Nicholas wore his best black suit as expected. His father had been re-elected for a second term at the white house and as his father’s son, he was supposed to be there.
He didn’t like the feeling of the clean and ironed linen against his skin nor the pressed trousers. He didn’t like the way that the shirt was buttoned to the top and the way that tie was around his neck, knotted just as his father had taught him when he was younger.
But as much as he didn’t like that, he didn’t like the look on his mother’s face that told he was running late. As much as Isabella Thorpe was willing to stand behind her son, she was still his father’s wife. A beautiful angel who seemed to hold it all together whenever it seemed that the schism between them was growing wider and wider.
His bedroom in the white house had always been bare. He had never felt home in the large building but he still stayed there as part of his father’s family whenever he had to. His mother would have it no other way and his sister required constant eyes after her eighteenth birthday. All those young boys who found her fair game where all marked with the same player smirk that he had seen on his friends, Michael and Damien, before.
He took a deep breath.
He was 24 now. He was a grown man and he had completed his undergraduate degree, majoring in economics whilst minoring in art and music. He had found that his father’s name could get him a lot, such as the privilege to study whatever he wanted, even if it made no sense. It was the only time he had used it, after that long-ago distant summer spent on the beaches of Cape Town.
His mind flew back to her.
The vision that he held close to his mind as he worked to erase her from his memory, much his disappointment, it has always lingered.
He thought of her smile, that was the first thought that always reached him first. Her thick pale brown and pink tinted lips that were drawn thinner revealing her white and straight teeth. Her brown skin around her lips. The way that her smile reached her eyes.
And her eyes.
Dark and enticing. Filled with wonder and excitement.
But he had also found that that wonder was not meant for him.
“Come on, Nicholas.” His brother, Christopher called out to him. For many it was Thorpe. Just like his father, sometimes even Maxwell a matching middle name for the father and his sons. Most of the time, Chris was somebody that Nic had last seen when they were children. “We’re going to be late.”
Christopher had a stern tone that remained calm. Just like his father, he had never had to shout to display his point, never lifted his voice or strayed away from his calm and collected tone.
And just like with his father, Nic hated the sound of Christopher’s voice. The calm assertiveness, the knowing that they were something important. The power that it commanded.
He cared for his surfboard and his easel that held an uncompleted painting of the beach. A vision he hadn’t seen since a few months prior when he had dipped down to LA and saw his cousin Matthew, his wife, Kelsi and their little children whom all called him ‘Uncle Nic’ as per Kelsi’s request.
He had taken pictures of the sea from the family’s beach house and one picture that he had caught was off Kelsi and Matthew embracing on the beach as the children played on the sand and the sea crashed behind them. It was a beautiful moment that had caused his heart to pang and so there he was recreating all his pain in a painting.
He was beginning to think that perhaps he was a masochist.
Nic swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat and went to open his bedroom door.
His brother was standing there, his hand reached out to where the door knob used to be.
“What took you so long?” Christopher asked. He was a taller and sharper version of Nicholas. All spark and charm stripped away for serious and stern faces.
“I couldn’t choose a tie.” Nic answered.
Christopher didn’t say anything in turn and lead them down the corridor to where the rest of the family was waiting.
****
Isabella, Nathaniel and Elizabeth Thorpe could not have looked nothing less alike. Granted Isabella and Nathaniel had married each other but they still shared nothing.
Isabella Thorpe was a beautiful woman with smooth blonde hair and a gentle smile. Her face shone with a youthful glow that even her smile lines couldn’t hide. She had no plastic or cosmetic work done to her face and she didn’t need it. Her skin was tan even though she spent plenty time in doors.
Nathanial on the other hand was a pale man with dark hair and harsh angles on his face. If Nic had gotten his green eyes from his mother, he had gotten his sharp jawline and handsome face from his father. He had well-trimmed hair and that was sleeked back. His face clean shaven. Unlike the small scruff that Nic wore with pride.
Elizabeth was the perfect combination of their parents and youthfulness. She didn’t seem to do much in the way of dress, just a simple grey frock and her hair pulled up into a proper bun. She was the illusive princess of both wealth and beauty.
The family was ushered out of the white house. Outside they were met with quite a few sets of cameras. All flashing pictures of the completed family and the estranged son who never spent much time home. It was hard to believe that some people in the world cared about what Nic was doing. That they cared about he was never at home.
Nathaniel moved to address the crowd with a stern face behind a simple podium.
“I have served my country.” Nathaniel began. “I have served it so well that you all have chosen me to serve it again. America is a great nation. Filled with many people and much beauty. It is our job as Americans to protect and maintain it that way.”
“I serve you not as a president but rather as a brother.” He continued. “We are all America. America is all us.”
Nicholas began to let his mind wander away, floating to the blue sky above. Cloudless. He was entranced by its purity and for a moment, he thought he could see the waves, to match that distinct shade.
The speech blurred into the background. He stood by his father, that was the visual the media needed but he also stood upon his surfboard, miles and miles away. He stood in front of his easel, close and nearby.
He stood alone, solitary as he tried to wrangle his mind back to focus on what was being said but it was already too late. His father was not a man of many words and when he had said all his words, he was done. So the speech ended and the crowded applauded. He lifted his hands and did as such.
The rest of the day was an utter drag.
****
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