Page 25 of Break Points and Face Offs

9

WILL

Of course Rosie drives a fucking BMW SUV. It has that new leather smell, like it just came straight from the dealership. No pine tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. No candy bar wrappers stuffed between the seats like my ma’s car or burger wrappers on the floor like in my dad’s truck.

“You have been in a car before, right?” he asks, eying the way I’m studying the interior.

“Not since I moved to Jersey.”

“Amazingly, New Jersey has cars, and roads, and a lot of late-night diners. It’s kind of famous for them.”

“Really? Thanks for the info.”

He smiles to himself as he takes the road leading off campus. It’s dark, trees either side of the sparsely lit road keeping out any natural moonlight. I let myself look at Priestley Rosenthal properly for the first time, trying to see him as a person and not just a rich-guy, pain in my ass.

He’s annoyingly good looking, in that distant, cold, untouchable sort of way models are good looking. Not that he’s model-good looking or anything like that. He just has really nice skin. Pale, with a little dark around the eyes. Jet black hair and deep brown eyes.

“Where are your parents from, Rosie?”

His jaw ticks a little and I smile to myself at having won another point. I’m so glad I came up with that nickname.

“New England,” he says.

“That’s specific.”

“If you’re asking what my ethnic background is, my father’s side of the family are extremely Scandinavian and British—ancestors probably involved in the actual colonization of the United States. And my mother is Persian-American.”

“Um, I wasn’t asking your ethnic background, actually, but, thanks for sharing. I just meant, where did you grow up?”

“Connecticut. What about you?”

“What do you think? William O’Reilly? My ancestors are Irish and I grew up in Boston.”

“I thought William was a Scottish name, actually.”

I shrug. “I guess it can be both. I’m pretty sure it’s a popular English name, too.”

I glance at his hands on the steering wheel, the long, smooth fingers of someone who’s never completed a day’s hard labor in his life. Never held a hockey stick—though I guess ski poles count for something. And tennis rackets. Do tennis players get calluses on their palms? I can’t imagine Priestley Rosenthal having callused hands.

“You’re staring at me. Stop.”

I clear my throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “I was just making sure you’re concentrating on the road.”

I wrack my brain for something to say.

“What does your mom do?”

His eyes get glassy. Or am I imagining that?

“She worked as a lawyer when I was growing up, but she’s a professor now—at Harvard.”

I whistle.

“Yes, impressive, I know. Professor Moreno kind of reminds me of her.”

He gets this look on his face, like he wants to bite his tongue off for telling me that. But I’m not going to use this information against him, not unless I absolutely have to. I may have more humanity than Priestley Rosenthal, but I’m not an idiot. I need this internship more than he does, and after that stunt he pulled with the country club, I’m not putting anything past him at this point.

He’s driving through a more well-lit area now. The local Dunkin’ still has its lights on, though it looks closed. Streetlights illuminate the way for us and a few other cars out on the road. “What about your mother?” he asks. “What does she do?”