“We’re really going to sleep on the beach?”
I cast a pointed look at the back of his neck. “Unless you want to find another hostel?”
“I’ll try the sand.”
We gathered two blankets, souvenir candles, a lighter, two resort sweatshirts, and a couple bottles of water from 9 Muses, then ordered enough food from Sea Side to feed half of the pro tour. The sand of Perivolos chilled me even through the blanket we’d spread out, but once Sam’s leg pressed against mine and we were shoveling food into our mouths, the temperature felt as perfect as the rest of the night.
“This is fucking delicious,” Sam managed around a mouthful of shellfish concoction.
“I know, I told you.” It might be rude to talk with my mouth full, but no way was I taking a break for talking.
We scarfed the rest of the food in silence, then Sam poured us each a second glass of wine into the paper cups we’d wrangled from the restaurant. It had taken all of the Greek I knew and then some, but we had managed. The wine was lower quality than Sam was probably used to, but after frat parties at Whitman—even Quinn’s fancy ones—I’d gotten used to cheap alcohol. It seemed even rich college kids still slummed it when it came to getting their girls trashed.
“What would you do if this worked out? I mean, if we actually found your dad and you actually had the guts to turn him in to Interpol and they actually caught him.”
We both sat with our legs sticking straight out toward the crashing sea, heels dug into the sand, and leaned back on our hands. Sam’s right thigh pressed against my left, and in the moments before I answered, there was nothing but the winking stars and the sound of the ocean sucking away the sand.
Like his observation earlier that I seemed happy here, it felt unnatural to respond with honesty—to him or myself. My knee-jerk reaction was to blow him off, give him some pat answer, and it took effort for me to stop and reevaluate in order to find the truth in my own heart.
I didn’t know if we could find my father, and if we did, I had little faith in my ability to turn him in—and even less faith in the authorities to prosecute him effectively—but that shouldn’t change my answer. Based on the question, Sam didn’t have any illusions that we’d be successful in our quest. He was asking what I would do. What I wanted.
I didn’t know, and that squeezed my heart into a pancake.
I’d imagined a world where my father didn’t exist as puppet master. Hoped for one. But even though he’d promised to give me my share when I graduated from college, I didn’t really believe he’d cut me loose. He’d never promised any such thing. Despite the fact that I couldn’t imagine the authorities ever catching up with him, he was recognizable and on several watch lists. Without me, the majority of his schemes would turn out less profitable, or dry up altogether.
It was a pipe dream—getting out. One I believed because it kept me moving forward, but if I refused to help him today or in two years, he had enough dirt on me to make my life a living hell.
“Blair.”
I looked up, startled again at not being alone. Sam had sat up and faced me, concern and confusion darkening his eyes in the moonlight.
“Sorry. I was thinking about the question.”
“You’re crying. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
His thumb brushed my cheek. The tears surprised me, but it was the first time I’d accepted, even internally, that that I might never be free of this life. That I would never get to keep a guy such as Sam or a friend such as Audra because if they knew who I truly was, what I did to make the money that kept me in private jets and paid for my Whitman education, they would hate me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing for crying? You can do whatever you feel like doing. If I was in your position I wouldn’t be handling this thing nearly as well as you are.” He brushed away more tears, the calloused pads of his thumbs scraping my cheeks in a strange and arousing gesture of care. “My parents are greedy assholes, but it took me two years to get up the nerve to file for divorce. Even now, I bring them along to the tournaments. I bought them a house and cars, and they never thank me. Like it’s my duty, even though I’m twenty-three years old and I’ve supported them for almost half my life. And that’s nothing, Blair. Nothing compared to your dad.”
It felt like a thousand-ton weight lifted off my chest. I felt free, as though I could float after that weight and roll around in the stars as though they were a field of wildflowers.
No one had ever acknowledged the hardship of my life. To be fair, it was because no one knew the truth. People looked from the outside and saw the pretty girl, the rich girl, the girl doted on by her widowed father. They didn’t know because they couldn’t, but when my dad had forced me into this con with Sam, necessitating my sharing at least a little bit of myself, and there were consequences neither of us had foreseen.