16. Priestley #2
It’s a small victory, but it lights me up. I have to hold in my grin as I hand it over.
He takes a sip before making a face. “This is disgusting.”
“Gracious as always, I see. Isn’t the protocol to thank someone when they bring you a gift?”
He stops making a face long enough to mutter a reluctant, “Thank you.”
Before he can kick me out, I make myself comfortable. Usually, I wouldn’t be this rude, but Priestley’s a special case.
“Did I invite you to sit?”
“Come join me. There’s a hockey game on, if you wanna watch. You do have all the sports channels, right?”
“Of course.”
“To keep up with the scores?”
“Yes.”
“You know you could just Google it.”
“ESPN came with the package. And I watch the highlights.”
“How’d the Bruins do last night?”
“They beat Ottawa 3-2.”
“How many goals on the power play?”
He gives me a panicked look.
“I’m just fucking with you, Rosie.”
He sinks into the couch and drinks his fake champagne.
“Not everything’s a test, you know?” I tell him.
He holds his glass to his chest and stares into the black screen of the TV. “You’re so naive.”
“Why are you so sad? We’re not bottom of the leaderboard anymore. And you’re still number two.”
“Exactly. Number two isn’t good enough. I’ve never been number two.”
“Number two’s good!”
He scoffs. “That’s okay for you to say.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve met your family, Will.”
Is that the first time he’s ever called me Will?
“They don’t care if you succeed or not.”
“They care if I succeed.”
He waves his hand impatiently. “What I mean is … they don’t care if you’re number one or not. They just want you to be … happy.”
He swigs his drink, draining it with a wince.
“Isn’t that what everyone’s parents want?”
An uncharacteristic snort escapes through his nose. “That’s funny.”
“What is?” I ask, my voice coming out quieter than I’d expected. I’m not sure I even want to hear the answer.
“You are an extension of your parents. You represent them out there in the world. If your children are a failure, then you are a double failure because you failed as a parent and they failed you.”
He says it like a practiced speech. Like it’s something someone else has said to him, more than once.
“You are an extension of your parents,” I agree.
His head snaps in my direction. He was probably expecting me to argue with him like I always do. I hold his gaze.
“You’re an extension of their lessons, sure. But you’re your own person, too. And success isn’t all about being number one. If you’re not happy, then you’re not successful.”
He brings his glass to his lips before realizing its empty. “I’ll be happy when I’m successful,” he mutters.
“That doesn’t make any sense. You’ve got it all the wrong way around.”
He gets up, ignoring me and making his way to the kitchen. I watch as he opens one of the cupboards full of olives and fancy preserves and slides them out of the way to reveal a bottle of liquor.
It’s dark—too dark to be whiskey. Maybe dark rum or brandy.
He pours it into his empty tumbler before he takes a sip and closes his eyes.
“This is liquor,” he says.
He takes another sip and I watch his smooth throat as he swallows, watch him close his eyes and listen to him hum as he leans his weight against the counter.
He looks at me, catching me watching. “Want some?”
I get up and pour my ‘champagne’ down the sink, holding my mug out for him to fill up.
His hand trembles a little as he pours and I steady it instinctively. When I look at him, he’s looking up at me with his dark eyes. I let my thumb rub a gentle circle around his wrist before removing it and placing it on the side of his neck.
His pulse races and his breath hitches.
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t kiss me again.”
“Why not? Because you don’t want me to?”
He swallows and I can feel that, too. Heat floods my body, pooling in the pit of my stomach.
When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Because I want you to.”
I lean down, watch his eyes lose focus and get glassy. Fuck, he’s beautiful. Warmth seeping through the cracks of that icy facade.
“Don’t,” he whispers, just before my lips can touch his. His breath is warm and sweet when he lets it out.
I drag myself away from him, despite what his body is telling me. He’s telling me no.
I spot the disappointment on his face when I drop my hand, just before he turns his back and walks to the other side of the room.
“I can’t do this. I can’t …”
“Why not? Because I’m a man?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t your brother gay?”
“Exactly! And I’m the oldest. We can’t both be.”
“It happens. It’s not that crazy rare.”
“I’m the oldest,” he repeats. “I don’t get to just do whatever I want.”
A strangled laugh escapes me. “Priestley, you can’t just choose not to be gay because it’s inconvenient. That’s not how it works.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Oh, really?”
“I’m … closer to the bi spectrum than most. I’ve slept with women. I know I can do it.”
“You can sleep with women, or you want to? And you know you still can’t choose who you fall in love with, right?”
“You’re so naive. Who I marry matters. Who I’m seen with matters. You’re … you’re … unsuitable.”
I should be fucking furious. But in the moment, I just feel sorry for him.
I put my mug down and cross the room. He takes a step back and stops when he bumps against the couch.
When I cradle his face in both hands, he looks down before closing his eyes with a sigh.
“Why am I unsuitable, Rosie?”
He swallows, looks up at me with a pleading look in his eyes. “You don’t have a good family name.”
I smirk. “Have you slept with a man before?”
“Yes,” he says. His voice husky and rough. Something in me tingles at the sound.
“Was he … suitable?”
He slow blinks, unable to look me in the eye. “It was just sex.”
“But it wouldn’t be with me?”
He finally looks up, his eyes dark. “You’re a Princeton man.”
“Not the right kind of Princeton man, though.” I smile, but it feels strained.
“Exactly.”
I bend down and kiss his forehead. The heat radiates from his body and he sighs into me. “I’m tired,” he says. “I need to go to bed. I’ve had too much to drink.”
My heart sinks. Even though I know he’s right.
“Okay.”
“You should leave.”
“Not until I know you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
I pull away and look down into his face, letting my hands stay there a moment longer, my thumb tracing down to that pulse in his neck again.
“Sure?”
He nods, his throat working as he swallows.
I want to kiss him so bad, it hurts. But he already told me no. He just told me he has had too much to drink. Even though I know he said it because he’s scared of what he wants, I have to respect that.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Rosie,” I say, finally letting my hands drop. His shoulders sag.
“You have no reason to talk to me tomorrow. The group project is over.”
I turn around, ignoring him. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I repeat.
I’ve just reached the door, my hand on the handle when Priestley calls me back. My heart soars, thinking he’s changed his mind. I remind myself I still can’t do what I want to do, not tonight. But when I turn around, he’s holding something out to me.
“What’s that?”
“Can’t you read?”
I take a step closer, spotting the title. It’s the book he stole from me that first day in the library.
“I’m done with it,” he says. “It’s yours.”