Page 33 of Break Points and Face Offs

“Not a hostile takeover, so I wouldn’t worry.”

“I don’t like to be unprepared.”

“You? Seriously. I never would have guessed.”

“I wish someone could witness this, because it’s you who always throws the first insult.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right. I’ll tell you about my family.”

While we drive, Will tells me about his two younger siblings, who both love hockey—go figure. His mom, the preschool teacher. His dad, the hero firefighter.

I try to picture his house, but I must admit, my knowledge of ‘normal family homes’ is limited to sitcoms and Hallmark movies. And I have been told that those are highly unrealistic.

From the stories he tells me, I imagine a biggish yard with a tree house, an overzealous chocolate labrador, a lot of noise, and the smell of cooking in a farm-style kitchen. I’m not sure how much of this is accurate, but we’ll soon find out.

We only stop once for a quick bathroom break at a gas station before moving on. Will brought snacks, but neither one of us reach for the Doritos—thank god. I don’t want to smell his Dorito breath all the way to Boston.

We make good time and arrive in Boston around lunchtime. He stops on a street with a row of small houses facing a basic kid’s park. The houses are all very similar in design and size. I suppose I would call the neighborhood working-class, just from the look of it. There are some niceish cars parked up on the road, Ford hatchbacks and a few Honda SUVs. It’s a Saturday, so people could be out having fun. Maybe some of them work on the weekend.

The house we stop outside is one of the more well-maintained homes. The house next door could do with a paint job, and the porch is crumbling a little.

Will’s house is freshly painted in a powder blue. It has a tiny, square porch that continues up onto the second floor to create a little balcony. It looks sturdy, with white pillars and iron railings either side of the stairs. They even have a third-floor room, like a loft conversion with a square window peeking out of the roof.

“It’s nice,” I say.

Will grunts in response and I bite my tongue.

He probably thinks I’m being patronizing, but it really is quite nice.

The front door opens before we finish getting our bags from the car. A slim woman dressed in jeans and a red, fitted sweater stands in the doorway with a big, warm smile on her face, looking at Will like he just pulled a gold bar out of his ass.

Will ignores the bags and rushes to meet her, catching her in an embrace. I look away. It feels like an intimate moment I’m not supposed to be witnessing. I only turn around when Will says my name.

“Priestley,” he repeats with a look in his eye like he’s reminding me he’s doing me a favor by not calling me Rosie.

“This is my mom. Ma, this is Priestley Rosenthal.”

I clear my throat and step forward, offering her my hand.

She smiles down at it before taking it and giving it a wobble. Terrible business handshake, but I don’t think she needs a better one working in a preschool.

“You can call me Tarah. It’s good to meet you, Priestley,” she says. “I’ve heard lots about you.”

The way she looks at me with a knowing grin, I’m sure she has.

I glare at Will before remembering that I’m supposed to be nice.

“Yes, well.”

Will looks like he’s trying not to laugh. His mother looks confused by me, but patient. The way you’d be patient with a weird child.

Thankfully, the sound of a dog barking and nails on wood floors snaps us all out of it. The chocolate lab in question comes bounding down the stairs and barrels into Will, almost knocking him over.

Will laughs and bends down to stroke him roughly and bury his face against the dog’s short fur.

“He’s missed you something wicked,” Will’s mother says, watching them fondly.

“I missed you too, buddy,” Will says to the dog in a baby voice. I’ll have to remember that, torture him with it later.