ᴏᴀᴋʟᴇʏ ᴄᴀʀʀɪʟʟᴏ was discovered at fourteen years old, being praised as a musical prodigy by the media ever since. His fame had only increased until now. At nineteen old, he's the most remarkable musician of his age, and he's only getting started. At...
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ɴᴏʟᴀɴ ᴍᴜʟʟᴇɴ
"Dad?"
He looked up from his laptop, taking his reading glasses off as I sat down at the opposite end of the dining table. He took hold of his coffee mug, but he didn't take a sip yet.
"Do you need me to drive you to your audition?"
"No, I actually wanted to ask if I could drive myself," I said. He frowned, now bringing the mug to his lips.
"Do you think that's a good idea?" he asked, placing his coffee back down on the table and returning his eyes to the laptop screen. "I think it's better if I drive you."
I rolled my eyes. This was how it went for the past week. I'd ask either of my parents if I could leave the house, but the answer remained no. I couldn't leave alone, I couldn't leave with Oakley. I wanted to go on that date, but if my dad wouldn't even let me go to work by myself, how could we arrange that one night out?
"Have I not proven myself enough?" I asked, sitting down at the opposite end of the table. I didn't see any reason for my parents to keep following me around like a child. All my tests had been clear. "Why can't you trust me?"
My dad looked at me again, his eyebrows still set in a frown.
"This isn't about me not trusting you."
"Then what else is it about?" I asked, my jaw tensing. I had been stuck in this house for over a month now, and I needed some freedom again. I was suffocating under the constant surveillance my parents had put me on. "What do you want me to do so I can just start living my life again?"
"It's not you, Nolan. I trust you." A line formed between his eyebrows as he said the words. "But the paparazzi will be on your back."
"Then why do I still have to take those stupid tests?" Twice a week still. It was better than twice a day, but it still went to show that they did not trust me. What were they so afraid of, after proving time and time again that I was sober?
My dad closed the laptop, and it made a loud clapping noise. He didn't even glance at the thing. He only rubbed his thumb and index finger on the bridge of his nose, his elbow resting on the table as he let out a sigh.
"I told your mom it was enough with those," he said, shaking his head.
"No," I said. Now he was shifting the blame, but my problem was still there. I had to take a drug test twice a week, and I was not allowed out of the house without guidance. And I still hadn't gotten a proper explanation why. Maybe I could understand if only he would talk to me. "You don't get to redirect the conversation. Why do you not trust me?"
My father's muscles tensed as he looked anywhere but at me with nothing but anger in his eyes.
"Why are you so adamant about leaving the house?" he asked in a raised voice, his fists on the table as he stood up. "You screwed up!" he yelled, enunciating every word very clearly as though I was a child.
