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“Look at this place,” Mads says, glancing around appreciatively.
“It’s so nice,” Oakley agrees.
“The best my parents’ money can buy,” Suki jokes.
“Hey, just be glad they are willing and able to help you,” Oakley says.
Both Oakley and Mads are from middle-class families. Suki and I both come from modest money, only my parents would never be willing to support me. Not unless I cower to their vision of my life. And I wouldn’t want their cash because it comes with strings. I cut those strings completely right after graduation.
“Let me give you a tour,” Suki suggests.
I follow the three of them around as Suki shows off the townhouse. We end the tour on the third-floor deck.
“This is amazing,” Mads says. She takes a seat on one of the bench cushions.
I lift the wine opener. “Red or white?”
“Red for me,” Oakley says.
“Same,” Suki agrees.
“White,” Mads gives her order. “I don’t feel like having red-stained teeth tonight.”
I snicker and screw the opener into the corks, pouring two glasses of red and two of white, taking one for myself after handing the others out.
Oakley picks up a small plate from the table and starts loading it with meats, cheeses, crackers, and fruit from the charcuterie board. “This looks amazing. Did you make it?”
“I did,” Suki proclaims.
I snort and give her a knowing look.
“I bought it and transferred the food from a box to that beautiful plate it’s now on,” she admits defiantly.
Oakley laughs.
“Same difference.” Mads waves her hand in the air. We all know she doesn’t like to cook but considers herself a pro at ordering takeout.
I grab a plate and follow behind Oakley. When all four of us are seated with wine and snacks, we settle in to eat and talk.
“How’s St. Louis?” I ask Oakley.
“It’s good,” she starts, “though I’d much rather be here with the rest of you.”
“We want you here too,” Mads adds with a pout.
“Can’t Ollie spin his magic and get Chase on the team?” I ask.
Oakley snorts. “My brother might be talented, but he doesn’t have that kind of pull.”
“I don’t know,” Mads hums. “He got Sam here. And God knows that took a miracle.”
“Sam?” I ask. I haven’t heard that name since sophomore year of college. “Sam Anderson?”
“Yep.” Mads nods.
“Wasn’t he playing for a team in California?” Suki asks before sipping her wine.
Suki and I are not hockey fans, but everyone on campus knew that Sam got drafted when we were attending Sinclair.
