“...I didn’t want to wait until it was too late.”

“Right, of course,” my father says. There is the mumbled sound of someone talking in the background and then he says, “Yes, as long as we have it before five.”

I wait for him to return his focus to the call, knowing better than to try to talk over whatever is happening in New York.

“Did you get moved in all right?” he asks. “How were the new movers?”

“Fine.” I sigh. “They still need to come back to pick up the old furniture and bring it to storage though. They were supposed to this morning while I was at class, but it’s still here.”

“God,” my mother says. “It’s as if nothing can get done without ten follow-up calls. I’ll have Katherine ring them tomorrow.”

“I don’t need your assistant to do it. I can call my own moving people.” I scoff. “Jesus, I’ve been in boarding school since I was nine—I think I’ve got it.”

“Braden,” my father says. “Don’t be rude to your mother. She’s just trying to help.”

I exhale and lie back on my West Elm pillows. “Sorry, Mom,” I mumble.

My father might as well have been scolding me for pouting about not getting a cookie until after dinner. Going to boarding school somehow means both growing up at hyper speed and never growing up at all. On one hand, you have immense freedom at an early age. But at the same time, your parents haven’t interacted with you day-to-day since you were a child, and when you do talk to them, a lot of those old mannerisms still remain. They don’t know how to parent a teenager, so they offer some sort of combination of parenting for a ten-year-old and for a thirty-year-old.

“You better behave yourself out there,” my father says. “I do not want a repeat of last time.”

I make a small sound in the affirmative, my throat suddenly too dry to form words. I should’ve known those sort of threats wouldn’t have been left behind in high school. That he would never let me forget that, despite all the privileges I’d been given, I was still dumb enough to be caught drinking in my high school dorm. And that the only reason I wasn’t expelled like the other kids with me that day was that my father, in addition to all the tuition he’d paid, made a six-figure donation to the school. He’ll never let me forget that, if I misstep again—get in trouble for partying or fail a class—I will not get off so easy.

“How are your classes?” my mom asks, always one to avoid confrontation at all costs.