The Freshman

by Monica Murphy

  But she told me she didn’t drink tonight so…

  “I won’t. Promise.” And I don’t promise shit to anyone.

  “See? One of the good ones. You can keep my panties as a souvenir, Sorrento, so you won’t ever forget this night.”

  Even without the lacy souvenir, I know I won’t forget this night.

  Ever.

  Six

  Hayden

  I wake up slowly, like the sun rising. Little fingers of light. A tease of color, a splash of dawn. The sky grows brighter, brighter, until finally, there is a giant ball of blinding white shining in your eyes and it hurts to look at it.

  That’s me. My eyes crack open into tiny slits. I can’t see anything. Slowly they open, until my teenage room comes into full view, and the sun shines through the filmy curtains, casting the room in too much brightness.

  My head aches and I blindly reach for my phone where it rests on my bedside table. I check the time. 11:47 a.m.

  Shit.

  Sitting up, I push my hair out of my face and glance around the room, my phone still clutched in my right hand. I think of what happened last night with Tony, and I inwardly groan.

  What was I thinking, throwing myself at him like I did? Undoing the top of my dress like I did? My confidence bordered on stupidity.

  He probably thinks I’m obnoxious. Ridiculous. Worse?

  A cock tease.

  I check my phone to take my mind off what I did. There are Snaps from Gracie, my roommate. She sent me multiple images from last night, where she was at some party, solo cup clutched in hand, giant smile on her face, pretty boy standing by her side, his heavy-lidded eyes trained solely on her.

  I envy her ability to chase after men, to immediately fall in love with them, and pick up the pieces so quickly when they abandon her. I’m not built like her. I used to be grateful for that. She felt too much, I always told her, and she readily agreed.

  I don’t feel enough at all.

  I’m all bravado and bullshit. Just like my father. He should’ve never told me to stay away from Tony Sorrento.

  Now all I want to do is see him again. Talk to him again. Maybe let him actually touch me.

  A shiver steals over me at the thought.

  There’s a rapid knock on my door and then Palmer is slipping in, fully dressed and looking ready to go somewhere.

  “You’re still in bed,” she says accusingly.

  I flop back on the pillows, my head sinking in downy softness. “So? It’s Sunday.”

  “Dad wants to go have brunch at the Whitmore.” A fancy hotel in downtown San Francisco that was once a mansion that belonged to one of the richest families on the West Coast. “He already left with Lauri. I said you’d drive us there.”

  “I’m not ready.” I cover my face with my hands, thinking of eating quiche and French Brioche toast while sipping a mimosa, seeing people I know at the other tables. Dad preening, going on about his girls, his gaze locked on Lauri.

  No thank you.

  “Well get ready.” Palmer swats my comforter-covered feet. “Hurry.”

  I leave it to my baby sister to pick out an outfit while I get ready. I took a shower last night after I got home, so that chore is thankfully eliminated. I throw on some makeup. Palmer curls my hair.

  We’re out of the house in less than twenty minutes. A miracle.

  Traffic somehow works in our favor and by the time we breeze into the hotel restaurant, I can tell Dad and Lauri have only just begun eating. When he spots us, his eyes light up and he rises to his feet, dropping his white cloth napkin on top of the table.

  “There are my girls,” he says in greeting and we go to him. Palmer hugs him and kisses his cheek like an enthusiastic puppy. My greeting is cooler. More refined. I’m still a little miffed at his treatment yesterday, and I want him to know it.

  Lauri watches all of this with thinly veiled disgust on her face. She doesn’t understand the dog and pony show of Sunday brunch, though she’s definitely caught on to the rich flaunt of Saturday night dinner at the club. If she sticks around long enough and has children with my father, she’ll eventually get it.

  Maybe. Sometimes I wonder about Lauri. Especially now that I know Joseph, the plastic surgeon’s son is trying to get into her panties.

  Gross.

  Daddy sends us to the buffet and we grab our plates, walking among the many tables laden with food. This isn’t your typical all-you-can-eat buffet you find in middle America. The only thing I can compare this to is the Sunday brunch at The Ritz in Paris. There are no congealed eggs in a giant vat being warmed under a heat lamp. Here, there are elegantly cut glass platters stacked with fresh, fluffy pancakes and perfectly golden, crisp French toast. A chef waits behind a partition, ready to make you a crepe with the ingredients of your choosing. A variety of fresh baked breads and cheeses. Meats of all kinds, most of them you’d never think of eating for breakfast. Sweet pastries that are like little works of art.

  And champagne. Plenty of champagne. As a teen, I felt so grown up when my father would let me partake. One Sunday brunch, in particular, I remember. I was seventeen, a newly-minted senior in high school, and it was cold outside. A typical San Francisco summer day. I drank so much champagne my face turned red and I couldn’t stop talking.

  Basically, I was myself, amped up to a million.

  Once we’re settled at the table with our plates, fresh mimosas awaiting us, Daddy launches in.

  “Where were you last night?”

  My mouth is full of the omelet I just had the chef prepare for me. I chew and chew, hating the way he watches me, prepped to catch me in a lie. I may be only twenty, and still fresh in my adulthood, but I’ve been around long enough to know what he’s about. His questioning ways, his suspicions.

  “Oakland,” I answer after I swallow, reaching for my mimosa and taking a sip. It’s more champs than orange juice, and the alcohol tickles my nose.

  His right brow shoots up. “Why the fuck were you in Oakland?”

  Lauri reaches out, settling her hand on his arm. “Brian. Please. Someone might hear you.”

  He breathes heavy, his nostrils flaring. I continue eating my omelet, though inside I’m quivering. I didn’t think he’d be so angry.

  “Do you know what time you got home last night?” he asks, his voice tight.

  I set my fork on the edge of my plate and meet his gaze. “Yes, Daddy.”

  “I’m assuming you weren’t alone when you went to Oakland.”

  I shake my head, remaining silent.

  “You live on your own when you’re at college, but when you’re here, you’re still under my roof, and you must follow my rules. Do you understand me?”

  I nod and bow my head, keeping my gaze downcast. This is what he wants. The obedient daughter, taking her punishment by him making a semi-public spectacle in the middle of a restaurant. One of the most elegant restaurants in the entire city. There are business associates of his in here. Men he plays golf with. Women he’s probably slept with. This is his domain, and I’m just lucky enough to be allowed inside.

  “Who were you with, Hayden?” This comes from Lauri, and I barely lift my head, glaring at her. This isn’t part of the script, and I don’t like her interfering. In the past when I’ve gotten in trouble like this, if I immediately agree that I was bad, my father doesn’t search for the answers. He forgets all about who I could’ve been with, and what I might’ve been doing.

  Is this because he doesn’t want to know? Doesn’t want any sort of vision of what his oldest daughter could be doing when she’s out late at night? That’s my assumption.

  Lauri is just flat-out curious. Worse, she’s probably worried I was with her precious Joseph.

  When I say nothing, Lauri, the big mouth, continues. “Joseph left soon after you did.”

  My instincts were right. I say nothing still. I just let my lips curl into a tiny closed-mouth smile.

  Her eyes shoot daggers. Jealousy is not a good look for her. At all.
>
  When I glance in my father’s direction, I see that he’s visibly relaxed. The tension is completely gone from his shoulders. He’s probably pleased with the assumption that I was with Joseph in Oakland. Doing God knows what. I hope Lauri envisions the two of us entwined together, naked limbs clinging like vines. She deserves it, for being tempted to cheat on my father.

  If he ever catches her with Joseph, there will be hell to pay.

  “You’ll come with us to the party this afternoon,” Dad commands, as if I have no choice in the matter.

  “I need to get back home. I have school tomorrow. An early class.”

  “You stay up all hours of the night on a daily basis,” he counters. “You’re going to that party. You can return back to your apartment later.”

  I blink at him, letting my gaze slide in Palmer’s direction. She’s too busy eating, acting like whatever’s happening right now isn’t.

  I envy her youth. The expectations are high, but not the same. He just wants her to get good grades, excel at her sport and do what he says, no questions asked. It’s easier when you’re young. When you haven’t tasted freedom yet. Palmer doesn’t know any better.

  Though I was nothing like my sister when I was her age. I was rebellious. Defiant. I strained beneath my father’s demands, rather than giving in to them. I never caused a public scandal, but I tended to do what I wanted, despite his protests.

  I got in plenty of trouble with him. Phones and laptops and cars taken away. He broke me early on in my senior year, only because I wised up to his game and knew if I did what he asked, and behaved how he wanted, I would be granted freedom.

  It’s been two years since I’ve moved out, but my wings are still clipped. I’m only free when I’m not here. The moment I return home—and he demands I do often—I’m caged. Locked away. Reminded of my place, of my duty.

  I am a different person when I’m gone, and I prefer that version of myself.

  “Am I making myself clear?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  I meet his gaze once more. “Yes, Daddy.”

  Lauri smiles. She enjoys watching me squirm. This is why she aligns herself with Palmer. Getting in good with the daughter still at home is a smart move on her part, I can’t deny it. Why bother trying to butter me up? I’m not the one she needs on her side. The three of them against me is a smarter move.

  She doesn’t know that, deep down, Palmer would never turn against me. We suffered through our parents’ divorce together. In my baby sister’s eyes, the only one she can really trust is me. And I feel the same way about her. Our parents betrayed us. Used us in battle during the custody proceedings. It was awful. A time in my life I’d rather forget.

  Palmer feels the same way.

  So Lauri can kiss my sister’s ass all she wants, and Palmer will take everything Lauri gives her gladly. I would do the same if I were in my sister’s shoes.

  It’s almost sad, how we all use each other in a way. The only person I truly love. Like, absolutely adore blindly, is Palmer. That’s it.

  She’s all I have.

  Once brunch is over, we return home and change clothes—again—for the birthday party. When we’re ready, we all pile into my father’s Mercedes SUV and head for Dr. Joseph Dubrow’s house. As we enter the foyer with the soaring ceilings and the brightly colored art on the walls, I realize it’s a monstrous, tacky palace, recently redecorated by Dubrow’s new wife. At least she has the decency to be older than Lauri, but still. She’s young compared to his former wife, according to gossipy Lauri, and she spends the doc’s money as if it’s endless. Which I suppose it is.

  We’re led through the house, Misti Dubrow asking us if we want a tour and my father politely declining. She flirts with him. Lauri inserts a snarky comment here and there, and I wonder if they’re actually friends.

  Doesn’t seem like it.

  The party is outside, and it’s supposed to be an elegant affair. What I notice first upon coming outside are the flowers. Clusters of deep red roses everywhere. Swags of roses. Arrangements in the center of the tables, on the bars, around the pool. They must’ve spent thousands of dollars on red roses because they are literally all over the place, their overpowering scent making me sneeze.

  “Joe loves the color of blood, that’s why all the roses.” I overhear his new wife, Misti, explain to a group of women, including Lauri. Misti’s face is stretched taut, her blood red glossed lips plump with filler. I’d guess she was originally a patient of his, and that’s how they met. He was married. She was single, younger, prettier than his wife. Time to trade in for a new model.

  I’m sure when Misti first went to see him, he gave her Botox. Made her lips fuller, her eyebrows arched in perpetual surprise. I bet she was stunned silent when she first saw her face, shocked by her new youthful appearance. I’m sure she was beautiful. They always are.

  Now she looks the same as they all do. In a few years, Lauri will resemble this woman. A plastic surgeon has a signature look, though I don’t think they do it on purpose. But it’s there, in the curve of a lower lip or the tip of a newly sculpted nose. They’re artists, working in skin and bone and cartilage.

  The women laugh at Misti’s words, and one of them asks her to explain.

  “Blood to Joe means money. He deals with blood daily, you know, and that’s how he makes his living. The deep red color is his favorite. When we first started seeing each other, he’d always bring me a single red rose, so dark it was almost black,” Misti explains with a wistful sigh.

  I linger on the outskirts of this group of women, my father having already left to mingle, and Lauri completely ignores me. Even Palmer found someone to talk to. Dubrow has a daughter a year younger, and they’re friends.

  But there is no one here for me. Just this new wife and her tales of blood-colored roses. Her friends listen to her with rapt attention, and I pretend to do the same, morbidly fascinated with her tale.

  “Does he love this then? The way you decorated it?” one of the women asks eagerly, seemingly desperate for more details.

  Misti’s gaze flickers, and I know immediately the answer is no. He doesn’t like all the roses. He probably thinks they’re tacky, because they are. There are roses literally covering every available surface, and the scent is cloying. If anyone has allergies, they’re in serious trouble.

  “He loved it. So surprised,” she says, and I’m sure the last bit is true. He was definitely surprised.

  But not happy about it.

  I leave the group of women and wander around the back yard. It’s a beautiful spot, when you banish the decorative roses from it. There’s a giant pool and a garden with multi-colored flowers blooming. Lush green grass everywhere. As I draw closer to the patio, where the party guests are mingling, a server approaches me, carrying a tray laden with glasses of champagne. I take one with a murmured thank you and he smiles at me. He looks about my age, and he’s cute. Not as attractive as Tony though.

  “What’s your name?” the server asks boldly, and I raise my brow, about to answer when a deep male voice speaks up.

  “Go serve someone else.”

  Shocked, I glance to my left to find Joseph Dubrow Jr. standing there, brows furrowed and eyes dark.

  The server scurries away without another word.

  “That was rude,” I accuse mildly, taking a sip from my champagne. It’s crisp and cold, better than the champagne at the restaurant.

  “He was flirting with you. He’s just the help. Asshole needs to learn boundaries,” Joseph says, edging closer to me. His thunderous expression lifts, and it’s an all-sunny forecast now. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Are you really?” I sound bored. I am bored. I don’t want to be here. I wish I was in my car, making the long, boring drive back to Fresno, blasting one of my favorite playlists on Spotify and singing along with the songs.

  Joseph nods, his expression cool. Like I mean nothing to him, though his pale blue eyes glitter with unmistakable interest. I look away, u
nnerved. “Pretty sure we’re the only two people the same age at this fucking disaster of a party,” he says.

  I glance around, mentally noting that he’s right. “Why is it a disaster?”

  “The roses. Misti went overboard, as usual. She has no restraint. Not like my mother.” He sips from his lowball glass, the liquid a warm, golden brown. No champagne for him. “My father hated them on sight. Told her they’re tacky.”

  “They are,” I agree.

  Joseph barely cracks a smile. “Misti grew up in a small town north of here. They’ve been married for two years, but she’s not used to this sort of thing.”

  “She told all of her friends your father loves the color of blood. It reminds him of money,” I feel like a snitch, but I figure he’d find it amusing.

  “She would say that.” He rolls his eyes. “But I don’t want to talk about her.”

  My tone immediately changes. “What do you want to talk about then?” I fall into my old habits so easily. Flirting with boys. Playing coy. I’m not interested in him. Not at all.

  “I was hoping we could talk more last night at the club, but you disappeared with Sorrento.” His expression is neutral, but the eyes…

  They give away everything. Like he knows my leaving with Tony was a secret.

  I stand up straighter, trying for nonchalance. Probably failing. His observation rattles me, just like he knew it would. “I left the party on my own.”

  His smile is sly as he brings the glass to his lips. “No, you didn’t. I saw you.”

  I’m quiet, my brain scrambling for a response. An explanation.

  “I was in the lobby when I caught sight of you two outside. A car pulled up, and you both got in the backseat.” Joseph is now full-on grinning, and he rocks back on his heels, confident while I squirm. “I’m guessing your dad would shit a brick if he knew you left the club with his enemy’s son.”

  “How do you know the Sorrentos are my father’s enemy?” I ask, hating how in the dark I am over all of this. I suppose this is what happens when I leave for college and don’t pay attention to my father’s business dealings.