Page 34 of Break Points and Face Offs

We follow Will’s mother into the house. Inside it’s bright and clean. Light wood floors, cream walls. It’s small, of course. Low ceilinged and … cozy. Compared to what I’m used to, it’s basically a hobbit house, but I’m guessing this is normal for most regular working people.

“I’ve put Priestley in the basement,” Will’s mother says.

Will gives me an evil grin. I’m getting accustomed to reading his mind now. He’s thinking, That’s where he belongs.

“Come on, Ro … Priestley,” he says, opening the door to the basement. “Let’s get you settled in.”

He leaves his bags by the door. I don’t think he’s going to offer to help me with mine, but he takes one of my weekend bags and lugs it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing.

He leads the way down the narrow staircase and I follow.

It’s not how I expected the basement to look. We had a basement in the fraternity house, of course, though not for the nefarious reasons people may assume. It held a pool table, framed photographs of famous alumni, mementos, and things like that. There was a disgusting old couch down there, but I never sat on it. Or played pool. I was far too busy keeping the place running.

This basement is light and airy, with a beige chord carpet covering the floor and the same bright cream color painted on the walls. It’s obviously used as a storage room. There’s a vacuum cleaner resting against the wall. A large desk in the corner with one of those ergonomic computer chairs, a PC and a bulky printer.

And in the other corner, a day bed. Great, that looks comfortable.

“Does this meet your standards, Mr. Rosenthal?” Will asks.

“It’s fine.”

“Good,” he says before tossing my bag on the floor.

He turns to walk away but I call him back. “Where is your room?”

“So you can draw on my face in my sleep? I don’t think so, Rosie.”

I clear my throat in warning.

“No one’s around,” he points out.

“The deal still stands.”

His shoulders slump.

“Now I get to call you William at least once.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

When we go back upstairs, Will heads to the second floor to put his bags in his room—I will find out which one is his, and I am not above drawing on his face.

While he’s upstairs, I’m stuck with his mother, who is being weirdly friendly considering she’s heard a lot about me already.

“Would you like some coffee, Priestley? Or tea?”

“Whatever you’re having will be fine, thank you.”

I follow her into the kitchen, feeling stiff and awkward. I thought I’d prepared myself for every possible scenario life could throw at me. Boardrooms, country clubs, galas, dinners. But a preschool teacher’s kitchen? Apparently not.

The kitchen is smaller than I imagined it, much smaller—those Hallmark movies do lie. There isn’t even an island counter. It’s just about wide enough to fit us both inside at the same time while Will’s mother heats the kettle on the stove.

I’m expecting her to tell me to go and take a seat, but instead, she engages me in conversation.

“Have you been at Princeton long, Priestley?”

“I completed my undergraduate degree there, yes.”