Page 3 of Hinder
“I’m sorry. That was rude. Pretend I never asked. You have so much on your plate.”
“Opal.”
“I’ll figure out my crap. It’s just been an emotional day, that’s all.”
“Opal. Stop. I want you here. We’ll figure this out. If I book you a plane ticket to Los Angeles, can you meet me there?”
“That’s not too much trouble?”Am I really doing this? Am I brave enough to leave this town? To leave Gramps alone?His scowl from moments ago, the one etched with bitterness and disappointment, flashes in my mind’s eye. I’m not going back there. It’s time for this little bird to fly.
“I’m on my laptop booking it now.” She pauses a moment and the click of her fingers across the keys meets my ear. “How soon can you be packed?”
“Not soon enough.”
2
Leighton
What’s the point?
It’s the question I ask myself this dreary Sunday afternoon. The same one that’s been hanging heavy on my mind, even more so these past few weeks. I suppose it’s rational to question the meaning of my existence, given my recent eighteenth birthday and high school graduation—two major milestones.
Not to sound like a spoiled brat, but if life’s purpose is the pursuit of fortune and fame, I’m in for decades of boredom. Because when it comes to money, I was born with more than I’ll ever need. As for popularity, I outperformed most professional musicians before my fifteenth birthday, and since then I’ve only grown in accomplishments. An invitation to play at Carnegie Hall is something most concert pianists only dream of, but I checked it off the list before I could legally drive.
My recent admittance to Julliard is the very reason I’m presently bored out of my goddamn mind, dressed to impress, and schmoozing with two hundred of my parents’closestfriends. They’re all here to celebrate the music protégé and only child of Harrison and Felicity Wellington. I haven’t seen this much ass kissing since my father’s brother ran for governor.
I smile, shake hands, and act as if this next step in my life is a fulfillment of my every dream. I’m so good at lying, even I start to believe I’m happy. The truth,if anyone would ever care to ask, is I fucking hate classical music. Maybe it’s burnout. I have been playing since before my fingers could reach across two keys. With a mother who came from a long line of symphony pianists and a father whose pedigree and clout goes generations deep, I never stood a chance. My musical genius is cemented by my parents’ persistence and background. There’s never been a question as to what my future would be. Some say I was born with a gift. A talent almost superhuman. It’s no exaggeration. I can pick up any instrument and play better than most professionals within a matter of hours. However, when it comes to passion, hopes, and dreams, I’m as resentful, unsure, and frustrated as any other eighteen-year-old young man.
“Having a good time?” My mother’s friend Sierra slides next to where I gaze out the window, watching the ocean waves crash into the shore from a distance.
“Fantastic.” I don’t mean to be unappreciative for the socialites my parents dragged to this soiree, but maybe I am. It’s another scene in which my parents show off to the world and I’m a puppet made to act, smile, and pretend this is exactly how I’d prefer to celebrate my high school graduation. I force a polite smile and tip my glass of club soda spiked with vodka at the rise of her glass of pinot.
“We’re all so proud of you. Your mother hasn’t stopped singing your praises since she got the news. You’re going to make us all proud at Julliard.” She pats my shoulder and moves on to someone who’ll entertain her gossip better than a barely legal graduate.
I shouldn’t resent my family for celebrating my accomplishments. I should be grateful. They’ve given me more opportunities than most people receive in a lifetime, but instead I find myself wishing for something else.Normalcy.A guy who gets together with his friends for a bonfire at the beach, or has a pool party with his fellow classmates. That would be fun. That would be average.
I’m none of those things.
“Leighton, sweetie, would you be a dear and fetch your father?” my mother calls from her perch on the sofa.
“I’d love to.” Really, it’s a blessing she’s given me a means to escape this stuffy room filled with champagne, hors d’oeuvres, and the who’s who of Laguna Hills. Next, she’ll probably ask me to perform.
“Oh, and Leighton.” Her voice halts my retreat. “When you bring him back, why don’t you play for us? Everyone’s dying to hear from our protégé before he’s off to conquer the world.”
“Yes, Mother.” The words are as practiced as my smile but deep down there’s a panic, an anxiety clawing to get out. I don’t want to play for these people. I don’t want to go to college. I especially do not wish to spend my foreseeable future studying and performing classical music.
I want to play for myself. To be free.
What would that even be like?
Searching for dear old Dad isn’t as easy as you’d think with over six thousand square feet for him to hide, and trust me, he’s hiding. While my mother loves to entertain, my father is always the first to slink outside and indulge in solitude with the aid of a cigar. Which is why the backyard is the next place I go after checking his study. With his private entry to the rear of the house left cracked open, I’m almost certain I’ll find him back here.
Puzzled and prepared to keep searching, something catches my attention from the corner of my eye. Movement, just in the slightest, comes from one of the pool house windows.Huh?
Mother will have a fit if she finds him smoking in there. Curious as to why my old man has wandered so far, I move quieter than normal and round the corner to the entry door. It’s ajar as well, and though there’s nothing else out of the ordinary, I can’t help but find it strange.
My fingers—long and skilled from playing six different instruments professionally—settle on the doorknob, but for now they simply push open the door.
My ears are met with a symphony of moans and heavy breaths.Oh, shit!No, no, no. This is a scene no son should witness.My father watching porn!It’s the first thought that runs through my mind. But then I realize the groans are real, in-person, and the television isn’t on.
