11. Will
WILL
Iam not gonna let Priestley Rosenthal ruin this time with my family.
When the kids get back, they fly at me like lunatics. I have to work not to squeeze them too hard.
Ally’s covered in mud from soccer practice and Chase’s cheeks are bright red and his baseball jersey’s all rumpled.
“Good game?” I ask them both.
Chase nods enthusiastically but Ally launches into a tirade about the ref being blind and how some of her teammates can’t even see the damn ball before Ma warns her not to curse.
Through it all, Priestley stands against the wall like he’s waiting to face a firing squad—or like we all have lice and he’s trying not to catch them.
Finally, there’s a pause in Ally’s story and I jump in. “Guys, I want you to meet my friend from school. This is Priestley.”
The kids turn around and stare at him, as kids do.
Priestley holds his hand out for them to shake.
They stare at it.
“Shake hands,” Ma tells them.
Ally steps forward first, wiping her muddy hands down on her shorts. Priestley’s nostrils flare before taking it. Chase giggles when it’s his turn. Priestley squints at him like he’s wondering what he’s laughing at. Jesus Christ, hasn’t he ever seen kids before?
Ma makes the kids wash up and change before they can eat lunch. I know she probably gave them snacks in the car, but they listen anyway and head upstairs.
“Those kids, I swear, they’re exhausting,” Ma says, but I catch the big smile on her face. She loves it.
The house is gonna be mad for a while, so I offer to go to the store while Ma gets Ally and Chase settled with their lunch and some activity to calm them down—or rile them up, you can never be sure.
I take Priestley with me. I’m not sure he’d survive if I left him here.
He visibly relaxes as soon as the front door closes behind us.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve never encountered children or animals before.”
“Not in that capacity.”
“What capacity? A regular, normal life?”
“Exactly.”
I wait until we’re in the car to ask him to elaborate.
“You don’t have siblings?”
“I have a younger brother, Jamie. But I didn’t see him much growing up because I was at boarding school and he attended a local private school in Connecticut, mostly.”
“He didn’t go to boarding school with you?”
Priestley’s expression seems unperturbed, but on closer inspection, I see a slight tightness in his jaw.
“He did, but … he didn’t like it, so he came home.”
“He didn’t like it?”
“Jamie’s sensitive.” He winces before correcting himself. “He’s shy. Boys were cruel to him, especially when they discovered that he’s gay. Despite my best efforts, I wasn’t able to protect him from boys his own age when they were in their dorms.”
Fuck. I’m mentally calculating how hard it would be to track these assholes down when I realize I should say something. “Sorry, Priestley. That sucks. I’d flip if someone was bullying Ally or Chase.”
Priestley swallows, it looks like an effort. The silence spreads and I wrack my brains for something else to say.
“Did you have pets as a kid?” I try.
Priestley visibly relaxes. He smooths his hand over his polo as if he’s wearing a suit and tie.
“My parents have horses on their estate. I used to have riding lessons, and I had a horse named Shadow when I was a child, but I didn’t see him much when I was away at school.”
“That must have sucked.”
“Not really. I enjoyed school.”
“You didn’t miss your parents?”
He squirms in his seat. “Of course,” he says, but it sounds forced.
“They must have missed you.”
Something dark flashes across his face. He recovers quickly, but I saw it. What does that mean?
“Your mother seems proud of you,” he says.
I know he’s changing the subject. I don’t know what to say.
Why wouldn’t she be? I’m at Princeton. I’m a good student.
I didn’t get anyone pregnant in high school—not likely, anyway.
And I’m not on drugs. I’m a good son, or at least, I try my best to be. What more could she want?
We pass the ice rink where I learned to skate on our way to the grocery store and it gives me an idea.
“About you being the leader of our group …” I say.
Priestley’s head snaps up from where he’d been furiously typing something on his phone.
“How about we have a little competition?”
His eyes light up. Competition to Priestley Rosenthal is like catnip to a feral alley cat.
“What kind of competition?”
“You can skate, right?”
“Ye-es?”
“How about we have an accuracy shooting competition, at the rink? Coach Barber would let me use it before practice for half an hour.”
“No. That is not a fair competition. You played college hockey.”
Ah well, good try.
“Anyway, it’s already decided that I’m the leader.”
“Is it? Who decided?”
“We did?”
“No, you did. And that’s not very democratic. You do believe in democracy, don’t you, Priestley?”
He glares at me in the mirror.
“How did you get to be president of Alpha Alpha Dude?”
“Alpha Sigma Psi. And I was elected.”
“So maybe we could get the group to vote.”
A cloud passes over his face. He knows as well as I do that he’s already made a bad impression.
There’s no way in hell Peter Chow’s voting for the guy who’s constantly up his ass about being ‘rumpled.’ That just leaves Emily and Scott, and I’m pretty sure Scott’s already pissed at him for the daggers he got leaving the library that day.
I sense the cogs slipping into place in Priestley’s head. I’d hate to be a fly on the wall inside that brain of his.
“I have a counter-proposal.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“I’ll do your accuracy shooting or whatever it’s called …”
I get a bad feeling the second he agrees with anything I say.
“If you can return my serve on the tennis court.”
I clear my throat while I consider the offer. How hard can it be to return his serve? He does mean just hit the ball back over the net to him, right?
I’ve only watched tennis a few times. I found it boring, to be honest. It was just a tiny, green, fuzzy ball bouncing from one side of the court to the other. A lot of grown men grunting and rolling around on the floor in shorts with their knobby knees on display.
They probably make way more of a deal about it than it deserves. I’ve played badminton in the yard, and messed around with those Velcro things you throw a tennis ball at—granted, tennis balls never last long in my ma’s house with the dog, but how hard can it be?
“Deal.”
The second I say it and see the smug look on Priestley’s face, I know I’ve made a mistake. But it’s too late to back out now.
Priestley acts like an alien in the grocery store.
He looks like he’s never seen a can of beans before.
Does he think all food comes ready cooked and on a plate?
He has no idea how to operate a shopping cart.
He’s mortified when I use a half off coupon and pay with cash instead of the Black Card he was flashing at the coffee shop that day.
I have to remind myself that he’s the one who should be embarrassed, not me.
Sure, there were wealthy students at BC.
I played with some pretty wealthy guys on the hockey team.
A lot of Canadian guys whose whole lives had been pampered because NHL teams had had their eye on them since they were kids.
But there was something about the prestige of the Ivy League that made me automatically worry I didn’t belong the second I walked into that library.
It didn’t help that this guy seemed to see straight through me and took the book I needed straight from my hands.
“What’s wrong with you?” Priestley asks as we’re loading the bags into the car.
“Nothing.”
“Is it because I mocked you for bringing your own bags into the grocery store?”
I’d forgotten about that. Asshole.
“No. Come on, let’s get back. My dad will be coming home soon.”
For some reason, that makes Priestley get his ass into gear.
He waits until we’re in the car to ask, “What’s your father like? What should I expect?”
I snort. “He’s just a regular guy. You don’t need to expect anything.”
“What teams does he support?”
“Teams?”
“Yes, sports teams, come on.”
I roll my eyes but decide to indulge him. Sports are a comfortable topic for me anyway.
“Hockey’s the Bruins—obviously.”
Priestley nods impatiently, like he’s taking mental notes.
“Baseball’s the Red Sox.”
“Red Sox, right.”
I side-eye him but go on. “Football, it’s the Patriots.”
“The Patriots, I knew that.”
“Priestley, this isn’t a test. My dad’s not gonna give a shit if you know what sports teams he supports. He’s gonna be hungry after work and wanna know how school’s going.”
“I know that. I just like to be prepared.”
“You could go in there and tell him you love the Habs and the Yankees and he’d just yank your chain for it and probably have a ball doing it. He’s not a monster and he isn’t gonna kick you out of the house for having a different opinion.”
He looks confused, like I just said something radical.
“I’d probably steer clear of politics, though. I don’t even wanna know where you lean on that one.”
The concern on his face switches to amusement. “I bet you think you have me pegged there, don’t you?”
“I already said, I don’t wanna know.”
“Would it surprise you to know my mother was one of the biggest donors and supporters of—”
“Rosie, shut up.”
“—a certain female presidential candidate’s campaign.”
“Oh.”
“And my father doesn’t like tariffs.”
He grins. I want to slap the stupid grin off his face.
In the silence, he says, “And you owe me two Williams now.”
I spot Dad’s truck when we pull up outside the house. We get out and Priestley just stands there, like he’s waiting for someone to let him into the house, take his coat and call him Master Rosenthal. I pop the trunk.
“You gonna help me with these bags or what?” I know he knows how to carry a fucking bag. I saw how much shit those tennis players on TV carted around. The least he can do is take a few shopping bags.
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
The door opens and Dad steps down onto the top step of the porch with his hands in his jean pockets.
“Here, let me help,” he says, taking one of the bags from me and bringing it into the house.
He waits until they’ve all been deposited on the counter before he pulls me into a big bear hug.
I’m engulfed by his familiar smell. Sometimes there’s a smokey scent I used to think I was imagining because I know he fights fires. Today, it’s just woody cologne and the freshly washed flannel shirt he’s wearing.
He squeezes me tight before letting go and ruffling my hair.
We’ve been about the same height since I was seventeen so our faces are level when he holds me by the shoulders and studies me.
What he’s studying me for, I’m not sure.
But it reminds me of when he’d clean me up after I fell off my bike or got hit in a hockey game.
I always felt like there was nothing he couldn’t see, or fix.
He glances behind me now, spotting Priestley.
“This the friend from school?” I hear the additional question in his voice and ignore it.
“This is Priestley. Priestley, this is my dad.”
Priestley steps forward and holds out his hand. Dad gives it a warm shake.
“I’m Joe. It’s good to have you, son,” he says.
Priestley’s eyes grow wide as he stares at my dad like the cat caught his tongue.