The Silicon Valley Connection

4 | aidan - print ('the bet')

Nearly the entire time it took to pick up the food consisted of pure agonizing silence. By the time we were halfway to our destination, Faith had become the master in the art of scrolling through her phone, mindlessly twisting and untwisting her collarbone-length curls simultaneously. After a fifth red light, I finally decided to break the silence.

"You know, I had a feeling we attended the same college, but I was not expecting you to move into the dorm across from mine."

Or that we would be in the same group for the Wayfinder Tech Competition.

      "407B?"

I nod. "You don't look too surprised, which kind of scares but eases me at the same time."

"Well, all the student-athletes stay in the Golden Gate suites, Mr. Middle Blocker."

"How'd you--"

"You have some serious calluses on your middle three fingers on both hands. And there's some athletic tape that has yet to come off." She taps her chin. "But I don't recall an Aidan Lim on the roster..."

I tighten my grip on the wheel and force out a jagged breath. "That's because Ethan Brentwood is my father. I'm sure that surname is on there."

"You're joking. For the love of God, tell me you're messing with me right now."

I shake my head in disappointment. "I'm not messing with you."

Her eyes narrow before deeming that I'm telling the truth. "I suppose not. What's up with the last name, then?"

"Lim's my mother's maiden name. I changed it as soon as I turned eighteen. To the rest of those that know who I am? They greet me with my father's surname, but I don't really care because I only ever use Lim for the things and people who matter the most: my mother, volleyball team, other close friends--"

"And me," she monotonously whispers under her breath. Her voice strengthened a little, but I detected saddened undertones beneath the façade. "It probably was a mistake, which I understand. It was a spur-of-the-moment type of thing, and we were both sort of in a rush."

Right...in a rush...The menacing silence encircles both of us like a wolf, ready to devour us whole. Then, as if this awkward conversation that is a complete 180 from when we first met couldn't get any worse, he calls--the Caller ID bold and daunting on my car's touchscreen stereo. I hit the hands-free option a little more forceful than usual.

"Yeah?" I answer impatiently.

"Watch your t--"

"My tone. I know." Not even going to have common courtesy with a "hello" this time? Prick.

His gruff voice echoes from the stereo speakers again. "Where are you right now?"

I try to keep my steadily rising anger to a minimum. There's no need to make this call more fractured than it already is.

"It's nearing 11:15 p.m. Why does it matter? You never asked about my whereabouts before, but now that I'm on my own, you think it's a good time to be somewhat concerned now?"

Although I can't see him through the phone, the sigh he fills with a heavy, bass-like grumble sends a message of his thinning patience with my clipped comments. The see-saw-like tension between us is dangerously teetering in his favor. The following dreadfully quiet line on the other end makes my hair stand on its ends, and his eventual low and taut voice singes through my ears like boiling water threatening to spill over onto the stove.

"You better not be with a girl this late."

"And if I was?" I counter back.

"If you were," he repeats, "remember what their real purpose is."