Chapter 19. Ethan
The man who walks through the door doesn't look like a villain.
That's the first thing I notice, and it irritates me, because I'd prepared for a villain, some sharp-jawed corporate predator in a three-thousand-dollar suit. Instead, Harry's father is shorter than I expected, maybe five-ten, with a broad chest and chubby stomach, and the kind of weathered, sun-darkened face that suggests he spends more time outdoors than behind a desk. His hair is silver at the temples, dark everywhere else, and his eyes are Harry’s eyes, and he wears wire-rimmed glasses identical to his son’s.
He looks much more like a nerd than a villain.
He's wearing a linen shirt, untucked, and loafers without socks.
Harry steps forward before any of us can speak. "Dad. Can we talk? Just us. For a minute."
He looks nervous. Harry never looks nervous. His father looks at him, then at the rest of us, three boys in towels, dripping pool water onto marble that probably costs more per square foot than our entire dormitory, and he smiles.
"Of course," he says. His voice is deeper than Harry's. He puts his hand on Harry's shoulder and steers him toward a set of double doors at the far end of the hall. "Gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable. We won't be long."
The doors close behind them.
Jack drops onto one of the white couches, then immediately stands back up when the wet fabric of his shorts squeaks against the upholstery. "Shit," he mutters, inspecting the cushion for damage. "I think I just ruined something worth more than my life."
Liam's chewing the inside of his cheek, that nervous habit of his. No amount of scoldings or requests makes him stop it. His eyes keep drifting to the closed doors.
"If his dad flips out, what's our play? Do we just... stand there? Do we intervene? I've never intervened with a billionaire before," Jack asks, nervous as ever.
"He's not a billionaire," I say, though I'm not actually sure.
"Multi-millionaire, whatever. The point is, I don't have a speech prepared."
Liam pulls the towel tighter. "Harry will handle it."
I don't answer, because the truth is more complicated than that.
The minutes stretch. It's cold inside, and I'd love a hot shower.
All we can do is stand there, awkwardly, praying that it won't be long.
But then the doors open, we all jump to our feet, and Harry walks out.
He's not broken. Not flushed. Not shaking.
His glasses are slightly crooked, which means he's been adjusting them compulsively, but that seems to be the worst of it.
"We're good," he says. Jack exhales so hard he practically deflates. Liam's shoulders drop three inches.
Harry pushes his glasses up and snaps back into his default mode.
Slightly insufferable. "Okay, listen. Dinner's in an hour.
My dad wants to eat with all of us, which means you can't show up looking like this.
The staff bought clothes for everyone this afternoon.
Sizes might be approximate but work with it.
Showers are in your rooms. Hot water actually works here, in case you've forgotten what that feels like.
" He looks at Jack. "Use soap. I'm not sitting next to you smelling like chlorine and you. "
Jack salutes. "Sir, yes sir."
I take the hottest shower of my life. The water pressure alone is worth the trip.
It hits like a massage, not the anemic dribble of the facility's corroded pipes.
The bathroom is all glass, and the steam fogs the mirror so completely that when I finally step out, I can't see myself.
We're so focused on actually showering for once that that Liam and I don’t even shower together. At least not now.
The clothes are laid out on the bed. Dark jeans, fitted like they were cut for my body specifically.
A white button-down. A leather belt. Even shoes, clean white sneakers.
I put it all on, standing in front of the full-length mirror, and the person looking back at me is a stranger.
Not an inmate. Early twenties, reddish-brown hair still damp, green eyes, good shoulders.
I look like someone who goes to a university.
Someone who has a car, an apartment, a life that doesn't require permission slips and supervised meals. Fuck, I can hardly believe it.
It scares me more than I expected.
I find the others in the hallway, and the transformation is so complete it takes a second to match faces to names.
Jack is in a fitted navy polo and chinos, the Batman tattoo on his neck the only thing anchoring him to his real identity.
He's turning in a slow circle, arms out, admiring himself with the shamelessness of a runway model.
Then he sees me.
He doubles over, laughing, hand on his knee, pointing at me with the other. "Oh my God. Oh my God, E. You look like a J. Crew catalog. You look like someone's hot stepdad. Liam, get in here, look at your boyfriend!"
Liam appears in the doorway and stops dead. He's in a white button-down like me, navy pants, with his hair pushed back, his blue eyes shining, and he looks startlingly beautiful. He's always beautiful, but now it's almost unrecognizable. He stares at me, and his mouth opens, and nothing comes out.
"See?" Jack wheezes. "Even he's speechless. And fweeeet! You look good, Liam."
"Shut up, Jack," I say, but I'm smiling, and Liam is smiling, and even Harry, who emerges last in a cashmere sweater that probably costs more than our combined bail, is smiling.
"The staff made you all look presentable. They deserve a raise. I thought that was impossible," Harry says. I roll my eyes. Liam looks mildly embarrassed but still very cute.
"We clean up nice," Jack says. "It's almost criminal."
"It is criminal," Harry says. "We're literally criminals."
We all laugh, loud.
The dining room has a table long enough to seat twelve but set for five, with cloth napkins and fancy plates.
Candles burn in the center. We all wait for Harry to direct us.
When he looks at us like we've grown two heads and says, "Just fucking sit wherever," that's when we're brave enough to do so.
The food arrives in waves, carried by staff.
A salad with greens I can't identify, something with goat cheese and walnuts and a delicious dressing.
Then steak, real steak, thick and pink in the center, with a crust that crackles when the knife goes through.
Roasted potatoes, asparagus glistening with butter, bread that's still warm from the oven.
Harry's father appears from the kitchen end of the room, a glass of red wine in one hand, his linen shirt now swapped for a faded college sweatshirt that says GEORGETOWN across the chest. The casualness of it is strange.
He pulls out a chair at the head of the table, drops into it almost as if he's at a barbecue, and grins at us.
"Eat," he says. "You look like you've been living on cafeteria food for three years." He pauses. "Oh, wait."
Jack snorts into his napkin. Liam laughs, and I can't help smiling.
"Call me Richard," he says, cutting his steak.
"Or Rich. Or whatever. Mr. Westfield is what the lawyers call me, and I don't need that energy at dinner.
" He looks at each of us in turn, genuinely curious, like he wants to know who's at his table.
"So. You're the guys who've been keeping my idiot son alive. "
Harry groans, but it's theatrical. "Dad. Please."
Richard ignores him. "Let me tell you something about this kid," he says, gesturing at Harry with his fork.
"You know why he's in Aspire, right?" He waves his hand vaguely.
"This brat tried to hack a bank. A bank, can you believe it?
Not a video game. Not a social media account.
A federally insured financial institution. "
We all snort. Harry had mentioned it before, but never the whole story.
"A bank," Richard repeats, grinning with an expression of pride.
"Nineteen years old, sitting in his bedroom, and he gets through two layers of their security before the FBI shows up.
Two layers! The bank's head of cybersecurity called me and said, and I quote, 'Your son is either a genius or a sociopath. '"
"Their security team was a joke," Harry says, shrugging, and he looks a little embarrassed, but he's smiling. "They fell for the stupidest phishing attempt. 'Click here to review last meeting's note, it's urgent.' Who clicks unknown links like that?!"
"The first time, they forgave him. The second time, he actually managed to move some data around, and then that's when he was prosecuted," Richard says.
"Two times?!" Jack exclaims. Richard nods, like he can't believe it either. Harry focuses on his food, but he's still smiling.
"A man should never give up," he murmurs.
"And before that, there was the gambling ring at his prep school. The school expelled him for that one."
Harry shrugs, not answering.
"He ran a poker operation out of the school library," Richard says. "Had a cashier system, a rotating schedule, and a cut for the janitor who looked the other way. Made twelve thousand dollars in six weeks before the headmaster found it."
We all laugh.
"And it wasn't the first school he was expelled from for illegal activities, was it, Harry?" Richard asks. I'm stunned. I knew stuff about Harry, but not like this.
He tells another story, then another. Harry's failed attempt to counterfeit concert tickets, the time he tried to start a cryptocurrency at fourteen and accidentally created a Ponzi scheme. Each one is delivered with the same blend of exasperation and admiration.
"Now you know why I didn't bail him out of Aspire. This boy has to learn a lesson, or he's damned," Richard says. I bite my lip not to point out that he hasn't been learning anything there.
Harry is different here from the boy I know at Aspire. He's basking in his dad's pride. Even with all his crimes, his dad is clearly proud, and Harry couldn't be happier.
The conversation drifts. Richard asks about the academy. He listens when Jack describes the food with comedic horror. He nods when Liam talks about the kitchen, about Lu. I don't say anything, but I'm laughing and nodding.
Then, somewhere in the middle of dessert, a ridiculously delicious chocolate cake with a molten center, Richard sets his wine glass down and looks at Harry.
"So," he says, and his tone shifts, getting a little more serious. He looks at me. "Harry said he’s run into some complications at the facility. Business-related. What can you tell me about it, Ethan?"
Harry looks at me with huge eyes, as if Richard has asked the wrong person at the table.
But Richard holds up a palm. "I don't need the details. I don't want the details. What I need to know is whether it's as serious as he says it is or if he's just trying to get out of Aspire."
"I never asked you to pull me out," Harry says, defending himself. "I told you, I'll do my time. I don't need you for that."
"Alright, alright," Richard says, raising his hands, the same gesture Harry often does. "I'm not trying to argue. I just want to know if it's really bad."
"Yes, sir," I tell him. "It's serious."
Richard nods to me, then turns to Harry.
"Get me the full names of the boys who are threatening you.
I'll have them transferred. But Harry. I want to know whether you're done with whatever got you into it.
I won't do this again. This will require a huge donation on my part, and I'm sick of that old bulldog Franklin getting my money. "
Franklin was the name of Aspire's director. We hardly ever saw him. I’ve seen him maybe twice in my whole time there. Franklin Hoffman. Reed's uncle.
Harry stares at his father for a long moment.
"Yeah," Harry says. His voice is quiet. "I'm done. I promise."
Richard nods. "Your friends here are witnesses to that promise. If you lie to me, they will tell me, won't you, gentlemen? And there will be consequences."
We all nod, even though I'm not sure I would.
"For fuck's sake, I know, Dad," Harry says. "I never lie to you."
"That's true," Richard says, turning to us. "He never lied about any of his failed scams. He always owns it."
"Yeah, I own my shit," Harry says, defensive.
Richard looks proud again. Harry smiles and rolls his eyes.
"Good, so it's settled," Richard says. "I'll make some calls tomorrow."
I glance at Liam, and he's already looking at me, and in his eyes I see the same recognition: Harry was afraid. Not of punishment, not of anger, but of the one thing worse than both. His dad's disappointment. That's why he needed us here. Moral support, more than anything.
We keep eating our dessert. Jack asks Richard about the fountain. Richard tells a story about buying it drunk at an auction. Harry steals the last piece of garlic bread. Liam leans back in his chair, his knee pressed against mine under the table.
Richard raises his glass. "To my son's terrible judgment," he says, "and his excellent taste in friends."
We drink. We all have Diet Coke, except Richard. Harry catches my eye across the table, and for once, I can see the thank you he can't quite say.