The Play (Briar U Book 3)

There’s a text message from Hunter when I step out of Biology class late in the afternoon. He’s supposed to come by tonight for a fake therapy session, but apparently now he’s cancelling.

HUNTER: Need to cancel tonight. Last-minute thing in Boston.

ME: Didn’t we LITERALLY just talk in class earlier and confirm?

HIM: Yes, and then I LITERALLY just got a text from a friend and now I have to cancel.

ME: I demand to know why.

HIM: Bruins game.

ME: Is there really a game or are you just lying to get out of studying? Cuz you were acting super strange this morning. Even TJ noticed.

HIM: I wasn’t acting strange and there really is a game. Google it.

ME: I will choose to believe you. How are you getting there?

HIM: Teleporting, obviously.

ME: Jackass. Are you driving?

HIM: Ya. Why?

ME: When are you leaving? Maybe I can catch a ride with you??

I’m hopeful as I await his response. A free ride to Boston would enable me to visit my parents, who I haven’t seen since Labor Day weekend. It’s already mid-October, but I haven’t had much free time to make the trek into the city. I don’t have a car, an Uber would be too expensive, and the bus takes way too long.

Rather than texting, Hunter calls me. “Why do you need to go to Boston?”

“My parents live there. Our house is near Beacon Hill.”

“Fancy.”

“You’re one to talk, rich boy. So can I catch a ride with you?”

“Sure. I’m leaving around six, but if you want a ride back with me, it won’t be till eleven-ish.”

“That’s fine. Pick me up from here?”

“Yup yup.”

“Please don’t say yup yup. I don’t like it.”

“I don’t care. See you in an hour.”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

He hangs up on me and I grin at the phone. Hunter amuses me. He makes a nice addition to my roster of male friends. The Lost Boys, as Corinne would say.

I take a quick shower and then put on a green sundress and the gold hoop earrings my parents gave me for my birthday in August.

I hate these earrings with a passion. They’re big hoops, and if it were up to me, big hoops would be banned in this country. But I slide them on now because I want Mom and Dad to think I wear the hoops on the reg. They have the tendency to act all wounded if I don’t fawn over their gifts.

Hunter texts when he’s outside, and I’m not surprised to find a shiny black Land Rover parked at the curb. I slide into the passenger’s side and settle on the sleek leather seat.

“Hey,” he says. He’s wearing a black-and-yellow jersey, his dark hair slicked back from his face.

“Are you wearing hair gel?”

“Are you wearing enormous hoop earrings?”

“I asked first.”

“Yes, I’m wearing gel.”

“Your head is glistening.”

“Yeah, but at least it’s staying in place. Whenever I watch live hockey, I get agitated and run my fingers through my hair until it’s fucking falling out—I figured gel would help prevent that. Your turn.”

“My turn what?”

“The hoops, Semi. I could probably fit my entire glistening head through one of those monsters.” He chuckles faintly. “I guess you can take the girl out of Miami but you can’t take Miami out of the girl?”

“Wrong. I despise these earrings. They’re more my mom’s style,” I admit. “She’s all about the big hoops, and she thinks everyone should dress and accessorize exactly like her. But I prefer tiny studs—you know, so there’s no chance of them getting caught on anything and ripping my ear off, leaving a bloody hole in the side of my head.”

“That’s a really cynical view of hoops.”

“They’re a safety hazard. I stand by that.”

“So you pretend to like them to please your mommy and daddy?” He’s mocking me.

I bristle, but only slightly, because there’s truth to that statement. Especially the daddy part. My father is a scary man. The kind of man who is so impressive you constantly feel the need to impress him back.

“Why didn’t Nico drive you tonight?” Hunter asks suddenly, and there’s a strange note in his voice.

He was using that same tone this morning too. Every time I whispered something to him during Andrews’ lecture, he responded in that weird tone and then avoided my eyes.

I glance over, but he’s focused on the road and his face is devoid of expression. “Nico’s working tonight.”

“People move at night?”

“Sometimes, yeah. He actually gets paid more for night moves.”

“Night moves sounds like the name of a porno.”

“I think it might be a song,” I say, trying to recall. “I could be wrong, though. Anyway, he gets paid time and a half for any jobs after six, so if a late shift comes up, he always takes it.”

“Makes sense.” Hunter nods. A few beats of awkward silence ensue. First time it’s ever happened to us. Then again, we don’t know each other super well, so an awkward silence was bound to make an appearance sooner or later.

“Let me sync up my Bluetooth to your car,” I say, reaching for the touch screen on his dash. “I’ll find us a fun driving playlist.”

He instantly swats at my hand. “No way,” he says. “No woman is allowed to have that much control over me.”

I laugh. “What control? It’s Bluetooth. Bluetooth is harmless.”

“Nope. Maybe tonight it’s harmless. And maybe tomorrow you’ll be remotely controlling my car.”

“How would I even do that?”

“By hacking into the system and driving my Rover off a cliff.” He sounds smug.

“I want to drive you off a cliff now,” I threaten. “Just let me sync up, dammit.” And then because I’m a jerk, I go through the process of pairing my phone to his car. Whistling the entire time.

When I’m done, I graciously ask, “What would you like to listen to?”

He glowers at me. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“If you don’t pick something, I’ll put on Disney soundtracks.”

Hunter capitulates. “Got any old-school hip hop mixes?”

I nod in approval. “Coming right up.” I click on a popular playlist and we spend the remainder of the drive locked in a competitive rap battle to Cypress Hill and Run-DMC. By the time we reach the city, my throat is hoarse, and Hunter’s face is lobster red from laughing.

“You got mad rhymes, Semi!” he says gleefully. “We need to make a YouTube video.”

“Oh God, never. I have zero interest in being in the spotlight. Unlike you.”

“Me?”

“You like the spotlight, no? Won’t you be playing professional hockey when you’re done college?”

Hunter surprises me by shaking his head. “No, I didn’t declare for the draft and I don’t plan on signing with a team after I graduate. Teams have come knocking on my door since high school, but I always tell them I’m not interested.”

“Why the heck not?”

“I’m just not. I don’t want that kind of national attention.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “But aren’t you really talented? The girls at the house said you’re the best player on the team.”

“I’m okay.”

I appreciate the modesty. But all it tells me is that Hunter must be a lot more than okay.

“I’m not interested in the pros, Demi. Not everyone wants to be famous.”

It’s a peculiar answer and I don’t quite buy it, but the British lady on Hunter’s GPS is chirping that our destination is up ahead on the right.

I smile as we drive down the street I’ve called home since I was fifteen. Even after six years on the east coast, my mother still isn’t in love with Boston, whereas I liked it the moment we moved here.

Miami is loud and colorful and undeniably fun, but just because I’m half Latina doesn’t mean I want things to be loud all the time. We lived in Little Havana, a mostly Cuban community full of art galleries and coffee shops and cigar stores on every street corner. It’s a bustling area, almost the polar opposite of Boston’s conservative Beacon Hill neighborhood.

My new city, while not as IN YOUR FACE as Miami, has its own unique character, from its brownstones and tree-lined streets to Boston Common and Newbury Street. Plus, despite contrary opinion, I find the accents downright charming.

“Here we are. Have fun with your parents,” Hunter says.

“Have fun at your game.”

I’m pleased to notice that he waits until I reach the front stoop before pulling away from the curb. Real gentlemen are hard to find these days.

My mother shrieks happily when I walk through the door. She’s the loudest person on the planet. My friends insist that she’s a clone of Sofia Vergara from Modern Family, and they’re not far off the mark. Although Mom’s not Colombian like the character, she’s drop-dead gorgeous with a voice that could shatter every plate in a china store.

Blabbering on in Spanish, she hugs me tight enough to restrict my airflow, then drags me down the hall toward the kitchen. “Where’s Dad?” I ask.

“On his way home from the hospital. He just finished surgery, so expect Grumpy Papa tonight.”

I’m used to Grumpy Papa. Some surgeons ride a high after they operate, but Dad is always exhausted after a long surgery, and he gets cranky when he’s tired. Like a toddler. But he deserves to be cut some slack, because—hello—he just saved somebody’s life. Brain surgeons are allowed a free bitchiness pass, as far as I’m concerned.

“Are you hungry?” Mom demands, then answers her own question. “Of course you are! Sit down so I can feed you, mami. How is school going?”

“Good.” I fill her in on my classes and the project with Hunter, while she unloads Tupperware containers from the fridge.

If my visit hadn’t been last minute, I have no doubt she would’ve cooked me a feast. Instead, I’m relegated to the leftovers from whatever feast she cooked for Dad yesterday. And it’s spectacular. Soon the cedar work island is laden with dishes, most of them Cuban, with a few of Dad’s American favorites sprinkled in.

My mouth waters as each new item emerges from the microwave. There’s shredded beef seasoned to perfection with veggies and olives and served on brown rice. Cuban chicken stew with raisins to give it a bit of sweetness. Stuffed peppers. Fried beans. The roasted potatoes and garlic carrots that Dad likes.

“Oh my goodness, Mom,” I declare while inhaling her food. “I’ve missed your cooking so much.” Pieces of rice fly out of my mouth as I talk.

“Demi,” she chides.

“Hmmmm?” I mumble through a mouthful of spicy beef.

She flips her glossy brown hair over one shoulder. “Of all the traits you could’ve inherited from your father, his poor table manners is what it had to be?”

“What? You should take it as a compliment that we both enjoy your cooking.”

“Maybe you can enjoy it with your mouth full,” she suggests. “And leave some carrots for your father.” She slaps my hand when I try to stick my fork in the carrot container.

Speaking of my father, he appears in the doorway without warning. I hadn’t heard him come in. Granted, that’s probably because I’m chewing so loudly.

“Hi baby,” he says happily. Enormous arms encircle me from behind as he places a kiss on the top of my head

“Hey Daddy.” I swallow some more rice.

He greets my mother, which is always a fun sight to see. Standing at six foot five, Dad is a bald black guy with arms like tree trunks, palms like oven mitts, and long but surprisingly delicate fingers. Or I guess not surprisingly, seeing as how nimble digits are required when poking around in somebody’s skull. And then there’s Mom, who’s all of five feet, with huge boobs and shiny hair and the Latin temper she passed on to me. They’re the cutest couple ever, and I adore my little family. Being an only child means I don’t have to share anything with a sibling, including my parents’ attention.

Dad joins me at the counter and digs into the leftovers. Mom, who has trouble staying still, eventually sits down too and nibbles on an olive while Dad tells us about his surgery. The patient was a construction worker whose skull nearly got crushed by a falling steel beam. He wasn’t wearing his hardhat, and now he might have permanent brain damage. It’s heartbreaking. Which is one of the reasons I’d never want to be a surgeon—that and I don’t have the hands for it. My fingers get trembly when I’m nervous, and I can’t imagine a more anxiety-inducing situation than sawing into a human being’s skull.

The topic once again shifts to my classes, which I list for my father. “Organic Chem, bio, math, and Abnormal Psych.”

“Organic Chemistry was always a favorite of mine,” Dad reveals, sipping on a glass of water Mom gets for him.

“It’s my least favorite,” I confess. “Right now I’m having the most fun with the psychology class. It’s so fascinating.”

“Are you taking physics next semester?”

I grimace. “Unfortunately.”

Dad laughs. “You’ll enjoy it,” he promises. “And then wait till med school! Everything you learn there will be fascinating. Have you given more thought to that MCATs tutor? I have a good one lined up—just say the word.”

I swallow, but it does nothing to alleviate the lump of pressure that constricts my throat. “Maybe next semester?” I counter. “I’m worried my grades will dip a little if I add another study commitment to my schedule.”

“It’ll only be a few times a week.”

A few times a week? Oh my God, I thought I’d only have to see this tutor once, maybe twice a week.

“Let me see how it goes with midterms and then we can reevaluate?” I hold my breath, praying he’ll accept the compromise.

Luckily, he does. “All right. But I do think the head start will help you a lot. The med school application process can be stressful.”

“Honestly…” I find some courage, then continue, “Sometimes it feels overwhelming when I think about it. Med school, I mean.”

“I won’t deny it’s a lot of work, and a lot of sleepless nights. But that makes it all the more rewarding when you graduate and start calling yourself Dr. Davis.”

“You’re Dr. Davis.”

“There can be two,” he teases.

I hesitate again. “You know, I could still call myself doctor if I got a PhD in psychology rather than med school.”

His shoulders immediately stiffen. “Are you considering that avenue?” There’s an edge to his voice, along with surprise-tinged disapproval.

Yes, I almost blurt out. Because it’s the more appealing avenue, in my eyes. What do I care about biology or anatomy? I’d way rather be taking courses like psych theory, cognitive and behavioral therapies, research methods, personality development. AKA far more interesting areas of study.

And yet I can’t say any of that out loud. My father’s approval matters to me. Maybe too much, but that’s how it’s always been.

So I backtrack as fast as I can. “No, that was just a joke. Everyone knows people with doctorates aren’t real doctors. Like, come on.”

Dad booms with laughter again. “You got that right.”

Then I shovel more food into my mouth so I won’t have to keep talking. This doesn’t bode well, though. With senior year coming up, I’ve been giving more and more thought to what I want to do after I graduate. Med school had been the plan, but grad school is also tempting. Truth is, I find psychiatry to be so…clinical. There’s such a large focus on medication management of patients, and I can’t seem to gather much excitement at the notion of prescribing meds and monitoring dosages. I suppose I could specialize in something stimulating, like neuropsychiatry and treat patients with Alzheimer’s and MS. Or maybe work in a psychiatric unit of a hospital.

But I want to focus on treating the behaviors of patients, not only the symptoms. I want to talk to people, to listen to them. But my father never would get that. And this proves it. I mean, I just stuck my toe in the water and an alligator bit it off. That doesn’t exactly make me want to broach the subject again.