the Club who wore a nametag.
“Trust me when I say it could have been worse.” One of the corners of James’s mouth had lifted, and his right cheek flashed a dimple that made Rose slightly weak in the knees.
“Too bad I don’t trust you at all.” After she said the words it occurred to her that she was flirting with James Gregory. What the hell was she doing?
“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t trust the guy who was so wasted he fell
down
the entire staircase and into his grandfather’s birthday cake either.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did.” He snorted, shaking his head. Rose couldn’t help but laugh with him.
“You fell into his cake?”
“Like I said, life of the party, which is why I stick to caffeine, the safer drug.” He had raised his glass, and Rose couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows. It was funny how different her perception had been of James, how quickly it could change, even during one short conversation. He actually wasn’t so bad.
“Guess that’s the point of rehab,” he mumbled.
His confession made Rose feel better somehow. She didn’t need any reminder how imperfect she was; it was just nice to know that other people felt the same way about themselves.
A loud knock at her bedroom door shook her from the beginning of the summer, a few papers fluttering off the bed as she startled. “Rose! I’ve called you three times. Dinner’s ready, no thanks to you.” Her mom stomped back down the stairs as Rose gathered the papers, skimming James’s section one last time before shoving the pile beneath her pillow.
There was absolutely no reference to a stint in rehab, no drug or alcohol-related infractions anywhere in his file. He had no reason to lie about his history, especially to her.
Either her dad was worse with paperwork than she thought or the Gregorys really were above the law.
Chapter 8
Rose liked to play a game during family dinners where she challenged herself to speak fewer than ten words the entire meal. It started out as a power thing. Some girls took to starvation when they wanted to bug the shit out of their mothers, but Rose liked food too much. Besides, there was nothing that upset Pilar McCaan more than awkward silence. The average dinner conversation word count fell somewhere between nine and twenty, but one time last winter she successfully made it through an entire meal mumbling only three words. (Granted, her parents were fighting about putting a new roof on the house the entire time, but Rose still considered it an accomplishment.)
“I happened to overhear that you and James Gregory had quite the run in at the Club today,” her mom commented, piling Rose’s plate with lasagna.
Rose took a huge bite. The good old chew-and-shrug, a classic maneuver …
“What have I told you about the Gregorys? They’re trouble.”
Rose felt like replying with, “You’re a hypocrite,” but didn’t want to waste three words. Besides, her mouth was full.
“Your mother is right. Be careful with the Gregorys.”
To this day, Rose could never tell if her dad simply parroted whatever her mom said or if he knew more than he let on. Neither garnered much respect. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She managed to slide it onto her lap while barely moving, another one of her many talents.
War meeting in 20. Same place.
She quickly choked down the rest of her lasagna and cleared her plate.
“What’s the rush, Rosie?” She hated her dad’s nickname for her. The only people named Rosie were chubby three-year-olds and overweight comedians.
“Meeting some friends.” Three words. She was still in this.
“What friends? Where are you going? Pilar, did you know about this?” Her dad looked at her mom, but she was busy on her own phone, her full lips turned up in a half smile. Rose knew that smile, and she couldn’t unknow it. No matter how many times she tried. That smile gave Rose a pit in her stomach, like she’d barged in on her mom in the shower, singing for no
“Trust me when I say it could have been worse.” One of the corners of James’s mouth had lifted, and his right cheek flashed a dimple that made Rose slightly weak in the knees.
“Too bad I don’t trust you at all.” After she said the words it occurred to her that she was flirting with James Gregory. What the hell was she doing?
“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t trust the guy who was so wasted he fell
down
the entire staircase and into his grandfather’s birthday cake either.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did.” He snorted, shaking his head. Rose couldn’t help but laugh with him.
“You fell into his cake?”
“Like I said, life of the party, which is why I stick to caffeine, the safer drug.” He had raised his glass, and Rose couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows. It was funny how different her perception had been of James, how quickly it could change, even during one short conversation. He actually wasn’t so bad.
“Guess that’s the point of rehab,” he mumbled.
His confession made Rose feel better somehow. She didn’t need any reminder how imperfect she was; it was just nice to know that other people felt the same way about themselves.
A loud knock at her bedroom door shook her from the beginning of the summer, a few papers fluttering off the bed as she startled. “Rose! I’ve called you three times. Dinner’s ready, no thanks to you.” Her mom stomped back down the stairs as Rose gathered the papers, skimming James’s section one last time before shoving the pile beneath her pillow.
There was absolutely no reference to a stint in rehab, no drug or alcohol-related infractions anywhere in his file. He had no reason to lie about his history, especially to her.
Either her dad was worse with paperwork than she thought or the Gregorys really were above the law.
Chapter 8
Rose liked to play a game during family dinners where she challenged herself to speak fewer than ten words the entire meal. It started out as a power thing. Some girls took to starvation when they wanted to bug the shit out of their mothers, but Rose liked food too much. Besides, there was nothing that upset Pilar McCaan more than awkward silence. The average dinner conversation word count fell somewhere between nine and twenty, but one time last winter she successfully made it through an entire meal mumbling only three words. (Granted, her parents were fighting about putting a new roof on the house the entire time, but Rose still considered it an accomplishment.)
“I happened to overhear that you and James Gregory had quite the run in at the Club today,” her mom commented, piling Rose’s plate with lasagna.
Rose took a huge bite. The good old chew-and-shrug, a classic maneuver …
“What have I told you about the Gregorys? They’re trouble.”
Rose felt like replying with, “You’re a hypocrite,” but didn’t want to waste three words. Besides, her mouth was full.
“Your mother is right. Be careful with the Gregorys.”
To this day, Rose could never tell if her dad simply parroted whatever her mom said or if he knew more than he let on. Neither garnered much respect. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She managed to slide it onto her lap while barely moving, another one of her many talents.
War meeting in 20. Same place.
She quickly choked down the rest of her lasagna and cleared her plate.
“What’s the rush, Rosie?” She hated her dad’s nickname for her. The only people named Rosie were chubby three-year-olds and overweight comedians.
“Meeting some friends.” Three words. She was still in this.
“What friends? Where are you going? Pilar, did you know about this?” Her dad looked at her mom, but she was busy on her own phone, her full lips turned up in a half smile. Rose knew that smile, and she couldn’t unknow it. No matter how many times she tried. That smile gave Rose a pit in her stomach, like she’d barged in on her mom in the shower, singing for no
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