Page 40 of Break Points and Face Offs

I spot Dad’s truck when we pull up outside the house. We get out and Priestley just stands there, like he’s waiting for someone to let him into the house, take his coat and call him Master Rosenthal. I pop the trunk.

“You gonna help me with these bags or what?” I know he knows how to carry a fucking bag. I saw how much shit those tennis players on TV carted around. The least he can do is take a few shopping bags.

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

The door opens and Dad steps down onto the top step of the porch with his hands in his jean pockets.

“Here, let me help,” he says, taking one of the bags from me and bringing it into the house.

He waits until they’ve all been deposited on the counter before he pulls me into a big bear hug.

I’m engulfed by his familiar smell. Sometimes there’s a smokey scent I used to think I was imagining because I know he fights fires. Today, it’s just woody cologne and the freshly washed flannel shirt he’s wearing.

He squeezes me tight before letting go and ruffling my hair. We’ve been about the same height since I was seventeen so our faces are level when he holds me by the shoulders and studies me. What he’s studying me for, I’m not sure. But it reminds me of when he’d clean me up after I fell off my bike or got hit in a hockey game. I always felt like there was nothing he couldn’t see, or fix.

He glances behind me now, spotting Priestley.

“This the friend from school?” I hear the additional question in his voice and ignore it.

“This is Priestley. Priestley, this is my dad.”

Priestley steps forward and holds out his hand. Dad gives it a warm shake.

“I’m Joe. It’s good to have you, son,” he says.

Priestley’s eyes grow wide as he stares at my dad like the cat caught his tongue.

12

PRIESTLEY

We get a moment alone to wash up before dinner. I use it to take in everything I’ve learned about Will O’Reilly. And to acknowledge how sheltered I’ve been from most people’s real lives before now.

Will O’Reilly is not impoverished, that’s clear. And yet, his life is so monumentally different from anything I’ve ever known before. His house is so tiny. He used a coupon at the grocery store! And yet, I was the one who was embarrassed because I’d never used a shopping cart and had no idea how much things are supposed to cost. I’ve never shopped anywhere that things cost less than a dollar. As a finance student, I really should understand the value of money. No wonder Will has an edge over me in Professor Moreno’s eyes.

And then there are his parents. I’ve seen warm, loving mothers on TV. I’ve even seen warm, loving fathers. But I’ve never seen whatever that was in real life before. The way his father hugged him and looked at him. Like he was proud. And he hadn’t even done anything.

By Will’s own admission, he’s never been number one. He was assistant coach of a kid’s hockey team. Alternate captain of his junior hockey team. I don’t know if he was top of his class at Boston College, but it doesn’t seem to matter to these people.

Will’s setting the table when I come back upstairs from my basement room. His siblings are harassing the dog in the living room and his parents are chatting in the kitchen. Will’s mother spots me standing there awkwardly and beams at me.

“Priestley, good timing. Dinner’s ready.”

“Can I help?” I ask, starting to understand that’s what people do. I’m adapting.

“Here, take this,” she says, handing me a plate of mashed potatoes. “Make sure you hold it by the cloth, it’s hot.”

I do as I’m told and carry the plate into the dining room, enjoying the look on Will’s face when he sees me helping.

We all sit down to eat. I’m on Will’s right, his brother opposite me and his sister sitting opposite Will. His father sits at the head of the table and his mother at the foot. Or is it the other way around?

They pass plates around the small, rectangular dining table and talk over each other.

I see an opportunity to get one of my Williams in.

“William, would you pass the potatoes, please?”

His sister, Ally, snorts.