“Oh. Well, he graduated last year. He’s doing his grad degree now.”
“Here?”
Ben nods.
“Why isn’t he in your little fraternity anymore?”
“Fraternities are for undergrads. I guess they need to put some kind of age cap on guys living in a house and ‘fraternizing’ with eighteen and nineteen-year olds.”
“That makes sense. But why isn’t he playing tennis this year? I’m grad student age, and I’m on the team.”
“He said he wouldn’t have time for tennis with his internship.”
“Internship?”
“The best student from his course wins a prestigious internship to do alongside their degree.”
“How does he know he’ll win it?”
Ben snorts. “This is Priestley Rosenthal we’re talking about here. He wins everything and he’salwaysthe best.”
“Huh.”
“And the internship is with his dad’s company.”
“Ah!”
Ben laughs, it’s an attractive sound—chiming and melodic.
“It’s a shame, anyway,” I say.
Ben takes a key out of his blazer and lets us into the house. “Why?”
“Because he was a good player. He could have gone pro.”
“Oh.”
“And because Wall Street doesn’t need any more assholes, right?”
He snorts. “How do you know he was an asshole?”
The look on your face when I mentioned him?“You can just tell.”
This house is just as impressive, if not as ostentatious and bright as the sorority house we just came from. It has that classic, dark academia thing going on, but the chandeliers are less gaudy. The staircase less sweeping. The floors mostly wood rather than plush carpet. Is that so the beer and pledge vomit is easier to clean up?
“Come on through,” Ben says. He looks much more at home here than anywhere I’ve seen him before. Except maybe the tennis court when he really gets into his swing.
“How about you?” I ask his back as he leads me out into a large kitchen with an island counter.
“Are you going pro next year?”
“No, I’m starting a business.”
“Oh? With your father?”
His back straightens and he turns to face me with a defiant look in his eyes. “With Nate, actually.”
I want to ask him if that’s a good idea, but refrain.
