The Boiling Point | ✔️

01 | compromise

SUMMER

Is there a correct way to prepare for your own murder? Eating a good last meal? I had a chicken salad sandwich for lunch. Talk about ordinary.

If I'd known it was a last meal, I would have had something sweet. Red velvet cupcakes, obviously. But it's too late. So how about wearing a nice outfit to die in? Running shorts and a sweaty tank don't exactly cut it.

I know—saying goodbye to your loved ones. No worries there, I can squeeze that in before my own father eats me alive.

Okay, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic. But with the news I'm about to hit him with, it sure as hell feels like I'm walking into the lion's den.

I knock on his sacred study door.

"Yes, come in, come in," my dad's irritable voice calls.

As I expected, he's stooped over his wide desk and surrounded by stacks of papers. Behind him, shrouded in darkness, are shelves of leather-bound books and antique ornaments. His workspace is the only area illuminated.

"What is it, Summer?" He doesn't look up, his hand continuing to graze over a paper and mark it periodically. He knows it's me because Mom is showing an open house, and he doesn't know Ella's back from the library.

I cross over the dark rug and place my laptop on his desk, breath hovering in clenched lungs.

Dad now watches me open the lid and turn the screen to him. By my stiff movements, he'd never guess that I was celebrating with my sister like a five-year-old on a sugar high less than twenty minutes ago.

"What's this?" He peers over thin rims, hazel-green eyes flitting over the email.

They're the same as mine, his eyes. The only thing I got from him, appearance-wise, that is. We're both as stubborn as mules. I pretty much take after my mom in every other aspect. Especially regarding the creative streak both my dad and sister aggressively lack.

"An acceptance letter?" He drags the laptop over his papers, the light of the screen reflecting rectangles on his glasses.

I'm waiting for it. The waver of his smile. The moment he realizes what I'm really showing him. His eyes stop darting—and there it is.

"Cloverbrook College of Culinary Arts," he reads in a monotone.

"Clocul for short, that's what they call it. And I start in September."

"Oh, you do?" He chuckles dryly, returning to his work. "I'll be sure to mark the date on my calendar, then."

I pick up the laptop and sit across from him. "I'm serious, Dad."

His amusement melts away as he takes in my expression. "Summer... no."

"Yes."

His fingers weave together. "Listen, if you applied to see if you could get in, then great, you did. But culinary school,"—his mouth twists, tone sour—"is not the plan."

"You're right, it's not the plan. Your plan. But it's very much mine."

"Since when?" He picks up the half-eaten cookie next to his coffee mug. "Law school has always been where your head is at."

"Your head," I mutter.

I screw my eyes shut. Annoying him with backchat will only make this worse. I sense him staring at me, waiting for me to correct myself.

"Sorry, but it's true," I say, forcing myself to meet those darkening eyes. "Culinary school has always been where my head was at. You've just never acknowledged it. Who do you think made that, huh?"