Today hasn't been my finest hour, to put it mildly—not since I went to meet my dad at some fancy restaurant. Don't get me wrong, it hasn't all been bad: waking up in Lydia's bed was a nice payoff after hooking up last night. Honestly, after the sex, I was so wiped out I slept like a rock until my alarm rudely interrupted. When I grabbed my phone to shut it off, it was already almost 8 a.m., and I was supposed to meet my dad at 9. I could've made up some excuse and bailed; breakfasts with him are a drag, full of questions about how college is going and the expectations he's piled on me. Being the son of a pharmaceutical tycoon has its perks and its downsides. To deal with the downsides, I usually just focus on the steady cash flow at my disposal—it helps me endure his constant grilling. The problem is, among the perks, the biggest one is that I hate the family business. My dad doesn't handle production, but he's knee-deep in everything behind it. That's why, when I got into Stanford, I enrolled in Economics to eventually take the spot that's supposedly mine by right. What he doesn't know is that after the first semester, I secretly switched majors. Right now, I'm studying Molecular Biology. Yeah, you might not expect it from someone with my suffocating charm, but I'm actually pretty smart. I'm passionate about research, and sitting in an office doesn't thrill me. For the past year and a half, I've managed to enroll each semester without my dad noticing. But now I'm in a bind because he's insisting on tagging along to an event hosted by the department I'm supposed to be in.
When I said goodbye to Lydia, she seemed pretty convinced I'd be back for more. Honestly, my ego's not big enough to burst her bubble; I'm not a commitment guy—I prefer casual hookups. So I just flashed her a smile, hoping time does its thing and she moves on. I drove through Silicon Valley to some French restaurant where big shots meet to talk business or dine with their mistresses.
"Sorry I'm late," I say, sliding into my seat at the table. One look at my dad's face, and I can tell he's not thrilled.
"Punctuality is an important trait you can't afford to overlook," he says in that refined tone I can't stand. "You'll understand when you're in my position."
Just hearing him mention that makes my stomach churn.
"Yeah, sorry. Alarm didn't go off," I mumble.
"Frankly, I'm more surprised you showed up at all," he says. "I was already imagining what creative excuse you'd come up with this time."
"Come on," I say with a grin, "how could you think I don't enjoy the company of my incredible dad?"
For the next few minutes, we stick to small talk while ordering breakfast, which, of course, comes with French bread. I ask about Mom and my sister, and he gives me vague updates. Nathaniel Whitman has been one of the country's most influential men for years. He inherited my grandfather's fortune and made it even bigger. He's known for that irresistible white-guy charm—blue eyes, blond hair. Traits I humbly inherited, though I'm way better-looking.
"So, how's college going?" he asks, right on cue.
"Not bad," I say, a little nervous. "It's been… enlightening."
"Glad to hear it," he says. "Keep it up, and you'll be a great businessman. I'm looking forward to joining you at the project showcase next week. I want to see what brilliant ideas you've got."
"Well…" I say, avoiding his eyes, "I had a pretty great one about a year and a half ago."
"Really?" He looks confused. "I'd love to hear it."
"Uh… it's an idea I think will benefit me more than you realize," I say, scrambling for the right words, "and it also means you don't need to come to campus next week."
"I don't follow," he says, clearing his throat.
"Dad…" I take a breath. "The truth is, I don't have a project for next week, and I'm not studying Economics."
The silence is painfully awkward. My dad glares at me with those hazel eyes—funny, that's the one thing I didn't inherit. Mine are blue, like Mom's.
"What are you talking about, Noah?" His voice sharpens. "What do you mean you're not studying Economics? What the hell have you been doing these past few years?"
"I started with it, just like you wanted," I say, trying to justify myself. "But it was a disaster. It just doesn't click for me, okay? I stuck it out for the first semester, but then I switched. I'm studying Molecular Biology now. And I'm damn good at it, honestly."
"You did what?" His voice is loud enough that the table next to us turns to stare. "You're telling me you've been lying to me for a year and a half?"
"It's not exactly lying—I just didn't tell you."
"Why, Noah?" he demands.
"Because if I had, you'd be acting exactly like this."
"No, that's not what I mean," he says, his voice rising. "Why did you throw away your career to pursue something else? You were supposed to join Pharmat. I've been paving the way for you, and now you pull this?"
"It's not my dream, okay?" My voice deepens. "I don't know what's with old men wanting to mold their kids into their image—deciding what we do, who we hang out with. No, you're not doing that to me. I never wanted to work for you. I want my own path, and research is my thing."
"My father chose my career too, and I didn't want it either," he says. "But I pushed through, and look where I am now."
"But I'm not you," I snap, maybe too harshly.
"Two years," he says, his voice cutting. "You've been lying to me for two years."
"Those two years don't compare to the time you spent cheating on Mom," I shoot back. Okay, maybe I went too far. Look, it's not news: my dad did cheat on my mom for who-knows-how-long, and it triggered the worst years of my adolescence, at least family-wise. Dinners were tense, the distance obvious; they nearly split up but decided to stay together for some reason. I used to be close to my family, but after the truth about my dad came out, everything changed. I pulled away too.
He doesn't say anything, just stares at me, jaw clenched.
"Fine," he says finally. "All I see is a complete lack of responsibility."
"I don't get it."
"I won't let you throw away all my hard work," he says, dodging my comment about Mom.
"You can't force me to go back to that major."
"You're right, I can't," he says. "But what I can do is cut off all the support I've given you."
"What are you talking about?" I ask, confused.
"As of now, you're cut off from the family bank accounts."
"What?"
"All your credit cards are getting blocked, and I'm locking your trust fund."
"You can't do that—it's my money," I say, my voice rising. "Besides, I turn 21 in a month."
"That money was a gift from me to build a life, to build a business," he says, staring me down in a way that actually intimidates me. "I can't take it away, true. But I'm friends with the bank manager, and I can pull strings to put conditions on your access. So you won't touch it, Noah, not until I say so."
My body tenses, my pulse races. I try to say something, but he keeps going.
"This is a lesson," he says. "You can't lie to me for this long and expect no consequences. Like you said, you're an adult now, so I'm not paying next semester's tuition either. If you're so set on throwing away everything I've done for you, then take responsibility for your choices, starting with your education."
I can't believe this is happening. I expected a lecture, maybe some distance, but this… This wasn't what I saw coming. I think I fucked up.
****
Breakfast with my dad was an absolute disaster. He doubled down hard, and no matter what I said, he wasn't budging. The fact that he's basically taken control of my trust fund is infuriating, but honestly, he's got connections, and all I've got is a bunch of frat brothers who, when they're not drunk or hooking up, are either studying or dealing with their own drama. I peeled out of there as fast as I could in my car—a Ford Mustang, by the way, a gift for my 18th birthday—before he got any bright ideas about taking that too. What a shitty day, seriously. I knew it'd be rough, but this takes the cake.
When I pull up to the Alpha Centauri house, I realize I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes: beige chinos, leather shoes, a white Oxford shirt, and don't even get me started on my underwear. Alpha Centauri's known as the top frat on campus. Most of its members come from families with some serious cash, but right now, I'm basically broke. And about the name—yeah, we know it's not your typical Greek-letter combo. Apparently, the founder was some astronomy nerd. From what I hear, the guy's still alive and a big shot at NASA. You'd think all their engineers would come from MIT, but who am I to judge? Point is, our frat carries weight around here.
Inside the house, the first floor's buzzing with brothers: some sprawled on the couch, others playing poker or video games. I head upstairs to my room, which is pretty spacious—another perk of being a Whitman. I flop onto the bed, letting out my frustration by groaning into the pillow, but my pity party doesn't last long before someone barges in like they own the place.
"Hey, Noah, how was the night with Lydia?" That's Chris, my best friend, with Joe trailing behind—solid guy, but a tier below Chris in the friend ranking.
"No clue," I say, sitting up.
"Wow, you look like crap," Joe says, eyeing me like I'm some weird bug.
"What do you mean you don't know?" Chris presses. "Who forgets a night with someone that hot?"
He's not wrong—I don't remember much. Waking up naked with a couple of open condom wrappers gave me a hint, and I've got vague flashes of her riding me.
"Look, I'm not in the mood for this right now," I snap.
"What's up?" Joe asks. They both stare at me as I run my hands through my hair, trying to tame it. Then I spill everything about the morning's meeting with my dad and how it went down.
"He can do that?" Joe asks.
"He can, and he did," I say, pissed. "I checked my accounts—they're either locked or empty." Honestly, money was never an issue for me; it was always there. But now that I'm broke, I'm realizing it wasn't as endless as I thought. "He moved fast, I'll give him that."
"So what're you gonna do?" Chris asks, leaning against my desk. "How're you gonna pay tuition and the frat dues?"
"Well, when I joined Alpha Centauri, I paid most of my stay upfront to look good for Morgan. It's tuition I'm worried about."
"Didn't he give you some way to get your money back?" Chris asks.
"With how pissed he was, I didn't ask," I say. "I don't even know how I didn't punch him in the face. But I know he'll cave eventually—he's not gonna let me starve, right?"
"And if he doesn't?" Joe says. "He's not the type to give in easy."
"I don't know what I can do… shit," I say, kicking a chair with barely contained rage. I'm trapped.
"What about applying for a scholarship?" Chris's words grab my full attention.
"Can I even do that?" I ask, intrigued. "I mean, considering who my family is."
"Yeah, I think so," he says. "Stanford offers tons of aid to students, including scholarships, and you've got good grades. Maybe if you apply, you could snag one."
I don't waste two seconds. I head to my closet, grabbing whatever's clean: a red polo that always looks good with my skin and pops my eyes, and dark pants.
"I gotta go," I say without looking back.
"Hey," Joe calls out, "don't forget you're on the pledge committee."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I mutter, rushing out.
The pledge committee is when a bunch of brothers get together to handle recruiting new members, usually mid-semester, which is right now during midterms. What happened was, at the start-of-semester hazing, our candidates went to an off-campus party and got trashed—literally. None of them made it through, so the spots stayed open. That's why we're doing it again with a new committee, and, lucky me, I got roped into it, as if I needed more crap in my life.
****
"A scholarship?" Garret Sterling, the director of the Diversity and Inclusion Office, asks me.
Trekking across campus to Montag Hall was exhausting, and I'm still not fully recovered from last night's hangover, but this morning's mess has me feeling worse.
"That's right, I want to apply," I say bluntly.
"Let me see if I've got this straight," he says, leaning back in his chair, tie dangling loosely. "You're saying your dad cut you off, you can't pay for the semester, and you want a scholarship to keep studying."
"Exactly. I'm broke as hell now, just like you." Shit, I had to say it. I regret it the second I see Sterling's face.
"Noah, I doubt your dad's leaving you high and dry," he says. "Just go back to studying, and you'll sort it out later."
"With all due respect, sir, you don't know my dad," I insist. "When he makes up his mind, there's no human power that'll change it. Trust me, I've tried."
"Even so, why come to me?" he says. "I run the Diversity and Inclusion Department. You should be applying for scholarships elsewhere."
"I already did, but there aren't any spots open," I say. "I heard your department offers scholarships too. Can't you make an exception for me? For old times' sake?"
"You just called me poor," Sterling says, giving me a look that's probably annoyance, though I can't quite tell through those massive glasses.
"That's what friends do, right? Bust each other's chops," I say, trying to lighten the mood.
"Noah, even if you were my friend, I can't help you," he says. "What, you want me to pass you off as Black, Latino, or an immigrant? Look at you."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I say with a sigh. "But for the scholarship, I could be."
"Listen," he continues, "even if you're a top-tier actor, we don't have any open slots for a scholarship. They don't open up until the current period ends." Damn, hearing that kills my vibe. "We've only got one spot left, and it's for the LGB—"
"I'm gay!" The words fly out of my mouth before I can even think. I'm desperate, and I need that scholarship.
"What?" I can't miss the shock on his face.
"For real," I say, leaning in. "I'm gay. Super gay."
"Noah."
"I'm not lying, I swear."
"This week alone, I've seen you making out with at least three different girls," he says. "You're not gay."
"Okay, well… I do that because of social pressure," I say. "The vibe on campus, all that testosterone—it boxes you in, makes you cave to the majority."
"You do realize we're basically in San Francisco, right?"
I shrug, but I'm not giving up my only shot.
"Maybe you've got the wrong idea about me," I say. "Every time I'm with a girl, I force myself to think about how hot my guy friends are. That's why it looks so natural and, you know, helps me… perform."
"Alright, enough," Sterling says, rubbing his face with his hands. "Even if that were true, no one on campus would buy it."
"So you're saying I'd have to come out publicly to get the scholarship." Honestly, it's not something I want to do. Having to be with a guy to snag the scholarship? Who'd have thought? But I don't care; I know who I am, and faking it for the greater good is something I can pull off.
"Even if you did, you'd still need to meet certain academic requirements," he says.
"No problem, I've got that covered," I say, standing up and heading for the door.
"Where are you going?" Sterling calls after me.
"To find myself a boyfriend."