Each piece of Poppy’s life that I uncover only seems to deepen the mystery, like a puzzle that grows more complex with every bit I learn. It’s chaotic, yet instead of pushing me away, it draws me in, making me want to understand her more, to be a part of her world, even when it’s clear I don’t belong. And that’s why I am at her workplace instead of at my house to play our weekly FIFA tournament. I forfeit the game by not being there, meaning that I’ll be the one bankrolling pizza night at the end of the game next week.
I shouldn’t be here. I know that. I could’ve simply left the Lego set at her apartment and avoided this whole scenario. But something in me needed to see her, to be in her space, even if it was uninvited.
She’s not behind the counter like I’m expecting her to be but at a table in the back with a basketball player, the same one I suspect Liam saw her with. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I see them together. Her laughter, light and free, is meant for him and not me and leaves a sour note hanging in the air.
I observe her smile, the way he nudges her playfully, and I find myself wishing that was me. Wishing she’d let me in the way she’s let him in. But every interaction between us feels like there’s this invisible barrier, and I’m on the outside looking in. I’m searching for a way to break through.
Poppy turns the pages she was looking at and gives them to him. She looks up, and our eyes lock. Her smile doesn’t exactly fade; it sort of stumbles, hesitates, as if she’s caught between emotions. Her brows knit together, not quite a frown, more of a perplexed, guarded expression. She says something to the other guy, who looks at me with a matching frown. I raise an eyebrow challengingly. What he has on me in height, I make up in muscle, and despite what I always thought, I’m primitive enough to fight for what’s mine.
He shakes his head with a wide smile, and it grates at my nerves more than I thought it could have. He passes by me without even an acknowledgment, but I don’t care. My eyes remain on Poppy.
“What are you doing here, Ethan?” she asks, stopping in front of me.
“I brought the gift for your brother,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual as I raise the bag. “I thought I’d drop this off. And hey, what time do you finish work? I can wait and give you a ride,” I ask, knowing she must be done as she is carrying her backpack.
She hesitates, and I press on, “We could get a better cake, maybe throw another little party for him?”
She chews on her plump bottom lip, and I can’t help but let my thoughts navigate into dangerous territory as I imagine what it would be like to kiss her. It’s weird, and I try to shove it down, but the image of being close to her, too close, flickers in my mind, uninvited and yet not entirely unwelcome.
“Thanks, but my mom’s home. She wouldn’t understand you being there.”
My smile falters, a strange tightness in my chest as her words settle in; it stings more than I thought it would.
Her fingers tremble as they pull crumpled bills from her pocket. “I need to pay you back,” she whispers, her voice heavy with unspoken burdens. Her eyes, swirling with pride and reluctance, avoid mine yet silently plead for understanding.
My hand acts on its own accord, fingers delicately encircling her wrist. I like… no, I love touching her soft skin, but I’m more focused on the way her pulse jumps under my fingers, a silent testament to her surprise—or is it discomfort?
I keep hold of it despite having stopped her movement. “No need,” I reply, trying to keep the frustration from my voice.
Her frown deepens, and I can’t help but notice that she’s not trying to break free from my hold. “I don’t like being in debt. Please, Ethan. It’s more for me than it is for you,” she insists, pushing a loose strand of her short hair behind her ears. “Not after everything that’s transpired between our families.”
“I have no need for your money. I have more than enough.”
She purses her lips, and I realize she must take it as a jab, which could not be further from the truth.
“No, Poppy, I…” I pause, releasing her wrist to run a hand through my hair in frustration. “What I’m saying is that money won’t help, but I could actually use a favor, and honestly, I’ll even be the one owing you one.”
Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “I’m listening,” she says with a certain wariness in her voice.
“Come with me to the varsity ball?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, surprising even me. I’ve never cared about going with a date before and always preferred the freedom of going stag. But now, looking at her, I realize I don’t want to go if she’s not there.
Her eyes narrow even more. “I’m not going on a date with you, Ethan.”
A grin stretches across my face, a mask hiding the unexpected sting of her words. I find myself wondering why her refusal bothers me so much. “Why’s that?”
She snorts, and it’s oddly endearing. “So many reasons, I don’t even know where to start.”
“Start with a yes. We can figure the rest out later.”
“No.”
I try to keep my voice steady. Casual. But inside, it feels like something’s cracking. “We’ll go as friends. Honestly, it’s kinda nice not to be fawned over for once. Your… let’s call it ‘dislike,’ it’s refreshing, you know?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, poor you. It must be so difficult to push away hordes of women.”
My grin widens. “You have no idea.”
“Why me?” she asks, and my pulse quickens as I see her wavering. “You hate me.”
“Hate you? What gave you that idea?”
She shakes her head. “Only years of pranks and mocking.”
“And now I’m not. Come on.” I push a little more. “I’ll take care of the dress, alright?”
In my mind, I add, I’d buy you a million dresses if it meant you’d say yes.
She’s steadfast, shaking her head again. “My roommates…”
“I’ll get them dates too. And dresses. What do you say?”
Her eyes narrow again, and I mentally kick myself. Too desperate, Ethan.
She shakes her head again, and I raise my hands in surrender. “Think about it, okay?”
She looks at her watch and sighs. “I have to go. I can’t miss my bus.” She passes me.
“Is that a yes?” I call after her.
“I’ll think about it,” she replies, keeping her back to me.
I linger, watching her retreating figure, a small smile playing on my lips. “I’ll think about it” isn’t a no, and I’ll take it.
The only person who can tell me things about the Lockwoods—or Donovans now—that Poppy doesn’t want to share is my father.
It’s the only reason why I’m standing in front of my parents’ house on Sunday evening for the tedious dinner I hate to attend.
See what you make me do, Poppy? I think before opening the door.
My footsteps echo in the grand hall, the sound a stark reminder of the emptiness enveloping the opulent space. It feels like walking into one of those museums where you’re afraid to breathe too hard in case you break something worth more than your life. The place is decked out with massive marble columns and a chandelier that probably costs more than Poppy’s entire trailer. The thought that her entire trailer could neatly fit into this hall lingers in my mind, creating an unsettling feeling in my stomach.
“Mr. Hawthorne. What a pleasure to see you! It has been so long!” Arthur, our majordomo, approaches with a warm, practiced smile.
I manage a semblance of a smile in return. “Yes, apparently, my mother is missing me.” Bitterness seeps into my voice despite my best efforts.
If Arthur notices, he doesn’t show it. “I was about to announce dinner. I will set a plate for you.”
I nod, having timed my arrival to minimize the duration of this familial charade and follow Arthur to the dining room. The room is another display of affluence, with a long, mahogany table set with fine china and silverware, surrounded by high-backed chairs upholstered in rich, dark velvet. The walls are adorned with portraits of stern-looking ancestors, their eyes seeming to follow me disapprovingly as I move.
My parents, impeccably dressed and seated with rigid posture, turn to regard me as I enter.
My mother, tall and slender, her blonde hair cascading in perfect waves down her shoulders, offers a faint smile. Her face, a meticulous canvas crafted by the region’s most esteemed plastic surgeon, flickers with a momentary surprise, quickly veiled by years of practiced stoicism. “Ethan, darling, what a delightful surprise,” she coos, her voice a gentle, rehearsed melody that barely brushes the surface of maternal warmth. Her eyes, however, betray a fleeting vulnerability, a silent whisper of the mother she might have been in a different life.
I don’t take it to heart. My mother has always been like this, emotionally distant and perpetually composed. A perfectly crafted doll, shaped and molded to meet the exacting standards of the man beside her.
I look at my father, who raises his glass of wine to greet me. “The prodigal son returns,” he says, dripping with sarcasm. “I almost forgot what you looked like.”
My jaw tightens, but I manage to keep my expression neutral, offering a tight-lipped smile in return. No, you can’t have, I think, because, unfortunately, I look just like you.
My father is tall and athletically built despite his age. His hair, now peppered with gray, and the lines etched into his face are the only discernible differences between us as I compare him to old photographs from his Harvard days. Back then, he was the revered captain of both the polo and fencing teams, a point he never lets me forget, especially given my preference for soccer—a sport he dismissively regards as proletarian, as he would say.
I nod in his direction and take a seat, feeling like an intruder in a home that should have been familiar. It’s a common misconception that I idolize my father, aiming to follow in his footsteps. In truth, my every action is a conscious effort to be anything but him.
The first course is served, a rich lobster bisque that wafts a delicate, savory aroma through the room. I find myself pushing the spoon through it absentmindedly, my thoughts still lingering on her.
My father clears his throat, drawing my attention.
“Yes, Father,” I say with a sweet tone that we both know is fake.
His lips purse with disapproval. Provoking him isn’t wise, especially since I’m in need of a favor, yet I can’t seem to be able to stop myself.
He sips his wine, his gaze piercing through me as he speaks. “A sophomore year at Silverbrook, yet whispers reach me that a major eludes your declaration, Ethan.” His voice, a calm yet sternly sharpened blade, slices through the ambient clinks of fine dining.
Here we go. I keep my expression neutral, though frustration starts to bubble into me.
“Options are still on the table, Dad. Exploring possibilities.”
His expression becomes one of challenge, a silent confrontation in the air. “I’m not sure what you have to weigh, son. The only acceptable options are business or law, and we both know that.”
My grip tightens around the silverware, but I maintain my composure. “I believe it’s also important to be adaptable, Father. Rigidity in one’s schedule or beliefs can be a downfall.”
He simply hums in response, sipping his bisque with a calculating light in his eyes, and I know that he is trying to find a way to force me into a choice he considers the only option.
My mother, meanwhile, remains silent, her eyes flickering between us as she sips her soup, a practiced smile still playing on her lips.
The main course arrives, a perfectly cooked venison, its rich, gamey aroma filling the room, accompanied by an assortment of meticulously prepared vegetables. But the luxurious spread before me does little to appease the growing tension knotting my stomach.
Casually, with an air of nonchalance I don’t feel, I set down my silverware and lean back. “Speaking of perspectives, do you know what happened to the Lockwoods after the junior year debacle?”
The reaction is immediate and palpable. My mother’s fork clatters against her plate, and she hastily tries to cover her surprise with a cough. My father’s posture stiffens, his eyes narrowing marginally as he meets my gaze.
“What do you mean?” His voice is steady, but I catch the briefest flicker of something concealed in his eyes.
I shrug, feigning indifference. “Poppy Lockwood joined Silverbrook, and it got me wondering.”
My father shakes his head with an exasperated sigh. “This is what happens when you join a second-class university. You mix with the slum.” His eyes harden. “Is she giving you a hard time? Causing trouble? Do you need me to get her transferred?”
“She’s not doing anything, and I’m sharing a house with Cole Westbrook and Liam Ashford. I’m hardly slumming it.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “That would not have happened at Harvard.”
“Stay away from the Lockwoods. Those people are bad news,” my mother chimes in, and I’m surprised she even has an opinion about anything.
“Yes, listen to your mother. For once, she has something of value to contribute,” he adds, and my mother doesn’t even flinch or look annoyed at my father’s cold snub.
I grit my teeth as my father watches me, a silent understanding passing between us. He knows I’m aware there’s more to the story, and I know he’s not going to divulge anything willingly.
The rest of the dinner passes in tense silence as I realize that I suffered their company for nothing, and the worst part is that now I put Poppy on my father’s radar, and I wonder if my visit is not a huge mistake after all.
My father pushes back his chair, the sound grating against the marble floor, and stands. “Ethan, join me in the office for a drink before you head back to Silverbrook.”
I nod, standing and turning to my mother. “Good night, Mother,” I say, placing a perfunctory kiss on her cheek. Her eyes, though cold, flicker with a momentary warmth as she nods a silent goodbye.
I follow my father to his office, a room that always seems to embody his personality—cold, meticulous, and domineering. The walls, lined with shelves of books and awards, seem to close in on me, a physical manifestation of the pressure I always feel in his presence.
He moves to the bar, pouring a small glass of scotch and extending it toward me. I hesitate, eyeing the glass warily. “I’m only nineteen, Father.”
He scoffs, a smirk playing on his lips. “Ethan, I know you’ve been pilfering my liquor since you were sixteen. If you want to be treated like a man, act like one.”
Reluctantly, I take the glass, the amber liquid shimmering under the soft lighting of the room. I take a small sip, feeling the burn of the alcohol, but I keep my face smooth.
My father leans against his desk, regarding me with that calculating gaze that always seems to see too much. “Why the sudden interest in Poppy Lockwood?”
I pause, choosing my words carefully. “They seem to be having a rough time. They’re not their father, and it doesn’t seem fair that they’re suffering for his mistakes.”
He gives a slight tilt of his head, a silent prompt to continue.
I add a half-truth. “I won’t be seeing her again.”
To my surprise, he shakes his head. “Actually, you should. If she wants to see you, why not?”
Suspicion prickles at the back of my mind. “What do you want out of it?” I ask, my voice steady despite the unease coiling in my stomach.
He laughs, a sound devoid of genuine mirth. “Oh, you know me well. There’s a box of documents that Alan had that we never recovered.”
“You want the box.”
“I want the box.”
I nod, a plan already forming in the back of my mind. The box means nothing to me, but if it gives me a reason to be closer to Poppy, to perhaps right some wrongs, I’ll play along. “I’ll get you the box.”
He nods, a semblance of approval flickering in his eyes. “Good. Remember, Ethan, everything in life is transactional. Always ensure you’re getting the better deal.”
I nod, the motion mechanical, as a bitter taste creeps up my throat. His words, laced with perpetual strategy and manipulation, weave a future before me that I’m desperate to unravel. I finish the scotch in one swallow, the burn doing little to dispel the chill that’s settled over me.
Placing the empty glass on his desk, I turn and leave the office, the weight of my father’s expectations heavy on my shoulders. As I step out into the cool night air, I breathe in deeply, trying to shake off the oppressive atmosphere of the house.
In the quiet of the night, I make a silent vow to myself—I will not become my father, and Poppy is a treasure that I feel I’m discovering all over again. Her strength, her defiance against a world that’s been so cruel to her, stands in sharp relief against the compliance I’ve always shown.
The decision is made: I will protect Poppy from becoming collateral in my father’s unending pursuit of power, and I will pursue her whether he approves or not.
