of bed for most of the day, aside from going to the bathroom. I was a winner by nature, and feeling this defeated was like an exotic disease I'd contracted that had no cure. It was devouring me from the inside out, and all I could do was lay there and writhe in anxiety.

I had my back to the door, and my mother came quietly over to my bed and sat on the edge, reaching for the hair that curled up at the back of my neck like she always did.

"He's not angry, you know." Her words fluttered softly over me like a blanket in the cold. "He's disappointed."

"I don't care," I grumbled, shimmying further away from her.

The closer she got, the more she would be able to see how much I did care. I cared way too much.

"You two don't communicate," she sighed. "If you did, this whole thing could have been avoided."

"That goes both ways." I kept my back to her as I sniffed and rubbed my nose.

I felt the bed shift as she stood back up. "I know. I think all that testosterone blocks words from your brain to your mouth. Both of you." She let out a soft chuckle, and I couldn't help but let a little smile tug at my lips for the first time all day. I finally sat myself up and raked a hand through my hair.