Page 50 of My Family

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.