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It’s not that my father is pious. I’ve seen him drunk plenty of times, and I’ve heard the stories about his college days and the girls he dated before he met Mom. But when it comes to the important stuff, to family and friendships and people in general? I want to follow his lead. His heart is always pure. Even now as he straddles the lines in an effort to help his son earn a starting position, he still wants to do right by Toby. And I guarantee that Toby and his father don’t give a rat’s ass about the ethical standards my father has. They make up their own rules, and maybe that’s what’s got him in the mood he’s in. Still, it’s admirable as hell to watch him fight so hard to stick to that line.
“I understand,” I say, leaning in and wrapping my arm around his shoulders.
We hug briefly, pulling apart when the oven buzzes with the sound of my lunch finally being done. My dad heads into his room to change then comes back out while I’m about to dig into my first, perfectly reheated flauta.
“All right, so it does look better your way,” he relents. He reaches over before I’m able to catch him and grabs an entire roll with his fingers, taking a bite and having to drop it back on my plate and run to the kitchen thanks to his burning mouth.
“When are you going to learn?” I laugh out.
I scoot the abandoned flauta back into the rest on my plate while my dad downs another glass of water. After, he gathers his pile of papers, some of which I’m guessing will help him prove his argument with the headmaster and get Theo’s sentence reduced. He stops at the table next to me, though, and pulls a photocopy of something out of one of his folders, sliding it toward me.
“I’m not passing judgement on you or your choices. I’m only looking out for you and this family,” he says.
I meet his gaze and unfold the paper before looking down to take it in. It’s a string of social media comments in regard to Morgan Bentley, and my first instinct is to laugh, knowing it’s probably from the whole mimosa shakedown she told me about this morning. But then a certain comment catches my eye.
Coach Wallace was quietly let go after spending a lot of nights with one very popular junior who we might all know from TikTok.
I read on, scanning quickly but taking in enough to get the gist of these comments.
“This is gossip, you know. And I thought we all talked about it as a family before we came here, Dad. That’s what places like this thrive on,” I say, a sour taste tainting my mouth, nonetheless.
“We did, and you’re right. This is gossip,” my father says, pushing the paper closer to me. I assume he wants me to take it and study it more closely. “But this is the gossip that follows that young lady you were spending time alone with this morning, and there’s usually a reason at the root of stories like these.”
I flit my eyes up to meet his warning expression, and my insides twist with conflict. I refuse to play into the ugliness that Morgan explained to me this morning. But I don’t want to start new friction between me and my dad, not as he’s about to head into an uncomfortable meeting to help another one of my friends, and ultimately me.
“I understand, and I will take it under advisement,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
My dad’s eyes squint a little as he considers my response, but I think it’s hard for him to disrespect my wish to be fair and respectful. And I hope, just maybe, a small part of him believes that Morgan was unfairly judged—isunfairly judged.
“I’ll let you know when you can throw passes to Theo. I won’t have a final decision today, but you know me—I’m pretty good at reading people.” His mouth pulls into a tight smile as he gathers his papers and heads across the room and ultimately out the door.
The moment he’s gone, I look down at the sordid evidence from the court of public opinion and for the briefest moment consider bringing it up to Morgan or maybe one of our friends. Ultimately, though, I decide to set the page on fire and wash the embers down the sink because like my father, I’m a pretty good judge of character too. And I think maybe Morgan Bentley isn’t a distraction but rather a complicated girl with a lot of good in her heart, and one I’d really like to get to know.
Chapter11
Morgan
It turns out that picking a place to work because you like their cute name is not the best way to land on an internship. I was right in my hunch that Opal and Jayne were, in fact, real people. What I did not expect was that they were in their late sixties and heavy smokers.
The account list for their boutique company is impressive, but their creative is very dated. When I asked who designed the cute cards and branding they had at the tent on internship day at Welles, they explained that they bought it from a pre-made kit. I bet if I looked hard enough, or maybe not even hard at all, I’d find the same pink and green leafy design and clean font treatment being used for a dozen area businesses.
Shoot! I wonder if they’ve resold their premade creative to some of their clients?
The young hiring manager I interviewed with is only at the apartment office for the firm twice a week, and today was my day to complete paperwork with her. She’s a sweet girl named Nora, and it turns out she’s Opal’s niece. Or maybe she’s Jayne’s? Regardless, she loves the ladies. I have to admit they’re fun to be around, even if the apartment smells of stale smoke and vinegar. How they handle PR and marketing for some of Boston’s biggest financial institutions baffles me, though I wouldn’t be surprised if it was based on some very old friendships and contracts that date back to when Opal and Jayne were in their prime and working the club scene of their day.
Nora knew who I was, which is why I got the gig, and apparently all other interviews for the day were cancelled. This tiny company needs new life, and new clients. And I think Nora wouldn’t mind becoming a full-time fixture. But to grow, they need to seriously look at their billing. And that might mean startling some very comfortable financial officers who have gotten used to pathetically undervalued billing statements.
I ended up learning so much from Nora when my paperwork was done that I started working on a business plan before I left. I missed the afternoon train back to campus, so I was left taking the seven p.m. one instead.
Late train trips never used to faze me, but my guard was significantly altered after my dad’s lawyer tried to feel me up. Being in a fatal car crash also shifted my sense of safety. Ever since the accident, I’ve found myself giving in to the constant pull of worry and panic. It’s one thing to be alert, but sometimes by the time I get through something as simple as a one-block walk down a well-lit street, I’m covered in sweat and my pulse is racing so fast I fear my heart may exit my body.
The streets on the outskirts of Boston are still busy enough when I leave, but the train itself is rather empty. Only a few people take up seats on the T—two of them homeless, and a third, a man on his own. He looks drunk, and his nice suit and tie do little to offset the angry scowl on his face that he seems to enjoy fixating on me.
I pull my phone from my purse and cross my legs, glad I wore flat boots today with sharp toes for kicking. I shoot a text off to my roommates and stare at my screen, anxious for them to respond. Lily is the first to reply, asking me what’s up.
ME:I’m coming in on the later train. Can you and Brooklyn meet me at the station?
It’s a little selfish to ask them to wait around there alone at night, but there’s security at the station. And they would make the trip there together. Better yet, maybe Brooklyn would drive the one block to get me.
