10. Priestley #2
His shoulders slump.
“Now I get to call you William at least once.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
When we go back upstairs, Will heads to the second floor to put his bags in his room—I will find out which one is his, and I am not above drawing on his face.
While he’s upstairs, I’m stuck with his mother, who is being weirdly friendly considering she’s heard a lot about me already.
“Would you like some coffee, Priestley? Or tea?”
“Whatever you’re having will be fine, thank you.”
I follow her into the kitchen, feeling stiff and awkward. I thought I’d prepared myself for every possible scenario life could throw at me. Boardrooms, country clubs, galas, dinners. But a preschool teacher’s kitchen? Apparently not.
The kitchen is smaller than I imagined it, much smaller—those Hallmark movies do lie. There isn’t even an island counter. It’s just about wide enough to fit us both inside at the same time while Will’s mother heats the kettle on the stove.
I’m expecting her to tell me to go and take a seat, but instead, she engages me in conversation.
“Have you been at Princeton long, Priestley?”
“I completed my undergraduate degree there, yes.”
“Will tells me you were in a fraternity.”
I nod. “I was the president of Alpha Sigma Psi.”
“Wow, impressive.”
She doesn’t know what it is. Somehow, that makes her ‘wow, impressive’ comment feel patronizing. Like I just told her I won a medal for participation in a three-legged race.
“And you play tennis?”
“I played tennis, yes. On the Princeton team.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“For the same reason Will stopped playing competitive hockey, I suppose—I didn’t have the time.”
She nods and the relaxed smile drops into something more concerned.
“He works too hard. He always has.”
I almost tell her that there’s no such thing as working too hard, but I stop myself just in time.
The water boils and she turns her back to fill three mugs.
Luckily, Will comes down the stairs. The dog—who had been padding around the house, wisely staying away from me—lopes over to him, clumsily knocking into walls on his way.
Will’s face lights up at the sight of him, like he hasn’t already been slobbered all over five minutes ago.
He starts talking to him in the baby voice again and I have to bite my lip to stop from smiling.
“We’ve had that dog since Will was little,” Will’s mom tells me.
“How old is he?”
“Old,” she says with a laugh.
We take tea in the dining room, where the dog sits dutifully at Will’s feet, looking up at him with big, adoring eyes. Will absentmindedly rubs behind his ear while he talks to his mother. I’m not calling her Tarah.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t find myself in intimate family scenes often.
Of course, I was present when fraternity brothers’ parents came to visit, especially the freshmen who have only recently left home for the first time.
But I was never a guest in those scenarios.
The fraternity house was my home. And for those last few years, I was the leader there.
They seem to forget about me for a moment, which is fine. I sip my tea—lemon and something.
“Sorry, Priestley. Listen to us, going on.”
“It’s fine, you have a lot to catch up on.” Though you saw each other weeks ago, I’m sure, and probably talk on the phone every night. I saw ‘Ma’ flash on Will’s phone when he was getting out of the car yesterday.
“How’s school going anyway? How’s that Professor Moreno? Do you like her, Priestley?”
I open my mouth to give the bullshit answer, but Will jumps in and answers for me.
“She doesn’t like Priestley very much,” he says with a grin.
“Why not?” Mrs. O’Reilly asks.
“I’d say it’s less about her not liking me, and more about her adoring Will.” Will may lack tact, but I do not.
His mother lights up at my comment and Will shrinks in on himself, stroking the dog’s ear so enthusiastically its eyes roll back.
“Will told me about the leaderboard.”
She’s beaming, but Will’s casually pleased expression has turned into a frown.
“Our group was put on the bottom,” he says.
I ready myself for his mother’s cold, disappointed glare.
Instead, she looks affronted. “What? Why?”
“We weren’t synchronized enough. That’s why we need to get some practice in over this weekend.”
“Well …” she says, patting his hand. “You’re a hard worker. I’m sure you’ll get up there.”
What? That’s how she reacts to being told her son is a failure? How on earth has Will come this far without some serious reinforcement? What did he ever have to lose if the response to failure was ‘oh well, better luck next time’? That type of attitude does not breed winners.
Will’s mother announces that she has to pick the kids up from their respective sports practices and leaves us alone in the house.
“We should get started on our project,” I say.
“Let’s make lunch first. When the kids get back, there’ll be no point doing anything, anyway.”
“I thought the whole point of me coming here this weekend was to get work done, not to act as a maid to your siblings.”
He still has that calm smile on his face when he talks. “Relax, we can get some work done later. And you’re the one who invited yourself here.”
He looks down at the dog with a goofy smile, shaking his head. “Maid,” he mumbles under his breath.