Page 17 of Open Water
"Come on, Braden. You've been talking shit since freshman year. You cornered me in the locker room after the singles trial in September. You threatened me. Don't act like you've been minding your own business this whole time."
Braden just stared at me for a second.
"Yeah," he said. "I did."
The he shook his head.
"Because you took my seat."
"What?"
"You were supposed to chase. Eldridge put you behind me and Mason so we could set the pace. And you blew past both of us like we weren't there." He wasn't yelling. His voice had gone flat. "I know you're the better rower. Everybody knows. But that was my shot. That was the one thing I had that wasn't about your last name, and you took it because you could."
I didn't say anything because he wasn't wrong. I remembered the exact moment. The river opening up, the decision to stop chasing. It was the moment that started all of this. I'd never thought about what it cost him.
"So yeah. I came at you. I talked shit. I got in your face."
He picked up his bag, about to turn away then stopped. He dropped his bag, he wasn't done.
"Because what else am I supposed to do? That's what I'm here for. That's what we're both here for."
"What are you talking about?"
"My father put me here so I could be the other Lockwood fighting the other Harrington. That's the job. That's all I am here. And the truth is I'm fucking tired of it. Because this wholething revolves around you. Harrington this. Harrington that. And I'm just here to make it look competitive."
"That's not—"
"And all I get for it is shit from my father. Every Sunday. What were Harringtons splits? Did Harrington get the scout's attention? Did you beat him yet?" His voice cracked on the edge of something held too long. "Not how are you or good race. Just — did you beat the Harrington kid? And then people come for me for shit I haven't done."
The parking lot was empty. Just us and the cold.
"All I get is shit from my father too," I said.
Braden looked at me.
"After the Charles. At the reception. Everyone celebrating and he pulls me aside and starts talking about next semester. Making plans I didn't ask for. No congratulations. No 'good race son.'"
"Sounds about right."
"I didn't choose Kingswell either. My father chose all of it."
Braden stared at me. The anger still there but something else underneath. The look of a person seeing something they hadn't expected.
"Our fathers don't even talk to each other," I said. "They just use us. Keep the whole thing going through us like we're—"
"Extensions." Braden's voice was flat. "That's the word my therapist used."
"You have a therapist?"
"Don't look so surprised, Harrington. Us rich kids get fucked up too."
I exhaled out of my nose. I knew it too well, except I didn't have a therapist and probably should. It was like all of a sudden we talked about the thing that we were both suffering from on different ends of this family rivalry and we got each other.
"I don't care what's going on with you and Moore," Braden said. He adjusted the strap on his bag. Not looking at me. "That's your business."
"Okay."
"I care about being fast. That's it." He looked up. "Find your texter. But look somewhere else. Because anonymous messages and photos and all that — that's beneath me. That's not how I operate."
