12. Priestley
PRIESTLEY
We get a moment alone to wash up before dinner. I use it to take in everything I’ve learned about Will O’Reilly. And to acknowledge how sheltered I’ve been from most people’s real lives before now.
Will O’Reilly is not impoverished, that’s clear.
And yet, his life is so monumentally different from anything I’ve ever known before.
His house is so tiny. He used a coupon at the grocery store!
And yet, I was the one who was embarrassed because I’d never used a shopping cart and had no idea how much things are supposed to cost. I’ve never shopped anywhere that things cost less than a dollar.
As a finance student, I really should understand the value of money.
No wonder Will has an edge over me in Professor Moreno’s eyes.
And then there are his parents. I’ve seen warm, loving mothers on TV. I’ve even seen warm, loving fathers. But I’ve never seen whatever that was in real life before. The way his father hugged him and looked at him. Like he was proud. And he hadn’t even done anything.
By Will’s own admission, he’s never been number one. He was assistant coach of a kid’s hockey team. Alternate captain of his junior hockey team. I don’t know if he was top of his class at Boston College, but it doesn’t seem to matter to these people.
Will’s setting the table when I come back upstairs from my basement room. His siblings are harassing the dog in the living room and his parents are chatting in the kitchen. Will’s mother spots me standing there awkwardly and beams at me.
“Priestley, good timing. Dinner’s ready.”
“Can I help?” I ask, starting to understand that’s what people do. I’m adapting.
“Here, take this,” she says, handing me a plate of mashed potatoes. “Make sure you hold it by the cloth, it’s hot.”
I do as I’m told and carry the plate into the dining room, enjoying the look on Will’s face when he sees me helping.
We all sit down to eat. I’m on Will’s right, his brother opposite me and his sister sitting opposite Will. His father sits at the head of the table and his mother at the foot. Or is it the other way around?
They pass plates around the small, rectangular dining table and talk over each other.
I see an opportunity to get one of my Williams in.
“William, would you pass the potatoes, please?”
His sister, Ally, snorts.
“William,” she teases him.
“What’s funny?” Mrs. O’Reilly asks.
“Nothing, Ma. Just a little inside joke,” Will explains.
His sister’s staring at us now like she’s just discovered buried treasure.
I take a sip of water and try to ignore her.
“Will, is Priestley your boyfriend?”
I spit my water—very uncivilized-like—back into my glass.
“No, he’s not my boyfriend,” Will says.
I can’t even look at Will, or anyone, right now. I become very invested in the green beans on my plate.
“Why’d you bring him home then?” Ally asks.
I keep expecting her parents to jump in and scold her for being rude, but when I chance a peek at them, they’re both pretending to cut up their food and eying Will like they’re anxiously awaiting an answer. They also don’t seem surprised at the prospect of Will having a boyfriend.
“Because we’re working on a project together, and Priestley’s a tyrant.”
My head snaps up, my instinct to defend myself kicking in, when Mrs. O’Reilly says, “Speaking of boyfriends—”
“No, Ma.” Will sighs. “I’ve been at school for like three weeks. I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Will is gay? And his parents and siblings, know? Why didn’t he say anything when I told him about Jamie?
I glance at Mr. O’Reilly. I can’t read the expression on his face, but it’s definitely not angry, embarrassed, or any of the expressions I’d imagine my own father wearing at a moment like this. Expressions I saw him wear when Jamie came out to us all at a very different family dinner scene.
“Do you have a boyfriend … or girlfriend, Priestley?”
My head shoots up. Ally is staring at me from across the table, a mischievous glint in her eye.
Thankfully, this time, her mother steps in.
“We don’t ask guests about their love lives,” she says. Quite right.
However, I do want to be a good sport.
“It’s okay,” I say to Ally’s parents. Looking back to the child, I tell her, “I’m single.”
She looks disappointed.
“Evan Chase has a girlfriend,” she says.
God, this kid is the tyrant, not me.
“I don’t.” Chase turns bright red.
“What’s this girl’s name?” Mr. O’Reilly asks.
“I don’t.”
“Ciara,” his sister helpfully provides. Evil. I quite like her.
“She the one with all that lovely red hair?” Mrs. O’Reilly asks while Chase bangs his head on the table.
Will chuckles beside me. “Leave him alone, guys.”
“Okay, dropping it,” Mrs. O’Reilly says, holding her hands up in surrender.
The rest of dinner goes by pleasantly, apart from a moment when Chase pinches his sister and she retaliates by threatening to bite him.
When I see Will helping to clear the table, I get up and copy him. I won’t have him one-upping me, not in anything.
“You’re not allowed to help,” Mrs. O’Reilly says, shooing me back into my seat. “You’re the guest.”
Mr. O’Reilly takes his plate to the kitchen and starts filling the sink with soapy water.
“Me and Will can wash these, you guys go and watch the game,” Mrs. O’Reilly says.
I think I’d rather wash dishes than watch TV with someone’s father. But I’m starting to understand the customs around here. It would be rude to insist.
“Come on, Priestley,” Mr. O’Reilly says, hanging up a dish towel. “Puck drops at seven.”
I’m guessing that’s hockey talk for the game’s starting.
“Hurry up in there, son or you’ll miss it.”
“Where should I sit?” I ask when I follow him into the living room.
He tells me to sit on the couch because his wife likes the armchair.
I leave a space between us on the couch while he messes around with the remote control, looking for the sports channel.
“You a hockey fan, Priestley?”
“Yes, sir.”
He laughs. “Call me Joe, please. The last time someone called me ‘sir’ was when the wife got drunk at a winery and some poor woman had to come and ask me to escort her home.”
I am completely out of my depth with this anecdote. Am I supposed to laugh? Commiserate? Frown seriously? I watch his face for clues and decide a laugh will suffice.
“Who’s your team?”
It takes me a moment to understand what he’s asking.
“Hockey team?”
“Yeah.”
“Um … the Bruins?”
“Really?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Where are you from?”
“I grew up in Connecticut, but I also spent some time in school in New York.”
“Not a Rangers guy?”
I shake my head.
Thankfully, Will chooses that moment to come back into the room. I never thought I’d be so relieved to see him.
He takes a seat between me and his father on the couch, putting a plate of snacks down on the coffee table.
He’s crunching a carrot stick when he starts asking his father questions I don’t understand.
I think they’re discussing the starting lineup and debating certain players’ recent performances.
They keep saying the word “Pasta” like it’s someone’s name.
“Your friend says he’s a Bruins guy.”
Will squints at me. “Does he now? Priestley, who’s your favorite player?”
“Oh, you know …”
He lets me sweat for a bit before laughing.
“He doesn’t know shit about hockey, Dad. Sorry for cursing. He’s just sucking up to you.”
I can’t believe he actually just said that. Out loud.
His father just chuckles.
“Don’t have to suck up to me, kid. You could support the Habs for all I care.”
Who are the Habs? I’ve memorized most major sports teams and I don’t remember seeing them. Must be a nickname.
Will leans closer and whispers, “That’s the Montreal Canadiens, in case you were wondering.” His breath tickles my neck. I hold my breath so I can’t smell his cologne.
“I knew that,” I lie.
“Sure you did.”
Why would Will’s dad care if I support the Montreal Canadiens? What do people in Boston have against Montreal? This is just one more reason I don’t watch hockey. It doesn’t make any sense.
The build up to the game starts and Will and his father settle in.
They talk a lot, even after ‘the puck drops.’ The commentators talk a lot during game play, too. It isn’t like tennis, where there’s total hush while a point is being played and the commentators have to wait for a break before discussing the match.
It’s also noisy in other ways. Music blasting between points. The occasional shout heard from a player or coach or fan. I pick up the name Pastrnak and figure this is who Will and his father were talking about earlier.
At some point, Will’s mother wanders in and joins in the conversation from the armchair.
Then the kids come in and shout at the TV. They seem to understand the rules far better than I do.
Will leans over from time to time to explain things to me.
“You never seen a hockey game before, Priestley?” his father asks.
“I follow the scores, I’ve just never watched a full game.”
“What do you follow the scores for?”
“So he can suck up to business associates on the golf course.”
Ally giggles. “Stop flirting, Will.”
“I am not flirting.” For the first time since we’ve been here, I see him rattled. The smirk has dropped and his cheeks look a little pink.
“You’ve totally been teasing each other all night,” Ally says.
“Yes, William. Stop teasing me.”
I share a conspiratorial smile with Ally and she winks at me. She actually winks at me. Am I in on a joke? There’s a first time for everything.
Will elbows me. “That’s your last William. I hope you enjoyed it.”
“I did, thank you.”
I catch Will’s mother glancing over at us with a sly smile. My stomach flips. Does she want her son to be flirting with me? Do I? Definitely not.
Will catches me before I go down to bed.
“We’ll have that competition tomorrow.”
“Okay. But we need to get some work done on the project, too.”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, we will.”