CHAPTER 6
Troy
“DON’T FORGET WE’RE meeting dad for dinner tonight,” Dimitri shouts from the downstairs of my apartment.
“Can’t. I have an exam to study for, sorry,” I reply, while I throw on my grey hoodie and head back to the kitchen.
I saunter into the living room to the sight of my older brother resting the heels of his palms against the ivory-marbled island, incredulous. “Your one summer class started yesterday, and you expect me to believe that you already have a test coming up?”
“It’s crazy, right?”
He shakes his head, sighing. “Karl’s even skipping practice to join, so I’m telling you nicely, please show up.”
Our younger brother, Karl, keeps making me look bad.
Truth is, I love both of my brothers to death, I just hate my father. But unlike me, they still have a relationship with him.
“Fine,” I give in. “I’m only going because you covered my ass last week.”
Dimitri digs his fingers through my hair, swooshing it around. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, but I’m not joining again for the indefinite future.”
“You know, you really got your dramatic side from dad.”
“Please don’t compare me to him, ever, or I’ll reconsider.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “Done.”
_________
The drive over resurfaces the same memories I go out of my way to avoid. A coastline that used to sparkle but now dulls, playgrounds that trap my childhood before my early teens ripped it away, and the lighthouse that once made a home feel tangible.
After driving past the string of monochrome gated communities and promenade that’s rooted in tall beach grass, I reach the entryway to the residences that cosplay palazzos and chateaus.
Olive trees crowd over the freshly cemented road, the tiniest light bulbs glowing on its outskirts.
It feels bleak, and the foreshadowing of an Agatha Christie novel, all at once.
I wasn’t aware that my hands were trembling slightly until I pass the smaller monoliths of households, approaching the precipice of land overlooking the lighthouse.
At the edge of the cliff, rests the Larsson Estate.
Pulling up to the ebony-tinted Gothic Style iron gates, an unrecognizable guard lets me in.
The roundabout driveway’s empty, so Dimitri and Karl aren’t here yet.
And then there were two…
Another unfamiliar face ushers me inside.
The entrance—rather lobby—overflows with shades of grey and hints of nautical blue that once were clean white and warm peaches. Faux Magnolias replace blooming Hydrangeas on the credenza beneath the diamond cut chandelier, displaying portraits that only retrace the past ten years.
The snow globe that stood high above the fireplace that she made me when I first broke my ankle skating.
Gone.
Gold-tinseled ballet flats that rested beside the staircase.
Gone.
Figure skating memorabilia she collected at every meet.
Gone.
Lingering scent of orange peel she carried throughout the hallways, one that put me sound asleep no matter how fretful things got.
It’s
all
gone.
The house I grew up in that I no longer recognize.
He erased her from everything.
_________
Gustaf Larsson sits high on his makeshift throne, aka the antique chair at the head of the oval glass table centering the dining room. His icy blue eyes switch between his phone and the hallway, waiting for his favorite sons to arrive.
That makes two of us.
Karl’s carpooling with Dimitri, while I ran a few errands. He would’ve already been here since he lives with dad, but spent the day with his friends who are moving into their dorms earlier.
I try to focus on my own device as I hear my father huff beneath his breath, visibly perturbed by his screen. He clenches his other fist, cutting off his own circulation for a few seconds.
I shift in my seat.
The man could have been an assassin in his past life. Or maybe the present one. It wouldn’t come as a surprise.
Sipping my water, I hear the sound of the doorbell ring, followed by Karl and Dimitri strolling in.
Oh, thank God.
The temperature was starting to resemble that of the Artic Tundra.
Then walks in dad’s newest butler, who introduces herself to Dimitri and me as Camila. She sets a tray of pot roast and assorted roots onto the glass as steam rustles through the tablecloth covering a basket of what smells like fresh ciabatta.
The faintest smile creeps over Mr. Larsson’s mouth. “As you know,” he begins once she leaves, “Karl just received his first offer from Princeton, and a spot on their hockey team.”
Dimitri and I clap for our younger brother, who we take immense pride in embarrassing at any given moment, this time strategically throwing pieces of bread dough at his face.
Karl closes his eyes with a locked smile, waiting for the crumbs to land on the table, before he opens them back up again. “I really needed that. Thank you.”
Dimitri and I exchange a facetiously proud nod.
Unimpressed, our father continues, “To celebrate this massive achievement, I’ve planned us a summer vacation in Santorini since you boys have a few weeks off before next season starts.”
Santorini, mom’s favorite city and vacation spot.
I brush off the tinge of hurt, while bottling in a scoff because this is my younger brother’s moment.
“I’ll join for a week, but then I have to come back,” I refrain. “We don’t have any weeks off this summer. The Winter Olympics are less than a year away,” I direct that last part to Mr. Larsson, my eyes giving away that I know he’s well aware of this already.
“I think Violet can manage just fine without you for a few weeks.” He takes a sip of his red wine. “This is for your brother, after all.”
No shit. Then why won’t you include the part where you’ll travel there with us, then leave after a few days when your next girlfriend calls or the rest of the “team” needs you?
But that’s what I would have said if my skating partner hadn’t been swept right out from under me. And of course, he doesn’t know this. He never knows anything. Anything that has to do with me.
Heat fills my jaw at his continued dismissal.
“Well, Dad, if you bothered to follow what’s going on in the entire rink, you’d know she’s not my skating partner anymore.
And my new pair and I need all the practice we can get.
” I refuse to give him what he wants. Satisfaction from doubts he keeps tabs on, hoping one day he can finally prove what a failure my accomplishments are.
Even so, how can I tell my father, who already finds the entire sport a joke, that I made a bet with the top pairs figure skater, and my number one enemy, agreeing I’d find another person to skate with, while trying my best to make her quit?
This narrative particularly wouldn’t bode well with his stringent opinions.
“See, this would never slide in hockey,” our dad responds, as Dimitri and Karl grow noticeably weary at where this is headed. “Athletes randomly deciding they want to leave their team without facing any repercussions. Where’s the discipline?”
“Discipline?” I pay him a contemptuous grin, knowing no other sport requires the discipline figure skating demands. “Well, maybe you should find someone else on your hockey team and take them to Santorini, instead.” I get up from my chair, hastily. “Sorry, Karl.”
I knew coming here tonight would be a mistake.