9. Will
WILL
Of course Rosie drives a fucking BMW SUV.
It has that new leather smell, like it just came straight from the dealership.
No pine tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.
No candy bar wrappers stuffed between the seats like my ma’s car or burger wrappers on the floor like in my dad’s truck.
“You have been in a car before, right?” he asks, eying the way I’m studying the interior.
“Not since I moved to Jersey.”
“Amazingly, New Jersey has cars, and roads, and a lot of late-night diners. It’s kind of famous for them.”
“Really? Thanks for the info.”
He smiles to himself as he takes the road leading off campus. It’s dark, trees either side of the sparsely lit road keeping out any natural moonlight. I let myself look at Priestley Rosenthal properly for the first time, trying to see him as a person and not just a rich-guy, pain in my ass.
He’s annoyingly good looking, in that distant, cold, untouchable sort of way models are good looking. Not that he’s model-good looking or anything like that. He just has really nice skin. Pale, with a little dark around the eyes. Jet black hair and deep brown eyes.
“Where are your parents from, Rosie?”
His jaw ticks a little and I smile to myself at having won another point. I’m so glad I came up with that nickname.
“New England,” he says.
“That’s specific.”
“If you’re asking what my ethnic background is, my father’s side of the family are extremely Scandinavian and British—ancestors probably involved in the actual colonization of the United States. And my mother is Persian-American.”
“Um, I wasn’t asking your ethnic background, actually, but, thanks for sharing. I just meant, where did you grow up?”
“Connecticut. What about you?”
“What do you think? William O’Reilly? My ancestors are Irish and I grew up in Boston.”
“I thought William was a Scottish name, actually.”
I shrug. “I guess it can be both. I’m pretty sure it’s a popular English name, too.”
I glance at his hands on the steering wheel, the long, smooth fingers of someone who’s never completed a day’s hard labor in his life.
Never held a hockey stick—though I guess ski poles count for something.
And tennis rackets. Do tennis players get calluses on their palms?
I can’t imagine Priestley Rosenthal having callused hands.
“You’re staring at me. Stop.”
I clear my throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “I was just making sure you’re concentrating on the road.”
I wrack my brain for something to say.
“What does your mom do?”
His eyes get glassy. Or am I imagining that?
“She worked as a lawyer when I was growing up, but she’s a professor now—at Harvard.”
I whistle.
“Yes, impressive, I know. Professor Moreno kind of reminds me of her.”
He gets this look on his face, like he wants to bite his tongue off for telling me that.
But I’m not going to use this information against him, not unless I absolutely have to.
I may have more humanity than Priestley Rosenthal, but I’m not an idiot.
I need this internship more than he does, and after that stunt he pulled with the country club, I’m not putting anything past him at this point.
He’s driving through a more well-lit area now. The local Dunkin’ still has its lights on, though it looks closed. Streetlights illuminate the way for us and a few other cars out on the road. “What about your mother?” he asks. “What does she do?”
“My ma works as a preschool teacher.” I don’t bother trying to sound fancy for him.
I imagine he picked up on some obvious identifier of my class the second we met.
Catalogued it away for later use. But I’m not ashamed of my background.
My parents worked hard to raise me, to show me what really matters.
“Teachers are important,” he says. I think he’s being sincere.
“Yeah, they are.”
“And what does your father do?”
“He’s a firefighter.”
“Wow, you’ve got yourself a veritable house of heroes back in Boston, don’t you?” I can’t tell if he’s being snarky or not.
We’re silent for a moment. The stereo is set to some talk radio station.
“Is that where you did your undergrad degree? Boston?”
Like he hasn’t looked me up already. I know I looked him up. It was pretty easy. He was all over the Princeton website holding tennis trophies and posing in front of a fraternity house in a fucking blazer and tie.
“Yep.”
“BC or BU?”
“Boston College, obviously.”
He laughs. “So that rivalry is real then?”
“About as real as Yale and Harvard.”
Priestley makes a noise that’s a little less than gentlemanly. “Please. Yale and Harvard have nothing on Princeton.”
The pride on his face barely masks the determination just under the surface. Who is he trying to convince?
“But your ma works at Harvard.”
“Harvard can have Harvard Law, but that’s only because Princeton is primarily an undergrad college.”
“That’s true,” I agree.
“So how come didn’t do your undergrad here?”
He’s probably waiting for me to say I didn’t get in or I couldn’t afford it. The latter would have been true if they hadn’t offered me a hockey scholarship—full ride. I shrug.
“I got into Princeton, but my ma got sick. Boston College was my second choice. Both offered me a hockey scholarship and so I took the Boston one so I could be closer to her.”
“Oh.”
It takes him a beat to add, “I’m sorry. That must have been very difficult.”
He’s stiff when he says it, like he doesn’t actually know how to sympathize or offer comfort. It’s weird, and kind of sad.
“Thanks. It was. But she’s better now. So, that’s why I’m here.”
“Your grad degree will override your undergrad one anyway,” he adds, reminding me—like I could forget—how much of a snob he is. “All employers will see is Princeton grad school on your resume.”
I roll my eyes. “Boston College is a great school, too.”
“Of course.”
But it’s not Ivy League though, right? Well, neither is MIT or Stanford or UCLA.
I could say this. I could bite back. But I’m not in the mood to argue with him.
I’m tired and hungry and thinking about my ma being sick has me feeling like I want to curl up in a ball and for someone to tell me everything’s going to be alright.
There’s nothing scarier than watching the person who usually makes everything better become the person you’re worried about the most.
He pulls up outside the diner. We’ve only been in the car for about ten minutes, but it feels like a lot longer.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I’m surprised by how basic it is. Small and dated, with a tacky Americana vibe.
“I didn’t think this would be your style,” I joke as we get out of the car.
“What? You expected Michelin stars?”
“Well … yeah.”
Priestley scoffs.
We enter the diner and find a booth. The menu is full of burgers, onion rings, and chili cheese fries.
“I thought you were on a strict diet?”
He shrugs. “They have nice salads here.”
A waitress brings us some water while we’re studying the menus.
“Why don’t you play competitive tennis anymore?”
Preistley frowns over his menu. For a second, I think he isn’t going to answer. “Why don’t you play competitive hockey?”
“Why is every question answered with a question with you?”
“Why is it with you?” His lips quirk up on one side. I groan.
“You first.”
He sighs, putting his menu down. If he comes here a lot, he probably already knows what he wants.
“I don’t have the time. I wanted to focus on my studies.”
“Well, same. I wanted to focus on my studies, as much as my jobs allow.”
“If you had a sport’s scholarship for undergrad and you don’t have tuition to pay or any crippling student debt, why do you need to work so much? Did you have to pay tuition for your Masters?”
I have to bite my lip to stop from telling him to mind his own business. He doesn’t need to hear about how crippled with debt my family are after my ma’s illness because health insurance in this country is a fucking joke.
“I thought rich people know that it’s tacky to talk about money,” I say, keeping my tone light.
He laughs, running a hand through his smooth, black hair. He fixes me with his dark eyes and something gnaws in my stomach. Must be the hunger.
The waitress comes back. I order a cheeseburger with a side salad and Priestley orders a chicken Caesar salad with dressing on the side. I raise my eyebrows.
“Thought you don’t play competitively anymore?”
He shrugs. “I still want to look good.”
He lets me eat half of my burger before annoying me again.
“I think we should have clear roles in our group project,” he says. He spears a lettuce leaf and keeps his eyes calmly trained on his plate.
“Oh?”
“Yes. Seeing as I have experience in a leadership role, I think that I should take the lead on this one. You can be my second in command.”
This guy. I lean back in my seat.
“What makes you think I don’t have leadership experience?”
“Oh? Were you the president of a fraternity? Captain of a championship-winning tennis team?”
“No … but … I was the alternate captain on one of my junior teams, and I was assistant coach for a kid’s team over the summer.”
He says nothing to that, just continues staring at me as he eats his salad. My pits are getting sweaty as he watches me. I ignore him and try to focus on my food, but I’m suddenly not very hungry.
He sets down his fork, sighing like this pains him. “Fine. You can be the alternate captain or the assistant coach or whatever of our group. That should be better suited to your experience.”
“You can be a real prick sometimes, you know that, Rosie?”
I say it lightly, but it makes him recoil. He laughs, but it’s forced. I think about apologizing, but then I’d have to admit I didn’t really mean it as a joke.
We pick at our food in silence for the rest of the meal. As promised, Priestley pays the check. To his credit, he does it discreetly, without making me feel bad about it or showing off.
Back in the car, I relax a little. It’s dark and we don’t have to sit opposite each other under the harsh lights of the diner anymore. Still, it’s not exactly pleasant.
I’m relieved when Priestley breaks the silence. “We should get together this weekend to get started on a plan of action. If we’re going to beat Alice Liang’s group, we need to—”
“I can’t this weekend.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Why not?”
“Because I promised I’d go home to Boston to visit my family.”
“Is it a special occasion?”
“No, but—”
“I’m sure if you explain how important this project is, they’ll understand.”
“Of course they would, but that’s not the point. I wanna see them.”
Priestley huffs. “You’ve been here for less than a month and already you’re running home to Mommy and Daddy?”
“Fuck you.”
Shit, why do I keep losing it with him?
He clears his throat. “I apologize,” he says. He does? “That was a little immature.”
He waits. Probably expecting me to apologize, too. I’m still salty so I just sit there with my arms crossed.
“And don’t you think it was a little immature of you, too?” he probes.
“Fine.” I sigh. “Sorry.”
“Okay,” he says. “I forgive you. And for calling me a prick.”
“Great, thanks.” I meant it and I don’t take it back.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Do you accept my apology?”
“Sure. Now just drop it.”
The stereo is playing some country tune, but I don’t think Priestley’s listening to it. I can practically hear the wheels turning in his head.
We’re almost back at school when he speaks again.
“Why don’t I come to Boston with you?”
I almost choke on my own tongue. “Did you seriously just invite yourself to come home with me for the weekend?”
“What?” He shrugs. “I’ll get a hotel somewhere. We can meet up when you’re done with your family and go over some plans.”
“When I’m ‘done with my family?’ What does that even mean?”
It’s dark on campus without street lights and diner signs lighting us up. I can’t see his facial expressions clearly, but I can sense the animosity coming off him.
“Listen.” I run a hand over my face, feeling dog-tired and wanting to get him out of my hair.
“Why don’t I call you from Boston? We can Facetime or whatever and get a plan ready for Monday.”
“I don’t trust you,” he says. Why doesn’t that surprise me?
“Don’t you have stuff to do here anyway over the weekend?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“Like … socializing. Don’t you wanna see your frat bros?”
“My ‘frat bros’ will all be busy doing fraternity stuff that I’m not involved in anymore, seeing as I’m no longer an active member.”
“Oh.”
The wheels of the SUV crunch over the gravel path leading to the driveway. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I look at the screen to see ‘Ma’ flash up.
I slip my phone back in my pocket.
“Listen, we’ll figure something out, alright?”
I can see his face again in the lights surrounding the dorm buildings. He’s sulking.
“Rosie?”
He dips his head and looks up at me with a frown. His sulking face makes me smile for some reason.
“We’ll figure it out.”
I give his arm a friendly pat before getting out of the car and calling my ma back.
After complaining about Priestley for about twenty minutes, forgetting how tired I was in the process, Ma says, “Bring him home, I wanna meet him.”
“Ma, did you hear anything I just said?”
She laughs. “If he’s this deep under your skin, I need to see him with my own eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re normally cool as a cucumber, so this guy must really be something to have wound you up so much.”
“Exactly why I don’t want him ruining my weekend with you guys.”
She scoffs. “He won’t ruin the weekend.”
“You don’t know him. He has a special talent for these things.”
She laughs. It’s nice hearing her laugh like that. Like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
“If you ask me, he sounds kind of lonely.”
“Robots don’t get lonely.”
“Don’t be mean, Will, it doesn’t suit you.”
“See, he brings the worst out in me.”
“You know what I do at school when two kids are fighting?”
I groan. I have a feeling I know where this is going.
“I make them work together. Sounds like that’s what your professor did with you two.”
“Well, it isn’t working.”
“Not yet.”
I pick at a loose thread in my sweats, feeling like a little kid being chastised by his mommy.
“Not everyone’s misunderstood, Ma. Some people are just …
” I think dicks, but change course because she hates it when I use vulgar language.
“Not nice people. And he’s twenty-two-years old.
He’s had plenty of time to learn how to be a better person. ”
She ignores that part. “Bring him home, I wanna meet him.”
I’m about to say no again when she adds, “It’ll make me happy.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?” she asks, putting on an OTT innocent tone.
“You know what. It’s emotional blackmail.” I smile.
She laughs. “Stop being dramatic.”
“And that!”
“Will, I’m kidding, honey. Bring him home, don’t bring him home, do whatever you want. I just think you should do it, is all.”
I sigh. “That was just a more subtle form of emotional blackmail.”
“Tell it to your psychiatrist in a few years.”
I laugh. “I’m gonna go. Bye, Ma. Love you.”
“Get some sleep. We love you, too.”