10. Priestley
PRIESTLEY
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
I’m not even sure I meant it. I thought he’d say no. And he did. But then I got a message later that night saying,
Fine, you can come to Boston. Pack some comfortable clothes and don’t be a dick to my ma or my dad will punch you.
Charming,
What time are we leaving?
Seven. And don’t book a hotel, it’ll upset my ma.
I don’t understand why that will upset your mother?
Of course you don’t. Just take it or leave it. We’ve got a spare room. I don’t wanna hear you snore.
I do not snore.
Whatever. See you tomorrow.
Now I’m standing by the door with my bag packed and my coat on like Paddington Bear waiting to be picked up. Fucking ridiculous.
Will’s family is going to hate me, but I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. I’m used to not being liked.
Someone honks outside. I move the blinds to see Will sitting behind the driver’s seat of a blue Ford Escort. Are we going to drive all the way to Boston in that thing? Great.
“We could have taken my car,” I say when I climb in the passenger seat.
“I know you like to be in control, Rosie, but I’m driving.”
“Who’s car is this anyway? Yours?”
“I borrowed it from one of the assistant coaches at the rink.”
I’m suspicious about why people keep doing nice things for him, but then I realize that hockey is probably like a fraternity, a brotherhood where you do things for each other without thinking twice.
Will isn’t even on the team. He’s not even a pledge in the grand scheme of things.
So this unwavering kindness and loyalty is actually kind of impressive.
“What’s going on in there?” he asks as he backs out from the parking lot.
“Where?”
“In your scheming little head.”
“Paranoid much?”
He huffs and shakes his head. “This is gonna be a long weekend.”
“Tell me about it,” I mumble under my breath. I hope he hears.
His phone is hooked up to the stereo, playing … I don’t know, what is that? Alanis Morisette?
Is this a hockey thing? Like you play enough hockey and you turn Canadian and start putting maple syrup on everything and listening to Alanis and Celine Dion?
“I can change the music if you don’t like it.”
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
“I can see you glaring at it from the corner of my eye. I’m scared you’re gonna break my phone with sheer will.”
“Stop looking at me then.”
He sighs, turning the stereo down. “Listen, Rosie, I wanna have a nice time this weekend, so can we just … pump the breaks on the animosity, at least while we’re around my family? And also probably while we’re stuck in this car together.”
“I’m not being difficult here. You’re the one who called my head ‘little’ and ‘scheming.’”
“You’re right. I apologize.”
“I forgive you.”
He nods, his shoulders untensing.
“On one condition,” I add.
He lets out a big breath. “I knew it was too good to be true. Okay, what do you want? I’m not shining your shoes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You wouldn’t know what you were doing.”
“Rosie, focus.”
“That—right there, that’s what I want. Stop calling me Rosie.”
“But it’s so fun,” he whines.
“William.”
“Fine. I’ll stop calling you Rosie, just for this weekend, if you stop calling me William.”
I pretend to think on it, but it’s an easy trade.
“Deal.”
I hold my hand out and we shake on it. His palm is a little rough, his fingers long and manly. When he lets go and grabs the wheel again, it takes me a moment to compose myself.
The silence is worse than the fighting.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask finally.
“Sure.”
“What made you change your mind about me coming with you?”
He blinks. “My ma wants to meet you.”
“She wants to meet me?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you tell her about me?”
He grins, that dimple popping again. “Only good stuff.”
“Like what?” I squint at him. “You don’t have good stuff to say about me.”
“And who’s fault is that?”
I cross my arms and look out of the passenger side window.
“Don’t sulk, Rosie.”
“Ah!”
“Sorry, Priestley.”
Why did he say my name like that? All … sultry. He’s trying to antagonize me. No, I’m imagining things. Stop it.
“That’s better,” I say, pulling myself together. “Tell me more about your family. What am I walking into here?”
“Not a hostile takeover, so I wouldn’t worry.”
“I don’t like to be unprepared.”
“You? Seriously. I never would have guessed.”
“I wish someone could witness this, because it’s you who always throws the first insult.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right. I’ll tell you about my family.”
While we drive, Will tells me about his two younger siblings, who both love hockey—go figure. His mom, the preschool teacher. His dad, the hero firefighter.
I try to picture his house, but I must admit, my knowledge of ‘normal family homes’ is limited to sitcoms and Hallmark movies. And I have been told that those are highly unrealistic.
From the stories he tells me, I imagine a biggish yard with a tree house, an overzealous chocolate labrador, a lot of noise, and the smell of cooking in a farm-style kitchen. I’m not sure how much of this is accurate, but we’ll soon find out.
We only stop once for a quick bathroom break at a gas station before moving on. Will brought snacks, but neither one of us reach for the Doritos—thank god. I don’t want to smell his Dorito breath all the way to Boston.
We make good time and arrive in Boston around lunchtime.
He stops on a street with a row of small houses facing a basic kid’s park.
The houses are all very similar in design and size.
I suppose I would call the neighborhood working-class, just from the look of it.
There are some niceish cars parked up on the road, Ford hatchbacks and a few Honda SUVs.
It’s a Saturday, so people could be out having fun. Maybe some of them work on the weekend.
The house we stop outside is one of the more well-maintained homes. The house next door could do with a paint job, and the porch is crumbling a little.
Will’s house is freshly painted in a powder blue.
It has a tiny, square porch that continues up onto the second floor to create a little balcony.
It looks sturdy, with white pillars and iron railings either side of the stairs.
They even have a third-floor room, like a loft conversion with a square window peeking out of the roof.
“It’s nice,” I say.
Will grunts in response and I bite my tongue.
He probably thinks I’m being patronizing, but it really is quite nice.
The front door opens before we finish getting our bags from the car. A slim woman dressed in jeans and a red, fitted sweater stands in the doorway with a big, warm smile on her face, looking at Will like he just pulled a gold bar out of his ass.
Will ignores the bags and rushes to meet her, catching her in an embrace. I look away. It feels like an intimate moment I’m not supposed to be witnessing. I only turn around when Will says my name.
“Priestley,” he repeats with a look in his eye like he’s reminding me he’s doing me a favor by not calling me Rosie.
“This is my mom. Ma, this is Priestley Rosenthal.”
I clear my throat and step forward, offering her my hand.
She smiles down at it before taking it and giving it a wobble. Terrible business handshake, but I don’t think she needs a better one working in a preschool.
“You can call me Tarah. It’s good to meet you, Priestley,” she says. “I’ve heard lots about you.”
The way she looks at me with a knowing grin, I’m sure she has.
I glare at Will before remembering that I’m supposed to be nice.
“Yes, well.”
Will looks like he’s trying not to laugh. His mother looks confused by me, but patient. The way you’d be patient with a weird child.
Thankfully, the sound of a dog barking and nails on wood floors snaps us all out of it. The chocolate lab in question comes bounding down the stairs and barrels into Will, almost knocking him over.
Will laughs and bends down to stroke him roughly and bury his face against the dog’s short fur.
“He’s missed you something wicked,” Will’s mother says, watching them fondly.
“I missed you too, buddy,” Will says to the dog in a baby voice. I’ll have to remember that, torture him with it later.
We follow Will’s mother into the house. Inside it’s bright and clean. Light wood floors, cream walls. It’s small, of course. Low ceilinged and … cozy. Compared to what I’m used to, it’s basically a hobbit house, but I’m guessing this is normal for most regular working people.
“I’ve put Priestley in the basement,” Will’s mother says.
Will gives me an evil grin. I’m getting accustomed to reading his mind now. He’s thinking, That’s where he belongs.
“Come on, Ro … Priestley,” he says, opening the door to the basement. “Let’s get you settled in.”
He leaves his bags by the door. I don’t think he’s going to offer to help me with mine, but he takes one of my weekend bags and lugs it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing.
He leads the way down the narrow staircase and I follow.
It’s not how I expected the basement to look.
We had a basement in the fraternity house, of course, though not for the nefarious reasons people may assume.
It held a pool table, framed photographs of famous alumni, mementos, and things like that.
There was a disgusting old couch down there, but I never sat on it.
Or played pool. I was far too busy keeping the place running.
This basement is light and airy, with a beige chord carpet covering the floor and the same bright cream color painted on the walls.
It’s obviously used as a storage room. There’s a vacuum cleaner resting against the wall.
A large desk in the corner with one of those ergonomic computer chairs, a PC and a bulky printer.
And in the other corner, a day bed. Great, that looks comfortable.
“Does this meet your standards, Mr. Rosenthal?” Will asks.
“It’s fine.”
“Good,” he says before tossing my bag on the floor.
He turns to walk away but I call him back. “Where is your room?”
“So you can draw on my face in my sleep? I don’t think so, Rosie.”
I clear my throat in warning.
“No one’s around,” he points out.
“The deal still stands.”