I was never going to go to Harvard. Or Stamford. Or Banting. Or any other school that my dad would have been proud to wear a sweatshirt from as he cheered on the football team. Now, before you go making any assumptions, I'm not dumb or anything. My grades are actually pretty fucking fantastic. You know how it is, though. You make a few stupid mistakes when you're fifteen, and they haunt you forever. Yeah, early expulsion from Sweden's finest international school doesn't really look good on a college resume... Don't ask.

The thing is, my dad never quite accepted my inevitable fate. From the second I turned seventeen, he started answering every question for me, as if the two of us had the whole thing figured out.

"We've got our fingers crossed for Notre Dame or UPenn," He'd tell every dinner party guest who'd shown a contrived, obligatory interest in me and/or my future. "You know, his mother and I have always hoped the kids would go to school in The States."

If that was the case, I'd never heard mention of it. Although, having excuse to live in a different country from my parents didn't sound half bad, even if my previous experiences of living abroad had ended in disaster (ie. Sweden's finest international school. I told you not to ask!)

"Screw the Ivy Leagues!" Tristan was wickedly urging me from the moment the college conversation began. "Just come to Smithdale."

"So I can weigh you down and ruin your chances of becoming the next great Shakespearean actor?" I teased. "Not a chance."

"Miles," He whined. "That is not going to happen. You know you're just going to miss me like crazy if you don't come."

I swallowed hard, knowing he was right, but not wanting to take the conversation seriously just yet. We were sitting on the couch in my family room, college pamphlets open in our laps. I shoved my stack onto the cushions next to me, and leaned back, overwhelmed.

"Nah," I told him casually. "I've been waiting for a break from you for years."

Tristan reached out and gave me a playful shove. "You jackass!" He cackled, then quietly flipped through the pamphlet he was holding, undoubtedly looking for another blurb about Smithdale's theatre school auditions.

I rested my head on the back of the couch, and just watched. He was so focused; so determined. I hated being that guy who gets jealous of his own boyfriend, but the feeling was so overpowering, more so now than ever. Tristan knew what he wanted, and even with his playful insistence that I join him at Smithdale, I wasn't sure if what he wanted actually included me.

Tristan's eyes scanned the page for just a moment before he looked up at me again. He'd always been the type of person who could look at me and know exactly what I was thinking. Man, I hated him for that.

He lowered his eyebrows and tilted his head knowingly. "Oh, come on. It's not going to be that bad. We'll figure something out. It's us, isn't it?"

I let out a shaky breath, nodding.

"Aw, Miles. Come here…" Tristan cupped my face with his hand, and pressed a gentle kiss to my lips. "You're gonna make me cry."

It really was the uncertainty, in that particular moment in time, that got to me. I knew I had options and everything. If I couldn't get in anywhere on merit alone, my mother would get out her checkbook, and at least one admissions board was likely to start drooling, money signs appearing in their eyes. No, I wasn't worried about not getting in. I was worried about ending up somewhere where I'd be totally unhappy. I hated the pressure to make a decision, because I knew the less time I had, the more rash my decision would be. What if I decided to go to The States, and went mental without Tristan? What if I decided to follow Tristan to Smithdale, and went mental because I couldn't stand his pretentious actor friends? What if I avoided the decision for too long, missed every application deadline, and destroyed my entire future? There were just too many terrible scenarios on my mind. I could hardly process them.

And so, I laid awake every night for the entire first term of grade 12, telling myself that I would make a decision the next day. I had to make a decision the next day. I had to take action. Any kind of action.

But I didn't. I kept doing nothing. That didn't stop me from telling my dad for a month that my Dartmouth application was as good as done, and that I just needed my English teacher to finish proofing the essay that I'd secretly never shown her. I technically never lied to him. I just told him the part of the truth that I knew he wanted to hear.

I couldn't lie to Tristan, though. He and I were so beyond that.

"I'm so sick of this," I confessed to him one night. His mum was out and we were alone in his room, my head resting against his chest as we lay in bed. "This idea that I have to know right now what I want to do. High school's not even over. Can't I just enjoy the end of senior year?"

"You're not enjoying this?" Tristan asked, lightly stroking my arm.

I sighed, frustrated. "You know what I mean." Then, to reassure him, I scooted up a bit and kissed him on the cheek. "I just wish there was another option."

"Miles Hollingsworth The Third," Tristan scolded wisely. "You've never been one to put yourself in a box. If you want another option, you'll find one."

And with that, I realized he was right. I could stop worrying about which college I'd go to. If I didn't want to make a decision, I didn't actually have to. It wasn't as if I'd drop dead if the application deadlines came and went. I had free will, and I could do whatever I wanted. The problem was, my parents wanted me to go to college, and until I was twenty-five and gained access to my trust fund, they also controlled my bank account. If I were to defy their wishes, I was going to have to get creative.

"Miles, really lean in. Get your heads together."

I sighed heavily, placing my hand on Frankie's shoulder, and fitting my head into the window between her and Hunter.

"You're messing up my hair." Frankie mumbled pointedly.

"Can we just take the picture already?" Hunter snapped at both of us.

"Wow. What's crawled up your butt?" Frankie snapped back.

"We both know I'm not the one who likes stuff up his butt."

The twins often had a tendency of forgetting their surroundings, and had lost themselves in the bickering match.

"Jesus christ, Hunter," I punitively dug my nails into his shoulder. He squirmed instinctively.

"Ugh! Stop it!"

Several feet in front of us, my grandmother lowered her brand new DSL camera, clearing her throat and forcing a tight-lipped smile to assure me that she "wasn't bothered" by the butt sex comments. "Perhaps we should try again after dinner?" She asked sweetly,

"No!" Frankie and Hunter said in unison.

If we couldn't cooperate with grandmother now, she'd probably just go out and hire a professional photographer, forcing us to return to her town home in a month, wearing the same designer outfits we were wearing today. She'd have the creep physically force us into exactly the position she wanted us to be in, and take a series of pictures that she'd tell people, a decade later, were actually taken spur-of-the-moment on Christmas Eve. Before the timely advent of digital photography (and my grandmother's painfully awkward social media addiction) such a scenario was an annual occurrence. None of us wanted to relive the trauma.

"I'm sorry, Grandma." I adjusted myself again, and put my head where I'd originally been asked. "Go ahead."

The three of us smiled big, goofy grins. She was practically giddy as she lifted her camera again, snapping away.

"Perfect!" She cooed. "Ugh! My little christmas angels."

Hunter stifled a cynical laugh. I dug my nails into his shoulder again, reminding him to humor her.

As she was finishing up, my Dad strolled into the parlor, his arms crossed as he passively observed the picturesque moment.

"Oh, Junior, look!" Grandma beamed down at her display screen, motioning for him to come and see. "Just like when they were kids."

With the distraction, we sprung away from each other, unable to pretend we were close for another moment.

"Oh, kids…" My grandmother scoffed shamefully. "It wasn't that bad."

"Give them a break, Mum." Dad tried. "Siblings are less affectionate than they were when you were young."

"You've raised them to be so competitive," She chastised him. "There's one constant you get in life, and that's family. What are they going to have now?"

Father looked over, sizing us up. "Their integrity, I hope… A sense of self sufficiency?" He winked at us. I could have barfed.

"You're just like your father," She said, stiffly shaking her head. Her voice broke a little at the end of the sentence. Grandpa had died from lung cancer when I was a baby, and Grandma still had trouble talking about him, especially when her words bordered on negative.

"Oh, come on," Dad said pleasantly, untouched by her. "That was exactly what you two wanted, wasn't it?"

"You were an only child." Grandma reminded him. "I had no idea what I was doing."

My father crossed his arms again, giving a careless shrug. There was no way he was going to take any of the blame for how we'd turned out. "Are we going to eat or not?"

"Miles, honey," Grandma began. It took me a moment to realize she was addressing me. There were too many other Mileses she could have been talking about. "Could you go track down your lovely mother? She snuck off to the bathroom, what? Twenty minutes ago."

I nodded compliantly, and made my way toward the parlor's entrance. As I was inching into the hall, I head my grandmother asking Dad, "You didn't upset her again, did you?"

I wouldn't have put it past him either. It was always difficult for my dad to get through a holiday without causing a stink about soiled expectations or some crap like that. They typically fought about who had embarrassed who in front of grandma. It was pretty exhausting, and to be honest, I hardly had the patience to deal with it today.

As I made my way through the foyer, and toward the town home's marble staircase, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked for texts. Tristan had driven to Guelph to see his aunt and uncle, and I'd gotten accustomed to reading the play-by-play of his adventures any time he traveled. It was a nice distraction from Hollingsworth family drama, and helped me feel like we weren't actually spending the day together.

"Uncle Ben insisted on real tree this year. Like. What is he trying to prove?" He'd written. Then, in another message, "It's dangerously close to the fire place." And another, "Mr. Putter-the-Tabby keeps trying to climb it." I felt an amused grin creeping onto my face. "If it wasn't clear. Mr. Putter is a cat."

I texted back. "Stop, drop, and roll. Never 4get."

He replied immediately. "Yeah. Thanks, Bae."

I laughed out loud, imagining him rolling his eyes sarcastically as he said it.

"Is that Tristan?"

I looked up quickly to find my mom coming out of grandmother's guest room, her eyes red and puffy. She sniffed unattractively, putting her hands on her hips, and lifting up her chin. I assumed that she thought if she tried hard enough to act confident, I wouldn't realize she'd been crying. She obviously hadn't looked in the mirror.

"Of course it is," I told her, lowering my phone.

"Okay." She nodded stupidly. "Glad he got to Guelph okay."

Over the years, Tristan had really grown on Mom. I guess he'd always impressed her with his beyond-his-years manners and wit. It was nice and all, but she always acted like her approval of him should earn her a medal or something. I refused to indulge her by discussing our relationship.

So, we just stood there for a moment, and then it slowly dawned on me that she was waiting for me to say something else, and not necessarily about Tristan. I realized she did, in fact, know that I could tell she'd been crying. She probably wanted to see if I would finally try to console her. She needed to give up. I'd been finished offering her sympathy for years. All the pain she was experiencing was pain she'd been bringing upon herself by staying with my dad. I didn't want to know what he'd done this time, and I didn't want to pretend like I was on either of their sides. I just wanted to go downstairs, eat, and get out of grandma's house as soon as we could.

"Dinner's ready," I told her bluntly.

"Oh," She said, an air of disappointment in her voice. We weren't going to have a heart to heart any time soon. I spun around quickly, and lead her back down the staircase. Her Prada heels clacked rhythmically on the marble behind me as she followed.

We arrived in the dining room to interrupt yet another instance of my father speaking on my behalf.

"…Dartmouth. You know we've always liked the idea of The States."

"Yep. You know me…" I dryly chimed in. "I've always felt like a big ole' yankee doodle deep down inside."

My father simply glared at me.

Grandma wasn't paying attention to me or my dad. Her gaze was fixed on Mom. Mom was smiling, but grandma, like me, was too smart for that. She smiled back, but there was rage in her eyes. She hated her son for ruining yet another holiday dinner by making someone feel unpleasant. Of course, she was an idiot for expecting anything else.

The salad had already been served, and Frankie and Hunter poked at their lettuce, bored. Nothing about the situation was shocking for them. I lowered myself in the seat next to Frankie, picking up my own fork.

"Bon appétit," I mumbled.

The six of us finished the rest of our meal in silence. Merry Christmas to us.

The food grandma served us was always incredible, not that she could take any credit for it herself. Her cook, Patricia, had been serving us Christmas dinner for as long as I could remember. One of the reasons we always had our feast on Christmas Eve was so Patrice would have the 25th off to spend with her family. Grandma was really considerate about things like that.

When we'd finished our final course, a traditional English pudding, Patricia shuffled out of the kitchen, eager to clear the table for us.

"Oh, no no!" Grandma scolded. "Your work is done, Pat. I know how to clear a table."

"Mrs. Hollingsworth, I…" She began. It was the same thing every year, grandma always insisted on letting her go early. She protested as a formality, but we all knew she was secretly thrilled by the request.

Grandma lifted a hand, interrupting her. "I don't want to hear it. Take the left overs you want, we'll pack up the rest."

Patricia was deeply appreciative. "Thank you, Mrs. Hollingsworth."

She rushed off, back into the kitchen.

"We'll just give her a moment," Grandma said in a hushed tone, lifting her plum-colored cloth napkin out of her lap and wiping the corners of her mouth. Then, she dropped the napkin on the table, a look of realization coming over her face. "Oh, I almost forgot!"

"What?" My Dad asked impatiently. Grandma was already standing up from the table.

"I'm going to need some help getting her present downstairs. Miles, sweetheart, would you help me."

My Dad made an annoyed noise in his throat, reluctantly taking his own napkin out of his lap.

"Not you." Grandma scolded. "The Miles with the decent attitude."

She couldn't possibly mean me, could she? I smirked, amused by the obvious joke.

"Sure, Grandma." I stood up, and followed her out of the room.

She began making small talk with me as soon as we reached the staircase. "So…" She started. "Dartmouth, eh?"

I laughed roughly. "Yeah, Dad's pretty delusional, isn't he?"

Grandma wasn't having it. "What are you talking about? You're a smart boy, aren't you?"

We reached the top of the stairs, and turned our way down the corridor, moving toward the master suite at the end of the hall. "Sure, but can you picture me at Dartmouth?"

She sighed thoughtfully, shaking her head. "I suppose you're right. I always pictured you in a big city… At NYU, maybe… If you're so set on The States."

I nodded quietly. Grandma lead me into her room, which was a mess. You'd never expect that level of clutter from a 76-year-old billionaire, but she'd always kept her room off-limits to her cleaning staff. It was her oasis.

A pile of wrapped gifts was stacked against one of the bedroom walls. None of them looked particularly heavy, so I wondered why she'd asked me to come with her. Then, she crossed over to two wooden rocking chairs in the corner of the room. They were dainty, and carved with incredible detail. Grandma had tied a giant bow to each of them.

Grandma stood behind them, setting her hands on the back of one. "Patricia always talked about how they had rocking chairs on the front porch of her cottage growing up…" She told me. "She and her husband just moved into a house with a great porch, and I thought… Well, you know. These are from the right period and everything."

I stared incredulously, realizing that Grandma must have spent a fortune, seeing how the chairs were actual antiques. Most people, my mother included, gave their help fruit baskets for the holidays.

"Oh, stop it," Grandma laughed, reading my mind. "Patricia has been with me for decades. She's had every opportunity to poison me, and I like to reward her for her self control. Now, will you grab one of these and help me get them down to her."

I nodded, and rushed over to her. Each of us grabbed one of the chairs, which were surprisingly light, and went back towards the bedroom's double doors.

As soon as we were moving, Grandma jumped right back to the subject of college. I'd learned that it was hard for adult relatives to stay away from.

"Miles, listen to me," She told me. "If you know Dartmouth is a bust, save yourself the headache and give up now. Your father will hate me for saying this but… well… I guess he already hates me."

"I gave up on Dartmouth months ago, Grandma." I responded honestly.

"Of course you did," She sighed, as we started carefully down the stairs. "You know, you make me so proud. Your father… he was never able to truly think for himself. Even after Miles - the first Miles, I mean - after your grandfather passed… you know, your Dad never really found himself."

We got to the bottom of the stairs. I expected Grandma to continue down the hall to the kitchen, but she stopped, turning to face me head on.

"He's got a lot of resentment, I think, and a lot of insecurities," She continued. I listened uncomfortably, not sure what to make of what she was saying. "I know, or… I've always hoped that somewhere deep down he truly loves your mother, and all of you kids, but then I see the way he takes his pain out on you… You have to understand that's hard for me to see that as a mother."

I nodded awkwardly.

"Oh, listen to me, rambling on…" She laughed briefly, then immediately got serious again. "What I wanted to say was… honey, you've never been like that. Your heart is so much bigger… so much stronger, if that makes any sense. You stand up for yourself, and even though you fight with your siblings, I've seen the way you truly love that boy…"

This was getting a little too sappy for me, and Grandma wasn't quite done yet.

"I just… I don't want you to become your father. It would kill me to see that happen. Not that I have many good years left…"

"Don't worry," I said confidently. "I have no plans to be anything like Dad."

She pursed her lips, nodding apprehensively for a moment. "Miles," She said when she spoke again. "…I want to give you access to your trust fund."

It took me a second to process it. "What? Wait… now?"

"Well… soon. When you turn eighteen. Instead of twenty-five."

I suddenly felt light headed, and contemplated setting the rocking chair I was holding down so I could sit in it. My trust fund had been set up by my grandfather when I was born. I'd never heard an actual quote, but it was my understanding that it would take care of me for life.

"I want you enter adulthood free from your father. I want you to be able to make your own choices," Grandma was still talking, but I could barely hear her. "I'll do the same for your brother and sister when the time comes."

"Oh my god…" I shook my head. "Grandma, thank you!"

I grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her in for a tight hug. All I could think was that everything had changed. My world had opened up. The possibilities were endless.

I couldn't wait to tell Tristan.