“Thanks, Mom.”

“I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it, but you can tell me if this protest business was about Henry. You’ve always been so mature for your age, and your father and I both understand that emotions can make people behave erratically.”

“It’s not about Henry,” I tell her.

He was just the catalyst, the first string to snap before all the rest followed. I wasn’t lying when I told her that my explanation was running on a loop in my head, but what I didn’t tell her is that there are other words I can’t get out of my head, words that keep drowning out that practiced speech.

I think you’re starting to suffocate.

I hear the front door open then, and the thump of my father’s briefcase being dropped by the door. Mom places a cool hand on my cheek and leans in to press a kiss against my forehead.

“You’ll be fine. You know your father loves you.”

As he enters the kitchen, he’s loosening a maroon tie. He’s old enough that his hair is silvering on the sides, but his face still looks young and healthy. I don’t know how he does it with all the stress from work. Nor do I really even have a great grasp on what “work” is. All I know is that he inherited money from his father, and then invested it in a number of places that paid off. I know he owns significant shares in a number of different companies, still invests in the occasional start-up, and serves on multiple boards, including the board of regents at Rusk.

He kisses Mom on the cheek and then says, “Dylan,” in a quiet greeting before kissing me on the forehead.

“How was New York?” Mom asks.

“Hot,” he answers. “Miserable, actually.”

She clucks her tongue and helps him remove his suit coat.

“You go get settled at the table. Dylan and I will bring in the food.”

She goes off to hang up his coat, and I grab a potholder to start removing the food from the oven. Mom is one of those women who won’t serve the food in the same container they make it in. Instead she lays it all out on nice plates and platters like every night is a dinner party.

Another thing I’ll never get used to. That’s just something else to wash when dinner is over, and for what? To look pretty for the two minutes before people start digging in? It’s not until after we do just that, ruining the presentation of Mom’s food, that Dad speaks up.

“Well, then, Dylan. Let’s hear your case.”

I take a deep breath and start in.

“I know you’re disappointed. I behaved in a way that didn’t reflect well on myself, this family, or the cause for which I was advocating. I’m not giving you excuses because I don’t have one. I made a mistake, a rash decision, and though I regret it, I’ve learned from it. I let frustration and impatience rule me rather than acting reasonably and intelligently. And I’m sorry.”

It comes out how I rehearsed it, to a T.

“That’s all well and good, sweetheart, but it doesn’t tell me why.”

My brows furrow, and I try not to frown. “I let frustration—”

“You’ve said your speech, Dylan. It was well thought out and respectful. Thank you for that. Now let go of the pretense and give me a real explanation.”

My lungs are filled with dust, I can’t seem to inhale or exhale. Having an incredibly intelligent and resolute businessman for a father really sucks sometimes.

“I don’t have one.” Or rather . . . I don’t have one that won’t make me sound like an ungrateful, spoiled brat. So what if being part of this family is a little suffocating? It’s still a family. It’s still something that wasn’t supposed to be in the cards for me, but somehow these two people who literally have enough money to have anything they want . . . somehow they wanted me. And I’m not going to drag that through the mud. Not after all they’ve done for me, the things they’ve given me that I could never have dreamed of having.

I want to be perfect for them. That’s all I’ve ever wanted . . . to make sure they never for one second regret taking me in.

“Sweetheart,” Mom says, laying a hand on Dad’s arm. “You know she has a lot on her plate right now.” Henry. She’s blaming it on Henry. “Perhaps she was feeling frustrated about other things and misplaced those feelings.”

I shouldn’t let her talk for me, I should say what I’m feeling. That’s what Silas would tell me to do.

I close my eyes. Now is not the time to think about him. He is so far away from this world, this life I have here . . . it’s not even funny. If I bring him into this place, even in my thoughts, one of two things will happen.

This place will win, and I’ll drown in guilt over the things I’ve done with Silas.

Or Silas will win. The new, unstable me will win, and it will shatter this last remaining façade I have. My parents will know just how far I am from living up to their expectations.

And neither of those is something that I want. So, as of this moment, I put up a wall, and refuse to let either world cross into the other.

Besides . . . Dad is still going, so I’m not out of the woods here yet. He says, “Be that as it may, she has to think about the repercussions of her actions.” He turns to me. “We’ve raised you to think for yourself, to be smart. And while I understand and respect your feelings about the shelter, you have to remember that I work with the city council on a regular basis. Your mother went to college with the mayor’s wife. It’s one thing to participate in a group protest, I won’t deny you that, but to single yourself out in such a way as you did, puts this entire family in a difficult position.”

I hadn’t even thought about that. It’s a small world in the elite circle my parents run in. Of course they would know all the big players in town, the ones who control where the money goes.

“You’re right. I didn’t think about the ramifications of what I was doing. I just . . . I wanted to make a difference. And this is something happening in our backyard, not some big political movement in another state or another country. It’s so close, and I let passion cloud my judgment.” And even though I make a habit of not talking about my childhood, of pretending like it was another life, another world, I mention it then. “And I know what it’s like not to have the basic things, not to have a home. That’s hard enough; it shouldn’t have to get harder for those people.”