Page 127 of These Secret Years

“And now?”

“Now, I see I was right to encourage that. You’d be wasted in an orchestra.”

“Maybe I’m not one of those people who needs to be operating at optimal capacity all the time. Maybe it’s okay to waste some of my talent for a good paying job.”

Adrian rests both his hands on the table and sits back in his chair. He levels me with a look that almost makes it feel like we’re equals. “That would be a shame. And I suppose all that’s left for me to ask of you is a line in your memoir. Or a mention in an interview, I suppose. As a benefactor. Or a mentor.”

“That’s it?” I ask, because it can’t possibly be this easy.

“So long as you do something worth memorializing with your life.”

“And if I decide not to visit as often?”

He grabs his glass of wine and takes a long swallow. “You’re growing up. Every child leaves the nest eventually. Your school is paid for. Your car is paid for. I don’t see the point giving you an allowance now that you’re all grown up, but that’s up to you.”

“Meaning what? I’d have to earn it?”

He sips his wine again without answering, which is its own answer. Yes.

“I’d rather go without the allowance then.”

“I see.” He sighs heavily and pushes his plate of food away. “I think I’ll have this later. I’m not feeling well. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I say nothing, too shocked to attempt speaking as he rises from the table and leaves me alone in the dining room. I never asked about my mother or my sister. What will he do to them? Selfish, I tell myself. So fucking selfish.

My stomach growls at the sight of the grilled chicken breast in front of me, and I wonder once again—is this what freedom feels like?

The fight starts down the hall, muffled by the two closed doors and the carpet between the bedrooms. Quinn is home.

The noisy argument isn’t unusual. When they aren’t partying, they’re fighting, so I put one of my earbuds in, turn onto my other side and close my eyes, letting Chopin drown out the sporadic shouts. I could have left earlier, I think. Could have gone back to Missouri or traveled all the way up to Sunrise Point, but I already drove several hours today and didn’t want to get back in the car yet.

The pounding on my door startles me. I sit up so fast my headphone falls onto the comforter. The knob rattles, but it’s locked. Then the pounding starts again, and I hear Adrian shouting. “Stop. Come back to bed. You’re drunk. Leave him alone.”

“Open the fucking door, you freeloading piece of shit!”

I freeze, not knowing what to do.

There’s a scuffle, a loud smack, and then a thud. Oh fuck. I get out of bed and grab my phone. “Adrian?” I call out.

“Open the goddamned door. This is not your house,” Quinn shouts again.

Adrian doesn’t answer me.

“I’m calling the police.” I already have the screen open.

“I have pictures of you. Videos, too. Remember New Year’s?”

I was far, far too fucked up on New Year’s to remember much of anything, but I understood the gist of what happened to me when I woke up so sore the following morning. “What do you want?”

“I want what my husband promised me, and since he never seems to want to give it to me, you’re the next best thing. Hmph. Well, better if I’m being honest.”

“I’m not opening the door.”

“Then I’ll just go get the key.”

He has a fucking key?

Stomps down the hallway signal Quinn’s temporary departure, but I’m still frozen. It’s like I’m sixteen again, and all this is happening for the first time, although it was never like this—never overtly violent. Never demanding or involving shouts of protest across locked doors. I used to comply. I used to want to please them.