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Chapter One

O akwood University was known for a great many things, and perhaps one of them should have been Dr. Ambrose Wilder’s exceptional mouth. Somewhere over thirty years old and having just successfully defended his thesis, the man sauntered over the grounds of campus that semester exuding the very energy of a god. Untouchable, unattainable.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I didn’t come to Oakwood for Ambrose, or his mouth, though I’d mostly certainly stay for both of them. I would tear heaven and hell to pieces to stay in his very presence.

No, I came to Oakwood for another reason entirely. I hated the idea at first, being under the watchful eye of my older brother was almost as bad as being locked up at home, but at least he would turn a blind eye if I managed to get into some kind of trouble.

At least he’d let me get into trouble.

Not that I purposefully sought it. I was a good girl—or, rather I tried to be a good girl. For a long time I tried to be everything our parents wanted me to be. The only problem was, whatever they wanted me to be wasn’t really me at all and faking, well…faking was exhausting.

So I stopped faking. Stopped pretending to be some perfect child for the sake of staying on my mother’s “good” side.

Now that I think about it, I didn’t know who or what I was then, or who I’d be at the end of the three year long purgatory I had been sentenced to after floundering at NYU.

Oakwood was the only option to maintain some semblance of sanity, much to my dismay. It took some convincing of my father, but eventually he gave in.

And there it was, sprawling over the hills of Vermont, pretentious and ancient. A school of the ages—known for its candid ability to attract any child of any one who meant any thing in the top social circles. They were an insufferable lot, preening around in their designer fashion and pretending they meant something more than just a fat paycheck for the university.

Were they brilliant? Sure, but that didn’t make up for the fact that they were unbearable.

Campus crept out over many acres, the buildings older than half the country, filled to the brim with history and the faintest whisper of secret societies. Sandstone brick tarnished with soot, splashes of stained glass, statues of famous scholars who’d graduated and accomplished something grand for humanity. It all stood majestic and rather welcoming.

Oakwood’s walkways were laid brick, scuffed from centuries of soles wearing them down. Thick trunked trees crowded together in nearly every available space, strong and sturdy, as well established as the university itself. It was stunning, picturesque. The exact likeness anyone would conjure in their mind when romanticizing their academic expectations.

Tweed, wool, parchment abound.

Despite myself, I loved it almost instantly.

What I had originally imagined the university to be was similar to the hustle and bustle of NYU, modern lines mixed in with the old curvatures. I expected Oakwood to be fast paced and cutthroat.

Instead, it was rather slow. Lofty.

I was greeted with true and utter beauty. There sang from within the very walls an art, bleeding across all of us and marring our souls irrevocably.

Cool air swept in from the nearby Green Mountains, washing over the valley of Oakwood with sweet perfume unlike anything I’d experienced in the city. It caressed over my face as I climbed from the front seat of my brother’s car and took a deep, full breath, letting that fresh mountain air fill my lungs with the earthy promise of a coming storm.

Deep green leaves rustled overhead, many of them tinging yellow just at the tips to welcome Autumn. Roosevelt House stood proud before us, a building mainly used by sophomores on the western side of campus.

Walt, my tall, sweet, Senior brother—and the prized child of the family—hopped out of the driver’s seat and went immediately for the trunk.

I could only take in the square building, the same discolored sandstone as the others with black framed windows and ivy crawling up the face. Several students were bustling inside with their boxes, calling happily to one another in recognition.

“Are you coming to help me or what? I’m not Gene,” Walt called from the trunk, referring to our parent’s live-in butler. I chuckled, coming around the side of the SUV to grab my laundry basket full of school supplies.

“It would be a lot nicer if you were. Gene isn’t such a pain in the ass.”

“Don’t forget I can make your life hell here, miss.” Walt stacked boxes on top of one another, his strong arms wrapped around to haul them to my bedroom .

Luckily, rooms were singletons in Roosevelt House. The freshmen weren’t so lucky.

“How is that any different than at home?” I quipped, leading the way into the building. It boasted a large common living area with thick curtains and traditional couches. The fireplace stood empty, waiting patiently for winter when it might be lit and I allowed myself the fantasy of a Christmas tree and spiked egg nog in front of its warm mouth during holiday break.

God only knew I wasn’t going home.

The kitchen and dining area were opposite the common room where boxes of microwave noodles littered the floor.

Walt muttered a curse as he stubbed his toe on the lip of the doorway and I allowed my laugh to bubble forth at his misfortune. Even as he cautiously climbed the stairs, my belongings wobbling rather precarious.

The inside of the house smelled of mildew and hairspray and laughter carried through the halls just as much as the sunshine from the open doors and windows.

“At least you’re not on the top floor,” Walt said as we reached my door on the second, the fourth one with the fat, wrought iron two dash four screwed into the wood. I pulled the key from inside my pocket, unlocking my new room and pushing it open.

“At least,” I muttered, gazing about the space. It was bigger than I anticipated, the wood floors worn but clean and walls washed off-white. Under the window sat an old radiator which was flanked, on either side, by my bed and a bare desk.

Walt brushed past me, setting the boxes down and placing his hands on his hips as he took it all in. He was tall, much taller than me with the same sandy hair. He was quite popular among the ladies with his lacrosse arms and old money looks. “This is bigger than mine was.”

“Sucker.” I elbowed him in the ribs playfully. It was hard to get a leg up on Walt so a victory was a victory .

“Let me get the rest and I’ll help you unpack.” He left briskly, stampeding footsteps pounded into nothingness with his absence.

I unpacked my school supplies first, emptying them from the laundry basket onto the desk: my laptop, at least eight different notebooks and folders, and an assortment of entirely too expensive textbooks which weighed somehow less than they cost. It wasn’t perfect, but it would work for now.

By the time Walt returned, I had already hung most of my clothes in the Ikea armoire by the door.

“Are you excited?” he asked, pulling a pair of white sheets from their prison to dress my bed.

The sweet bastard.

“I suppose, as excited as one can be.” The soft, turtle neck sweater I knew would be my best friend fought me as I pulled the hanger up and through its opening.

“Do Mom and Dad still not know?”

He was referring to my major change, of course. An unauthorized one at that.

Dad wanted me to go for Political Science, to climb my way up the ladder and make a real change, he said. It was only right, after everything he and my mother had sacrificed for us kids.

What exactly had they sacrificed? I wasn’t sure.

It seemed to me the idea of partaking in politics was another way of lining his pockets more than they already were as a banker in New York.

But after what happened at NYU, after killing myself in a major I hated, I’d deceptively changed it to English Literature when registering at Oakwood. A secret I hoped would stay between me and Walt until graduation. At which point, it would be too late for Mother and Father to do anything about it.

“Nope.” I closed the armoire after stacking the last of my loafers in the bottom. “And it stays that way.” I leveled a warning gaze at him while he laid the top sheet flat.

“I don’t think you’re going to succeed at this, but I’ll support you either way, you know that.” His unkept hair fell in front of his face, the way he liked it when he wasn’t forced to comb it back for Mother.

“I do.” I smiled, tossing him my forest green comforter.

“I wish I would have been so grotesquely deceitful as you are,” he continued, throwing the pillows into their new home.

I pulled the box for my new bookshelf to stand on its side, reading the instructions from within with my brows knitted tightly together. I had never had to build anything before and it looked falsely simple. “Why do you say that?”

“You think I wanted to do Communications? You —of all people, Vivian—know that I did not.” Walt flopped himself on to the bed, springing up and down with corresponding squeaks.

“But you get to do your precious lacrosse,” I reminded him, sitting cross-legged on the wood floor to pull long planks for the shelf from their confinement.

Walt propped himself up on his elbow, his eyes far away. Somewhere, I knew, much easier than this. It was hard for me as the youngest, but I discovered sweet rebellion. And, most importantly perhaps, I wasn’t the heir to their fortune and legacy in the same way he was. Our mother, more so than our father, wanted us to adhere to the social decorum of her society. And that meant grooming us to be her most pristine reflection. Walter Blackfield Jr. was a better reflection than I. Even if he hated it.

“Yeah, but sometimes I wish I could have tried my hand at something different. Something like?—”

“Music?” I coaxed, knowing that’s where he was going. Walt was an avid music lover, tried his hand at a multitude of instruments throughout his life but the drums were his favorite. He was partly why I had grown to love rock subgenres, always blaring Green Day or Blink-182 in his car on the way to school with me. It had been a bonding experience for us.

Mother, of course, despised his music interests and drumming. She thought ‘ that sort of music’ was a waste of time, a deplorable path for him to follow. So, he played when he could—at friends’ houses, with the school band—but ultimately it was shut down and the weight of being the Blackfield heir came baring down on his shoulders with an insurmountable force. He did what he did because he had to, even at the cost of his own happiness.

I, unfortunately for my parents and myself, was not like Walt.

“Yeah, music.” His sigh was heavy, but he came to his feet plastering a smile on his face and sat across from me to help build the bookshelf.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, shoving the wooden dowl into the shelf with a fight.

“Don’t be. It’ll be alright in the end. I mean, who’s to say I can’t do it as a hobby after I’m out from under their scornful gazes?” His tone was light, sarcastic even, but I could see it in the bunch of his shoulders—he was tense. Upset. The topic was one he dreaded, for it reminded him just how much of a prisoner he was in his own life.

And fuck, that was heartbreaking to see.

Because I, too, was a prisoner in my life.