Page 99 of Burn Bright
“When are cheer tryouts?” I ask.
“Next week,” she says to the sky. “If I don’t make varsity, bury me right here.”
“You’re going to make it.” She was on the JV cheer squad last year, and she’s good enough to be on varsity. We talk more about my classes and how MVU is about the same difficulty as Penn. She updates me on the fact thatzeroboys in her class are cute.
She’s had plenty of crushes, but neveron guys at school. Great for me, since I never had to deal with my little sister potentially dating one of my friends when we were at Dalton together. Too many of my hockey teammates wanted to hook up with her. It was very fucking annoying.
“Boys are so immature,” she laments. “And soft. I just want aman.” She speaks loud enough that Charlie can hear while trekking over to us. “Is it really too much to ask to be manhandled?”
She worries me when she says shit like that. “Depends on which guy you’re asking, seeing as how you’re stillsixteen.” I throw a dug-out weed on the grass.
“La tragédie.” She shuts her fan. “The man of my dreams is out there. And he’ll sweep me off my feet so veryroughly.”
Charlie stops at the quilt. “Look, it’s the worst conversation I’ve heard all day.”
She lifts her chin. “Don’t make fun of my romance.”
“I’m not. I’m making fun of your imagination.”
Her jaw drops, and I glare at Charlie, but he’s not paying attention to our sister. He nods slightly to me. “Dad wants to talk to you.”
“Later, I will?—”
“Before breakfast, he said.”
Fuck. I pick myself off the grass. “Is this you warning me?”
“No, I just wanted the fresh air.” His dry tone and irritation are apparent. “He’ll find you if you don’t find him first.”
So he is giving me a heads up. “Thanks,” I tell my brother, a weird feeling rolling around my stomach. Is Charlie being nice?
Hiking back to the mansion, I run into my dad in his pursuit of me. And sure enough, he says, “Can we talk before we eat?”
I don’t love the seriousness in his eyes. Avoidance is futile. This is going to happen.
22
BEN COBALT
Iexpect my dad to lead me to his office, the den, or the library, but we never go inside. Once we reach the patio, he chooses the wicker-cushioned couch. I loved swinging on the hammock by the pool as a kid, but this couch was consistently one of my favorite spots. Because of the iron pergola. Vines of purple wisteria crawl up the four posts and hang down the iron slats overhead.
I’d stare up at the bees for hours and whistle at the birds.
I wonder if that’s why he chooses this place, the outdoors. Or am I reading too much into this?
Yeah, fucking doubtful.
My dad’s IQ surpasses most. Even my mom—who is viciously smart. He ranks high on every scale. Deduction. Memory. Ambition. His brain is an encyclopedia of random information, and he can speak even more languages than Charlie.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think how astronomically different I am from this man. We’re not different sides of the same coin. He’s an archaic Roman provincial coin and I’m a standard American penny.
“Let’s hear it.” I sink down on the cushioned chair across from him. “You’re so worried about me. I didn’t cry for Theodore. Something must be wrong, and I need to ditch Dr. Wheeler and see your therapist in New York.”
He arches a brow, leaning back casually. His ankle is propped on his knee, arm extended over the top of the couch. Everywhere Connor Cobalt goes, he has an aura as if he owns the earth, the air, the water—all of life’s necessities, and it’s easy to believe it’s true. And I don’t understand how I was born from him.
I’m confident, but not even remotely in that way.
He’s nonconfrontational and calm as he says, “You’ve already told me you don’t want to see Frederick. I’m not going to press you further.”
