The Freshman (College Years 1)

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