My mom fluffs out my pillows for the umpteenth time.

It's entirely unnecessary, but I let her do it. I know the gesture is more for her sake than for mine. When she's done, I smile at her and lean back into the wall of pillows she build against my headboard.

"Are you comfortable, cariño?" She asks me, sitting on my bed to face me.

"I'm fine, mom."

"Do you need anything? Something to eat? To drink? A blanket?"

I chuckle lightly, but it makes my side hurt. Turns out, no ribs or fingers were broken, but I am severely bruised. The doctors actually looked kind of impressed with the amount of bruising on my body, as they rushed me to the ER last night. I felt like a star.

"I said I'm fine," I repeat evenly. "Really."

Just between us, I wouldn't exactly define myself as 'fine', in the traditional sense. But mine, as most mothers, has a way to exaggerate her children's state. If I tell her I'm 'fine', she'll hear 'not great'; if I tell her I'm in constant numbing pain, she'll hear I'm practically lying on my death bed, possibly beyond salvation.

"I'll make you a grilled cheese, how's that?" She reaches out to run her fingers through my short hair. "And some tea. You like chamomile, right?"

"It's fine, mom. I'm not really hungry now," I tell her.

"Are you sure?" She asks, cradling my face and brushing her thumb over my cheek. It hurts, but I do my best not to flinch too much. Maybe she'll take the slight wince as the typical teenage response to expressive motherly affection.

"Positive," I say.

She sighs, eyebrows pinched together in concern. "Call out if you need anything, okay? Anything at all."

"I will," I promise.

"Want me to stay here with you for a while?" She asks, retrieving her hand but holding off on standing up.

"I'll be fine. Thanks."

She nods, getting up. Her eyes linger on me all the way to the door. She meets my dad on the way out. They exchange a look, which I can't decipher completely, but I might have an idea of what's to follow.

My dad steps in once my mom's gone, standing in the middle of my room, halfway between my bed and the door. He looks at me in silence, crossing his arms over the chest of his white dress shirt, which is loosely tucked into his dark pants, unbuttoned at the top, with the sleeves rolled up. He's also not wearing a tie. The most casual look one will ever see from Warren Astor.

"Here to give me the dressing down of my life?"

"Something like that," he answers.

I'm a little surprised at his straightforwardness. And the tone too. He sounds half-determined, half-frustrated, half-defeated. That's a lot of halves, I'm aware of that — I am not that bad at math — but his is a very full and complex tone. All halves are warranted and audible.

Also, I knew this was coming eventually. I had just hoped my dad would wait at least until I no longer look like I've been kicked into my grave, then dug out and thrown back into the world of the living for a final act.

"What you did last night was irresponsible," my dad says.

"I know," I reply.

"And impulsive," he adds.

"I know."

"And reckless."

"I know."

"You were irresponsible, impulsive, and reckless," he concludes sternly.

"I know."

"And Goddamn lucky," he raises his voice a little.

I don't say anything back. Because I know that too. If only that guy kept going, if only he'd hit a couple of inches to one side or the other only once, if only the Blake brothers hadn't acted so quickly when Gus took me to The Lodge... The whole thing could have gone a lot differently.

"Your mother was beyond worried. The look on her face when she saw you at the hospital..."

"I saw. I was there."

"But you shouldn't have been. You told us you'd spend the night at the Pruitts'. You lied to us and broke the law," he emphasizes. 

I look at my own feet, stretched out in front of me on the bed. That's gotta be a sore spot for him. Honorable, respectable, law-abiding Warren Astor — and his son, the underage drinker. A bisexual underage drinker, go figure.

"Last night, by doing what you did, you basically became exactly who everyone warned me you would become."

I look back at him with a frown. What is that even supposed to mean?

He lets out a tired sigh, walking over to take a seat on my bed beside me.

"My father never gave me much," he starts. "Mostly because his father never gave him much either."

I purse my lips, even through the sting. I know this story. I never heard it from my father, but I've heard it before.

"Your great-grandfather didn't have what we now have," he proceeds. "When he first started the family business, it was a slow and steady growth. My father grew up with a more modest life and he wanted me to do that too. So I could learn the value of hard work and responsibility. When I was born, your grandfather had already expanded the business to something really close to what it is now, but he still wouldn't give me much. He believed I had to earn my luxuries, because he didn't want his son to turn out an entitled brat who took his privileges for granted."

That expression rings in my head with an unpleasant tremor. 'Entitled brat'. Oh, where have I heard that before? Could it be everywhere go, if people don't bother to whisper quietly enough?

My dad rubs a hand down his face. "I never wanted to do that to you or any of my children," he says. "You're the reason I work so hard. So I can give you this life that other people can't afford. I wanted to teach you the meaning of hard work by example, and not by hard-lived experience. It worked with your sister Logan, and I have hopes it will work on Leah too. But apparently you need a sterner hand."

"What, you're cutting me off? Because I sneaked out one night?" The scoff might have been a tad too extra, unintentionally proving his point.

My dad gives me a meaningful smile. "One night?" He muses. "How clueless do you think I am, Liam?"

I look back down at my feet.

"Your mother and I know you're no saint," he says. "Your nights out with little to no questions asked, your vacation in Malibu with your friends, the rooms I let you book at The Lodge without paying — these are the kind of liberties we've always given you and your sisters. The liberties I'm not sure you fully comprehend. They're not your right, they're your privilege. Privileges your mother and I grant you, because we want to use the means we now have at our disposal to give our children the comfortable life neither of us ever had. Your sister understood that, but I don't think you do. I think you often take your lifestyle and everything we give you for granted."

"I know I have a considerably better life than most people," I interject.

He shakes his head softly. "That's not enough."

That mild, casual tone brings me back twenty-four hours, to the floor of The Lodge's kitchen, with a different pair of eyes — these ones a murky brown-gray — looking down at me. 

My dad's little speech reminds me of Eli's words. The resigned condescension as he pointed out the divide between the kids from Brunson and the ones from Lake City. Hearing my father talk to me like the spoiled idiot I always refused to believe I am makes me think I probably didn't imagine Eli's tone. His implications. And the way he wasn't even surprised I never noticed the distinction between the two worlds in my everyday life. Like he expected me to be oblivious to anything going on outside my little bubble of privilege.

Clearly, my own father sees that too.

Does that make it true, then? Am I really an entitled brat? Even if I don't mean to be?

"Am I grounded or something?"

My dad tilts his head to the side. "Or something," he answers. "I'm not taking away your phone, or your computer, or your plasma TV." He points at the screen hanging from my wall, as though trying to make a point of everything he just said. "I'm not taking anything at all. But I will give you something."

"What?" I ask, when he fails to continue. Seriously. When did he gain such an inclination for dramatics?

"Responsibility," he says. "Starting this Monday, until I decide you've learned your lesson, you'll be working for me. Just like I did for my father and he did for his."

I shift in place to sit up so I can show him a frown. "You're forcing me to work?"

"You're eighteen. Many kids your age have jobs."

"Bur they're not practicing to be Olympic medalists. I have two practices a day, every day," I argue, ignoring the pain that stretches down my side from the position I'm in.

"You'll practice, and study, and be with your friends, and do everything else kids your age do while still having jobs," my dad says. "Just off work hours."

I shake my head. "I skate pairs. My schedule will affect Chloe's too."

"Since we pay for the private coach you both use, I think she can accommodate to your schedules just fine."

Really? He's going to flash the money card? He cannot flash the money card to win an argument, right after lecturing me about acting like an entitled brat.

"Chloe is an organized young woman, I'm sure she'll be fine," my dad tells me. "She'll have to be, because this decision is final. I've talked to your mother about it. She doesn't oppose it."

Et tu, Brute?

Just like my father's 'I pay for everything you own, therefore you will do as I say' card, the 'mom will never let you do that to her little boy' was my last card. If she's on board with this, or at least not in opposition, I have nothing. Nothing, but a wrecked face, a bruised torso and a crushed hand. So, less than nothing.

Indignation is literally my last line of defense.

"You can't be serious," I huff.

My dad sighs. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

Sadly... No. He does not.

***

Okay. So clearly all you experienced YA romance readers can see where this heading ;)

What do you think about the set-up so far? Predictions for the future? Did this chapter change your views on Liam's parents, or even Liam himself? How do you think Eli will feel about his new co-worker?

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