13. Will #4
I take a turn and drive past my old high school.
Playing for the high school hockey team and playing junior games on weekends was fun.
For a while, before I lost my childhood capacity for self-delusion, I imagined myself playing in the NHL.
It didn’t take long for me to look around and see that wasn’t gonna happen.
“I hear you. That’s kind of why I never pursued hockey. But I was never as good at hockey as you are at tennis.”
“I don’t want to be a pro tennis player,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“People make you feel bad for that. Like if you’re good at something, you have to do it.
Some of my old teammates seemed to think it was because I was worried what my father would say if I told him I don’t want to pursue a career in finance, but that’s not the reason.
What’s wrong with not wanting to be a pro athlete? ”
“Nothing.”
He’s quiet as I drive us back toward the house. Shit. I can deal with Priestley in pretty much any mood. But I’m not used to him sharing personal shit with me. He looks almost vulnerable.
“Hey, wanna go get some ice cream?”
“No. I want to study.”
“We can study while we eat ice cream. I guarantee it’ll be quieter in Betsy’s than it will be if Ally and Chase are home.”
“Fine.”
I take him to the dessert place where I used to spend my allowance every Friday after school.
Betsy, the lady who owns the place, is still behind the counter in her spotted apron.
She recognizes me as soon as I walk in and comes around the counter to give me a hug and plant a sloppy kiss on both cheeks.
“And who’s this handsome young man?” she asks, looking at Priestley.
He goes pale and I fail to suppress my smile.
“This is Rosie.”
He glares at me. I don’t care. I’ll take whatever punishment he wants to hand out. I’ve already lost. And it doesn’t even feel that bad. Somehow, Priestley still seems like the real loser. He’s not even gloating about beating me on the tennis court anymore.
“Well, Rosie, it’s nice to meet you.”
Priestley doesn’t correct her, just shakes her hand before she can grab him and pull him in for a hug.
“Rosie’s very formal,” I explain.
“I see that. What can I get for you, Will? Your usual?”
“Sure.”
Priestley says he’ll have the same. He probably won’t eat it anyway.
We take a table in the back of the café and wait for our order. I brought a few notebooks in from the car and I spread them out on the table. Priestley’s barely sat down before he’s opening one and manically scrawling something in it.
“Don’t you have an off button?” I ask.
“Frankly, I’m surprised you’re so relaxed. Isn’t this important to you, too?”
“It is. But I also understand the power of a break. I didn’t get this far by not learning when to slow down.”
“Says the man with two jobs.”
I bite my tongue and count to five before replying. “That’s a necessity. Being a stick-in-the-mud isn’t.”
“Like I haven’t heard that one before.”
There it is. That glimmer of sadness when he talks about being a killjoy. I agree. He is a killjoy. An absolute fucking nightmare. But how many people have told him that in his life?
Betsy’s grinning ear to ear as she carries two banana splits with cherries and whipped cream over to the table.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Priestley mutters before she reaches us.
The more growly he is, the wider my smile gets.
“Enjoy!” Betsy sings.
I thank her and pick up my spoon.
“You’re not really going to eat that are you? It must have a thousand calories.”
I make a big deal of dipping my spoon in and scooping up as many components as possible.
“See, the great thing about not being a pro athlete is getting to eat whatever you want and no one giving you shit for it.”
He squints at me while I stuff my face with banana split. Moaning exaggeratedly and rolling my eyes at the first bite.
His gaze flickers from my spoon to his dessert. There’s a needy look in his eyes.
“Go on, Rosie. I know you want it.”
His eyes widen and he licks his lips. I try to ignore the effect that has on the blood flow redirecting from my head to other regions.
“If I take a bite, will you stop making those ridiculous noises?”
“What noises?” I ask before moaning around another spoonful.
“Those! You sound like …”
His cheeks tint.
“Is Priestley Rosenthal blushing?”
With a huff, he stabs his spoon into his dessert before pulling it out dripping with whipped cream and cherry compote. There’s a slight hesitation before he stuffs it in his mouth, chewing around it like it’s taffy.
The second those flavors hit, he closes his eyes, but before he does, I catch them roll.
That’s it. Right there. The moment someone gets to see Priestley come undone. It’s a surprisingly nice sight.
I expect him to dig in, but he puts the spoon down.
“Okay, happy now?”
“You’re just gonna have one spoonful and leave the rest?”
He shrugs.
“How do you have that kind of willpower?”
He just stares at me like I’m making zero sense.
“No, it isn’t willpower. It’s some weird type of self-denial.”
I’m not even sure I meant to say that last part out loud. His eyes widen before he composes himself.
Turning his attention to the notebook, he opens it, cracking the spine.
“Shall we get started? We’ve already wasted enough time with this stupidity.”