Chapter 2
two
GRANT
It’s not normal to feel underdressed to a family dinner.
Nothing about being my father’s son has ever felt normal to me, though.
Family dinners used to be my favorite part of the week. My mom and I would find a random recipe blog and try to make something we were always a few ingredients short of. It never turned out right, but we swore it tasted better our way. Objectively, that was probably a lie.
Subjectively, it was my truth.
Those nights were just the two of us, at a worn-down dining table in the townhouse we outgrew. But it felt livelier and bigger than the soulless walls of this penthouse suite.
I struggle to keep the cold marble table from touching my wrists. It’s not the first time I’ve been to dinner with my detached family, and I know it won’t be my last, but I still haven’t adjusted to the butlers squaring away designer coats and handbags.
My gray half-zip sweater and khaki cargo pants are a visual representation of the distance between myself and the McCarthys. I feel like the outlier, act like one, and look the part, too.
It’s been a few years since Keller shoved his way back into my life and suddenly took an interest in playing Dad, but these people still feel like strangers to me.
Around the table, there are five of us. A millionaire businessman, his socialite wife, the two kids he’s shown off to the world since the days they were born. And his oldest son, who only recently became worth his time.
A waiter mumbles to enjoy the oysters he’s placed in front of me just as Keller lifts his champagne in the air.
“To my son, congratulations on making it into graduate school! You have achieved everything I knew you would.” From the other end of the table, there’s a clear view of my father’s wide smile. “I’m so, so proud of you.”
I pinch the stem of my own glass and raise it in the air, knowing the awkward feeling in my chest won’t go away.
Billie’s high-pitched voice calls out, “To Locke!”
“To Locke!”
Everyone at the table repeats her, except me.
I knock my glass against Locke’s in the center, his head bowing down while my half-sister cheers for him. They’re eerily similar in looks. Buttery blonde hair, high cheekbones, and a nose to match. The distinct color of our eyes is the single piece of physical proof that I’m related to them, too.
We haven’t had many interactions, and even less conversations, but sometimes growing up I would scour the internet for signs of life from my father.
He wouldn’t call for holidays, but younger me spent Christmases looking at paparazzi photos of him with Locke and Billie.
Occasional interviews showed the difference in their personalities.
Locke stoic and straight-faced, Billie energetic and bubbly.
I knew what to expect of them before we were introduced.
When we met a few years ago, they appeared exactly as the media painted them. Classy and chic, wearing luxury brands and expensive jewelry; though there wasn’t any paparazzi to report what they wore to my mother’s funeral.
And although they were kind enough to offer their condolences, the conversation was no more than, “We’re so sorry for your loss,” and, “Let us know if you need anything.” Nothing close to what a real sibling bond should be.
“Grant.” Keller has started on his own beef dinner—because having a live-in chef means you can request multiple, high-class meals in one night, I guess. “Aren’t you excited your brother will be going to the same school as you?”
I cover my grimace with a sip of champagne before gritting out, “Yeah, sure. So excited.”
I wasn’t excited to come to this dinner, let alone see Locke outside of the McCarthy get-togethers I feel forced into. He rarely speaks—to anyone, and definitely not me—but there’s not much you need to know about a guy like Locke.
He’s the son of a millionaire, goes to an ivy league college, is planning to take over the family business one day. There’s no doubt in my mind his early entry into a graduate program is courtesy of our last name.
When he does enroll at Brookstone next semester, I’ll do the same thing to him there that I do here. I’ll avoid him.
“I’m sure Locke can't wait to spend more time with you.” My stepmother, Mina, reaches over to pat his head lovingly. Locke’s demeanor shrinks. “Isn’t that right, honey?”
Pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, he says, “Sure.”
I manage a nod.
“Would you guys even see each other on campus?” Billie wipes the corners of her mouth with a gold embroidered napkin and asks, “Grant, aren't you an art student?”
The forkful of lobster pauses halfway to my mouth. I’m not sure how or why she remembers this about me. It feels unnaturally close, despite being a one-off fact.
“Yeah. Focus in illustration.”
“Right.” She snaps her fingers and points at me, then to Locke. “And he wanted to be a STEM girlboss. Would you guys run into each other if you’re not learning the same stuff?”
Locke’s eye twitches. It’s the most movement from his face I’ve seen all night.
“Stop calling me a girlboss.”
“What’s wrong with being called a girlboss? Fuck the patriarchy, dude.”
“We don’t swear, honey,” Mina says between her sips of wine. “And stop teasing your brother. He’ll be a software engineer soon.”
Billie snorts. “Yeah, a software engineer who failed remedial math- hey!” There’s a bang from under the table. Locke’s face doesn’t give anything away, but Billie scoffs. “Jerk!”
“Young lady.” My father’s voice, booming and stern, calls from the head of the table. She stiffens up immediately, stares back down at her dinner, and mumbles an apology.
Keller waits a second before breaking out into another proud smile. “After Locke graduates, he’ll be working in the family business, like I always wished my son would. Walking in the footsteps I laid out for him.”
Heat reaches the tip of my ears. I want to spend my night literally anywhere else. Even at home alone, drowning in art pieces that aren’t going to see the light of day.
Usually, I would try harder to dodge one of these dinners, especially one meant to praise my father’s golden child. But Keller put down a lump sum for my own graduate education a few days ago. Knowing my semester of university is settled convinces me to bite my tongue and show face.
These occurrences are happening more often. Keller signing a lease so I can live in one of the nicest apartments in the city, then asking me to show up at a business gala. Or sending a top-of-the-line computer set up to my doorstep, then inviting me to one of their weekend getaways.
All I’ve ever known my father by were the large checks he’d send my mom every month. The only thing I’m familiar with when it comes to him is his money. I don’t feel bad for taking advantage of that. It makes my life easier and gives me the smallest sense of temporary satisfaction.
“Grant.” His tone shifts from sharp to uncomfortably sweet. “Don’t you find it admirable that your brother is going into engineering?”
I slowly chew through what’s in my mouth to hold off on answering.
The answer is no, I don’t find it outstanding that he does whatever Keller wants and gets every opportunity because of it. I don’t have the nerve to say that over the dining table, though.
Instead, I mull over the nicest, most level-headed thing I can come up with.
“Yeah, sure.”
Keller smiles. Thin, barely a pull at his cheeks. I don’t offer him one back, and he lets the topic die.
I mentally will the minutes to pass quicker. It feels like hours before everyone finally finishes their seafood dinner amongst mindless small talk. When I think the end of the night is near, waiters replace our empty dishes with earl grey cake and honeycomb toffee, and I fight back a groan.
Keller flashes a larger grin this time. “It’s been so long since we got together for dinner. I love having all my kids in a room.” He sighs with a hopeful glint in his eyes. “We should do this every week!”
A chill runs up my spine. Occasionally, I can bite my tongue through these sorts of nights. I can keep my mouth shut for a better apartment or for some nice clothes and accessories.
But constantly? On a schedule? Weekly?
Some things money can’t buy.
I bite into the bitter cake and avoid eye contact with everyone.
Someone snaps, someone claps happily, and Mina says, “Great idea, sweetie. Locke will be back in Boston very soon.”
I glance up for a second and catch Locke placing his fork onto his plate. “Next semester, then?”
“Who says we have to wait?” Keller speaks again, and I stare back down at the overly intricate dessert plate. “Don’t you have an internship I set up for you in the city, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what days of the week does that happen?”
Locke coughs. I force another bite of cake into my mouth.
“Every Thursday. I started today.”
It doesn’t surprise me that Locke is in the exact position he needs to be to make our father happy. He was born into it, after all.
I’m painfully chewing through the last bite—isn’t cake supposed to be sweet, not smoky?—when Keller’s cheery tone cuts through again.
“And you, Billie?”
“I’m free on Thursdays, too.”
The grip on my fork tightens, but I have no more food to hide behind.
Without enough time to brace myself, my father asks, “What about you, Grant?”
The chill has seeped across my entire body.
When I was little, my mom tried her best to double the love and care she gave me. Partially because she was the greatest mother in the world, and partially because she was making up for Keller absence in my life.
Not a day goes by that I’m not grateful to have grown up with such an amazing mother. But as much as she tried to fill the emotional hole my father left, little me constantly longed for something, anything from him. Now, I wish he would forget I existed again.