“If you don’t get an internship offer, you’re definitely getting asked out.”
“Gross, Morgan!” Brooklyn pushes her arm and forces her off balance. “We’re not all into datingwayabove our age range like you!”
Morgan has a thing for older men. At least, she did last year. I’m not sure whether the hook-up rumors between her and Coach Wallace were true or not, but since she’s the one who always dropped the hints, I’m guessing there was some truth to it.
As complimentary as they’re both being, I still feel like a little kid compared to them. They’ve been exposed to so much of the world, and I’ve seen the highlights of Ohio and everything along the highway between Cleveland and the outskirts of Boston. I haven’t even ventured into the actual city on my own. I’m afraid to take the train without an organized class trip to guide me, and I’ve only had my car since last year. Driving has little appeal since the accident. I was forced to drive myself to school this year because my mother refused to take me, and she forbade my stepfather, Drew, to do it. My stepbrother, Levi, is sixteen and their precious little rule follower, so I didn’t even bother to ask him—not that I’d be able to stand nine hours in the car with him and his ego.
“You do look nice,” Brooklyn says, her hands soft on my shoulders as she brings her chin down to rest by my neck as we both look into the full-length mirror on the back of our door.
“Thanks,” I eek out, managing a half smile to go with it.
I follow them both out our door and struggle to keep up due to my ill-fitting shoes. Lines are already forming outside the auditorium. I’m sweating for all sorts of reasons—I don’t look like myself, my confidence is non-existent, people are looking at me as if I’m a celebrity, and I feel guilty for getting to be here.
Oh, and one more thing: Theo Rothschild is two feet to my left.
“I was really surprised he came back for his senior year.” I’m not sure who half-whispers that statement behind us, but both Theo and I hear it; I can tell by the way his jaw clenches.
“Hey, Theo. Good to see you,” Morgan says, stepping across me and moving in to give him a hug.How is this so easy for her to do?Maybe years of knowing each other helps. Or the fact she was rescued and not the person doing the saving. She’s not the person who failed his sister.I am.
“Hey, Morg. How are your parents?” His voice is smooth, caring—the same one he used with me that night as we talked.Before.
Our eyes meet briefly over Morgan’s shoulder as they hug. I swallow down the discomfort that chokes me as the flash of hate colors his expression, forcing me to look down at my feet stuffed in shoes that aren’t meant for them.
“They’re all right. You know the Bentleys. Always something to brag about.” Morgan’s parents are utterly dysfunctional but incredibly rich. I don’t know her well enough to be certain, but from the little I do know I get the sense that she came to Welles to escape her family as much as I did.
“I was surprised I didn’t see your dad on the list for interviews today. Not taking any interns this year?” Theo’s gaze drifts to me as he speaks, and I hate that he catches me looking back. I blink rapidly and turn to face the line of students ahead of me.
“That’s because he assumes he has his intern already locked down. But she’s going to see what else is out there today and maybe he’ll be stuck scraping the bottom of the barrel.”
I was wondering why Morgan isn’t simply taking her family’s internship. They own a company that owns lots of little companies. For a business-minded person, an internship with the Bentleys is a golden ticket.
“That’s a family fight I’ll pay to have a front-row seat to,” Theo says through laughter.
He’s so light, so comfortable. I refuse to turn around and ruin it by making eye contact with him again.
“You won’t need to buy a seat. The world will hear, I’m sure. Carl Bentley doesn’t really have an inside voice.”
They both chuckle, but I can hear the nerves behind Morgan’s. The lines move forward, so I focus my attention on the only table I’m interested in. On the tips of my toes, I size up how each intake person appears. Business suits are usually for the law firms and major corporations, so I drift to the right through the crowd of students to scope out the remaining tables. The military uniforms are easy to spot, so I keep weaving through people, trying not to notice the way everyone is looking at me. My superhero status makes it a little easier to bear the brunt of a crowd, but I’m still uncomfortable in my own skin.
I spot the cardinal red hat first, which pulls me in for a closer look.The Affiliate’sbranding is that red along with silver and black. When I get a glimpse of the polo shirt on the man holding a clipboard, I suck in an excited breath.This is it!
It takes me a few more seconds to work my way toward him, but I finally do, practically tripping towardThe Affiliatetable in Morgan’s damn shoes. I manage to save myself from landing palms first into the man wearing the company colors. Glimpsing his name tag—Scott—as my eyes drift up to his face, I straighten my spine and hold out my hand for him to shake. He grins, amused,I hope.
“Sorry, I’m a little eager. I’m Lily Beachem, and I have been readingThe Affiliatesince I could tread water. Your coverage of the last US Championships for swim and dive was exceptional. Truly.” My heart is thumping in my chest. I know I’m babbling and oozing compliments that make me sound like a fangirl, but it’s all from the heart.
“Lily, nice to meet you. You’re a reader, then?”
We’re still shaking hands, so I loosen my grip and roll my shoulders to pull myself together a bit.
“Yes. Your magazine is the reason I want to get into sports reporting. I love the idea of getting to write long-form pieces. Your feature on Jenny Crane last month . . .wow.”
Scott smiles genuinely at my answer and holds the clipboard against his chest, crossing his arms over it. I should feel relief at this connection, but it’s ruined all too fast by the snicker masked by a fake cough behind me. I glance over my shoulder out of reflex, knowing who I’ll see.
“Sorry, I was laughing at something else. Continue,” Theo says, waving his hand dismissively.
One tiny interaction with him and my excitement has turned into shame, my belly feeling as if it’s full of sludge.
“You’re in luck, Lily. Last spot!” Scott finishes scribbling in my name as I turn my attention back to him, and he rips the final ticket from his booklet and hands it to me. “I think you’ll do quite well,” he adds, leaning in. “Our interviewing editor is the one who wrote the Jenny Crane piece.”