Page 1 of On the Line

PROLOGUE

JAMES

“So you’re basically disowning me?” My bottom lip trembles as I spring up from my seat. Tears stream down my face while I do nothing to wipe them away, petulantly hoping mascara tracks down my cheeks.

Behind his precious oak wood desk, my father scoffs, leaning back into his leather chair. His gray suit impeccably pressed, dirty blond hair slicked carefully to the side. “Good lord, James. I simply said that I was no longer paying for your education. Why do you always need to be so dramatic?”

“That’s thesamething,” I hiss, my eyes still swimming in tears. I sniff. “I might as well drop out. How do you think I’ll be able to afford any of it?” I pause, hoping my father will suddenly change his mind but only silence follows. “Don’t do this to me, Daddy …Please.”

His icy blue gaze holds no empathy. Manicured hands folded over a slim waist, he assesses me from behind the desk as if I'm just another one of his summer associates at his firm whom he’s judged and foundwanting.

“You should have thought of that before switching majors behind my back,” he replies with a snide curl of his lip. “You really thought there wouldn’t be any consequences?—”

“But—” I try to interject.

He raises his hand. Years of discipline have me biting my tongue.

“I’m not paying for something asuselessas a ‘fine arts degree’.” He air-quotes the last three words, enunciating them with such arrogance and disgust that I wonder if that’s how he thinks of his only daughter as well. “You should know better,” he adds.

I’m shaking with anger.

I've always hated that I cry when I’m angry. But the tears fall, nonetheless.

“Fine,” I say after a loaded beat of silence, straightening my shoulders and clearing my throat. “Then I’m moving out.”

My father lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before saying, “James, stop acting like a child. I never said you needed to move out.”

I throw him a bewildered look. “How do you expect me to live under the same roof as you, after … afterthis?” I swipe the tears off my cheeks, peeved that I’m still crying this much.

“Your mother will certainly have something to say about your decision,” he says casually, his attention now on the pile of papers he’s shuffling from the side of his desk.

I roll my eyes. “My mother is too busy doing aridiculouspilgrimage in France, I doubt she even cares,” I spit out with as much ire as I can muster, before storming out of my father’s study and down the long hall into my bedroom. Islam the door closed and throw myself onto my bed, sobbing into my silk pillows.

A distant, rational, part of myself is slightly horrified that I’m acting this way—like a spoiled brat, screaming at my father as if I was still a teenager and not almost twenty-three. But I can’t stop. Not when all of it feels like a savage betrayal.

I consider packing a bag and storming out right this second but resist the urge.

I need a better concocted plan.

Instead, I sit up. While I continue to sniffle, the tears still miserably leaking out my eyes, I pat my bed trying to locate my phone. I find it hiding under a sketchbook. Scrolling to my best friend’s name in my favorites, I hit the video call. It’s only when Connie answers and I see she’s in a pitch-black room that I remember Los Angeles is three hours behind Marsford Bay, Massachusetts. She moved just a few months ago to pursue a career in acting—her parents supported her decision. Must be nice.

“Hello?” she croaks, red hair sleep-mussed while one of her hazel eyes is still shut trying to hide from the glare of her phone.

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” I mumble trying to hide the angst from my voice. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

I guess I didn’t do a good enough job because Connie lifts herself up on her elbows, turning on the light beside her bed.

“What’s wrong?” she murmurs, her tone now laced with worry, then adds, “What did Zachary do this time?” Her latter question has a lot more bite. I also don’t miss the exaggerated eye roll that follows it.

Connie has been my boyfriend’s number-one hater since we met in our first year at Damhurst, three years ago.She claims he’s made me cry far more than he’s ever made me smile.

I sometimes wonder if she’s been right all along.

“Nothing.” I let out a small sob, feeling sorry for myself. “It’s not him. It’s my father …”

“Great,” she snips. “What now?”

Not a fan of his either.

---