HABIT, page 11
“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—is unfairly 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.
Chapter 11
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.
LILY: I’m with Theo and about to get in the pool.
I stare at her response for a few seconds, waiting for the but. It doesn’t come. Finally, I write back.
ME: No prob. I understand.
Lily has fought hard to get herself back into the water after surviving our crash. Being a part of the swim team matters to her, and I think it might help her heal. And if Theo is encouraging her, that’s a good sign for both of them. I can’t fully take credit for this reconciliation, but I did promise Anika in my prayers that I would nurture it.
I wait a few more minutes, hopeful that Brooklyn will chime in and offer to come get me. When she doesn’t, I call. Three rings and I get sent to voicemail.
Maybe she’s busy.
Brooklyn works in the Mayor’s Office, so late hours are common for her. I envy her serious side. If I could somehow find that in myself, I think people would understand what I’m capable of. There are those who get it—the people I influence. At least, the ones I used to influence. Social storytelling is powerful. But it’s not for the faint of heart. And as tough as I thought I was, maybe I’m not tough enough.
Flipping to James’s profile, I send him a message in hopes that he sees it. When he pings me back almost instantly, I bite down to hold in my smile. The stranger to my right whose angry eyes have only seemed to narrow more is still staring at me, which ratchets up my guard. The old me would have live streamed this train ride and flipped the camera around on him to show my followers where I was and what was happening. I knew people would have my back. Now, I’m afraid they’d root him on. All because I haven’t engaged with anyone digitally for a while. People are fickle beasts.
ME: I’m coming back late. Can you meet me at the station by Welles?
JAMES: On my way.
His quick response warms my belly, but I hold my reaction in and instead keep my phone handy in case I need to make any emergency calls. As we close in on my stop, I gather my bag close to my chest and get to my feet, opting to stand near the door. I bend forward to peer out the window, recognizing the form of the guy leaning against one of the pillars while wearing black jogger sweats and a white T-shirt. He was working out, I bet.
As the T slows, Mr. Creeper leaves his seat and moves closer to me, not quite to the door, but not taking another seat either. I brace myself, ready to kick if I need to, then pull the handle on the door to sound off an alarm and race out of here. When the stranger reaches into the front breast pocket of his jacket, my breath hitches, and a shot of acid seers up my esophagus. But within seconds, he’s holding his phone up and pointing the camera at me and talking.
“It’s totally Morgan Bentley, guys. I’ve found her. Spotted! And she’s not with some mystery CEO—she’s still in high school!”
Fuck you! Jerk! Creepy loser!
Those responses flash through my mind, and months ago, they would have flown out of my mouth along with a swift middle finger and then a backlash of my fans descending on whoever this guy is. But now, I merely stare at him with my mouth agape and tears pricking at my eyes.
The train inches to a stop and the doors rush open, and I begin to step off but am quickly held then stepped around by James. He must have seen my reaction through the windows, or maybe he was watching this guy get closer as the train neared. Whatever prompted him to be suspicious, I’m relieved he’s here. I’m equally terrified of the fallout from his actions.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? You like making women uncomfortable? Huh? You get off on that?” James lunges at the man a few times, each time scaring him back a few steps. But the guy keeps his phone going, along with his running commentary. If I could only pause the universe for a second, I would have warned him. This is how these things go. An entire industry is built on this type of conflict. People live for it, watching it from the comfort of their pajamas while they hide under their covers at night and mindlessly scroll.
Before the doors close, James slaps the creeper’s hand and sends his phone sailing across the inside of the train before slipping out onto the platform with my wrist clasped in his grip.
He’s breathing hard. I know the kind of shape he’s in, so it must be the adrenaline coursing through his body. As the train pulls away, I jog alongside it, enjoying the view of the scumbag who filmed me scrambling around the floor in search of what I hope are pieces of his phone. I stop when the platform ends and fold my hands over my head while I catch my breath, watching the glow of the inside train lights fade as the tracks disappear through the woods.
“That’s probably going viral, huh?”
I huff out a sharp laugh and turn to face James, who is also standing with his arms over his head.
“I mean, the end was pretty epic,” I say.
He chuckles as he continues to pace in a large circle. I move closer to him, stopping to pick up my bag that I discarded before sprinting—well, sprinting for me—after the train.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I say, my heartbeat somehow growing faster even though my body is at rest. James holds an arm out toward me, pulling me into a hug at the side of his body when I’m within reach.
“Pretty sure I’ll be riding the train with you from now on.” He gives me a little squeeze as we walk, and I expect his arm to fall away from my shoulder. Instead, he leaves it draped around my neck as we head toward campus.
“Isn’t your internship somewhere else entirely?” I’m not even sure what James does for his.
“I’m working with my mom’s accounting firm. She’s more of a freelancer, really, but under a big umbrella company. She thought it would be good if I learned how to keep books if I want to eventually open a small business.” He shrugs, but his answer is nothing like I expected. Maybe it’s naïve, and a bit judgmental, to assume he’d be into sports or physical therapy or something like that, but business . . . I can identify with that. Maybe I can help.
“You know, business is kind of in my blood,” I say, putting on a smooth tone as if I’m a real mover and shaker. I suppose in some ways I am.
James laughs, his body rumbling next to mine with the sound. I love the way it feels tucked under his arm, and the warmth of his body makes me bold enough to slip my arm around his back. He looks down at me as we walk when my fingers run along the back of his shirt and grip the other side to hold on.
“I don’t think I’m quite cut out for Bentley-sized business. Besides, from what you told me, I don’t think I’m good enough at chess.” He grimaces and I reflect his expression, remembering my full voicemail and the several IGNOREs I pressed on my phone today when my mom called. We still haven’t talked. I’ll forgive her eventually; I can’t help myself. I feel bad for her because as much as she puts herself in these manipulative situations with my father, where he coerces her to trick me into doing his dirty work, she also knows no other life. I think without the vapid drama that comes along with being Mrs. Christopher Bentley, my mom’s identity is vague. Undefined.
“So, what kind of business, then?” I tug at his shirt when I ask, the playful touch earning another laugh from his chest.
He doesn’t answer right away. I keep my eyes on him as we walk and as we near the dorms, he stops and moves to stand in front of me, looking down at me with a sheepish grin.
“You really wanna know about my silly dream?”
I tilt my head to the side and put on the puppy dog eyes.
“Are you kidding me? I love silly dreams! And I bet yours isn’t so silly.” My belly flutters with nervous energy as James shuffles his feet nervously and breathes out a shy laugh. He’s like a little kid being asked his favorite questions—so excited to talk and no idea where to begin.
“You wanna . . . I don’t know, come in? My mom’s at the office late and Dad’s offsite with the coaching staff. Not that I’m trying to get you alone, just . . .” He drags his palm over his face and peers at me through his open fingers. “I have this knack for not being able to say the right words around you.”
“Uh, I’m pretty sure I’m the one who went on about you being good at quarterbacking, so it seems we’re both bad at the English language.”
His palm slides away, revealing his smile.
“Ah, yeah. You’re probably right there. You were pretty ridiculous,” he teases.
I step into him and bump him with my hip, but before I slip away he captures me under his arm again and glances toward his family’s apartment.
“Yeah, I’d like to hang out a while. My roommates are basically nowhere to be found, and I’m feeling a bit abandoned.” I feel a lot abandoned, to be honest. Brooklyn and I have hardly talked, and while I know we’re all busy and the start of the semester has been rigorous, talking was always our thing. This isn’t how Anika wanted things to be.
“Well, I do like taking in feral cats,” James says, pulling his keys from his pocket and unlocking the door.
He steps inside but I wait on the stoop, still processing what he said. When he realizes I haven’t joined him, he spins around and nods his head to the side, silently inviting me in.
“I’m sorry, but did you compare me to a feral cat?” I hold my ground, not really mad, but kind of curious how he’s going to answer this.
“Huh, yeah. I guess I did. I have a feeling you’d fight like one in a back alley, so it sort of works.” He shrugs and lifts a brow. I step inside and tsk as I pass by him.
“Real smooth talker, aren’t ya?”
He laughs and shuts the door behind, us then leads me through the main room toward the hallway and what I am presuming—hoping—is his bedroom.
His room is very plain, which being that it’s a temporary place and not a shared space with another teammate, I sort of understand. Still, there isn’t much in this room that tells me about him. It feels uninspired and maybe a little lost. I spin around as he shuts his door and flips on a small lamp on top of a nightstand. His floor is clean, and a small pile of clothes sits on his desk chair. There’s a boxy TV mounted to the wall above his dresser, and except for a few discarded arm bands and a water bottle, his room is pretty spotless.
“Was your dad in the military or something? Because this is a tight ship.” I run a finger along the woodgrain of one of his drawers to show off the lack of dust. I’m joking, but also . . . not.
“Nah, but his dad was. And I guess the neat-freak gene trickled down. Still trickling,” he laughs, patting his own chest.
He falls back onto his bed and props his head up on his elbow, leaving enough room for me. It’s not my style to get nervous, but for some reason, I’m incredibly aware of my movements and expressions and sounds right now. My smile tingles into my cheeks as I work to suppress it, stepping toward the bed and sitting on the edge. I drop my bag to the floor then unzip my boots and let them fall to the floor too. I’m comfortable today, in tight black pants and a black turtleneck. I went with my artsy look because that’s the style that seems to fit the old ladies I work for.
