Page 130 of Ominous: Part 1

Oh, fuck. I resist the very strong urge to look toward Eli, which would be an appeal to get me out of this situation, but also a show of weakness, like I can’t hold my own with his dad. It’s just… I’m not applying to any Ivy League, and I’m not applying to Duke, the holy grail of rich kids in North Carolina. It’s just too much. I could get loans, and grants, and scholarships, yes, all those things well-off people like to suggest to not-so-well-off people.

But then I graduate, and I’m buried in debt, and I have no guarantee I can work it off. I don’t have family money to fall back on, and I want to move out and I don’t want to have to come back. I want to make it on my own, and that means, even at eighteen, I have to make smart financial decisions.

How do I explain this in a few sentences to a man who clearly doesn’t have to ever worry about money, not anytime soon?

But I have dreams. I have a goal. That’ll have to count for something with him.

“I uh, I’m going to Bloor.” I hold his gaze as I say the words. “Maybe applying to UNC-W, as a backup school. But Bloor has the Classics program I want.”

I wish Eli would say something, maybe even drag me out of his house and take me home so I can think about the awkwardness of this conversation in private, but Eric has much better conversational skills than I do, so he says, “That’s great. Bloor is a good school, and Wilmington is a great city.” It doesn’t escape me he used “great” twice, which makes it less believable. “I have a house on the coast.” He nods toward Eli, his smile pulling higher, and I can’t tell if it’s more fake or less that way. “Eli should take you some time.”

I glance at the high ceilings in the foyer, the chandelier overhead, and wonder what the beach house looks like. I might not want to know.

“I was actually thinking about bringing her in October. Less tourists then.”

I whip my head to Eli, eyes wide. I’m not sure what surprises me more, the fact he’s agreeing with something his dad suggested, when he seems so antagonistic toward him in general, or the fact he thinks we’ll still be… whatever this is in October. I mean, it’s not very far away. But I know this is temporary. I’ve caught Eli’s attention for the moment, but it won’t last. Even though I want to keep him until graduation, I know hanging on so long will take effort.

“God, you’re fun.”How long will I entertain him?

“That would be great.” Eric’s agreement stuns me, too. That parents can just not care their kids are spending the night with people willy-nilly is shocking to me. I’ve done it before, but always through lies. Eli and Eric seem open, and given what I’ve seen of their relationship, it comes as a surprise. “Maybe I can stop by for a night?” Eric flashes me a conspiratorial grin, apparently very aware of the fact his son wouldnotwant him to spend the night.

But Eli says, “Sure, Dad.” Although the words drip with venom, like the way someone else might say,“Go fuck yourself.”

Eric rolls his eyes, but the grin is still on his face. Then he holds up his wrist, checking the time on the golden watch that’s so big with so many intricate details, I don’t see how he can feel comfortable with it on. “I hate to cut this short,” he says, dropping his hand and pushing it into his pocket as he looks at me again, “but I’ve got a plane to catch.” He smiles apologetically. “Though, you know, Eli has his first match of the season in two weeks, a Thursday, in Roanoke? We could ride together if—”

“She’s riding with me.” The quiet anger in Eli’s words makes me want to elbow him in the ribs, but I try to remember my own volatile relationship with Reece. He’s a stepparent, but a parent all the same, and I don’t bother hiding my disrespect of him most days, which leaves me with little room to scold Eli. Still, his dad has been nothing but nice which is certainly not how Reece would be, and I feel a little bad for Eric. He’s trying, I think.

“But you’re taking the bus,” he says. “With the team.” His brows are furrowed as he waits for his son’s explanation.

I glance at him, kind of annoyed Eli didn’t check withmeabout going to his first match inRoanoke.

“She’s riding with me.” Eli repeats himself but offers no explanation.

His dad clenches his jaw, and he looks like he’s going to argue further, but instead he just says, shifting his gaze to me, “I hope I see you before then, but if not, I’ll see you there. We could sit together.”

I suddenly do not want to go to the match at all. It’s not that Eric is unpleasant. In fact, he’s the opposite. It makes me want to try harder to get him to like me, which stresses me out. Imagining sitting beside him for the duration of the night on some date two weeks into the future makes me feel dizzy.

But I just say, “Sounds great,” because I was raised with a semblance of manners.

And after goodbyes are exchanged and Eric has gone through the garage to get to his car—the pretentious Tesla—I see what it is that broke. The shattering glass I heard upstairs.

There’s a picture frame, empty, lying face down in the kitchen, by the island. Glittering shards of glass are scattered over the floor, and Eli’s fingers wind around my wrist, yanking me away from it so I don’t step on it, even though I’m in my shoes, on our way back from seeing Eric off.

My heart doesn’t jump but I do, instinctively yanking my arm from Eli’s grip as I spin to face him. He’s staring at me, not at the glass on the floor.

“What happened?” I ask, cradling my arm, the one he grabbed. It didn’t hurt. Just a reflex, probably made sharper by the sight of something like violence on the ground.

Eli’s hair is just over his left eye, it seems wavier than usual, maybe from swimming yesterday, the chlorine styling his like it did mine. “Dad dropped it on his way in.”

And no one cleaned it up?I guess it was probably forgotten whenever Eli told his dad there was a girl upstairs in his room at nine in the morning on a Saturday.

I turn toward it, intending to help pick up the mess. “What was the picture?” I ask, but before I can squat down to reach for the frame, Eli is grabbing me again.

This time, his grip is tighter, and he’s more forceful when he yanks me away from the shattered frame, toward him. I try to pull out of his hold once more, angrier now, but he doesn’t let me go.

“I’ll deal with it,” he says. “Then we can go get food.”

“What the hell?” I shake my head, taking in the annoyance etched into the hard edges of his face. “What’s wrong with you?”