Page 97 of Betting on the Boy Next Door
“It is,” I say. Josh’s jaw looks tight, like he’s biting back words. “In fact, if the opportunity is good enough, I may put in my notice at the nursing home to concentrate on music full-time.”
His eyebrows go up in surprise. “Yeah? Are you in a financial position to do that?”
“I won’t know until I see the offer, but I’ve been researching standard terms for these kinds of agreements. It’s possible. I mean, I’d still have to work for a nursing service to fill in on shifts and supplement what we earn through shows until things take off, but . . .” I can’t fight a smile. “Yeah, I think I’ll be able to do it.”
“Wow,” he says. “That’s huge. Congratulations, babe. You are doing the damn thing.”
I hold up the wine glass, filled with the cabernet Mr. Brower ordered for the table. “I’m doing the damn thing,” I repeat, and the crystal sends out a sweet chime when we toast.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Mr. Brower asks.
“Dad . . .” Josh’s tone holds a warning.
“You have to be realistic, son. Saman—er, Sami”—he corrects himself when my eyebrows go up—“you’re looking at very longshot odds. Is now the time to give up a steady career in a high-demand field?”
It’s not actually a question despite his inflection at the end. He’stellingme that I shouldn’t be considering it. And while it’s true I haven’t brought it up with my mom because she’ll have the same reaction,heis not my dad. He gets no say. The Browers don’t get to mold me into a more ideal girlfriend for their son with passive-aggressive comments and fake concern about my nursing career by trying to nudge me away from a music career.
“I have no one depending on me but me,” I say, calmly taking another bite and letting them consider that. “Now is the perfect time to try and fail.”
“Or succeed,” Josh says, once again ignoring his parents. “And you will.”
“But Josh,” his mom says, “aren’t you worried about all the travel, and . . .” Her voice trails off when he lifts a hand and signals for our server.
“We’ll be taking the rest of our meals home,” Josh tells him.
Wait, he’s going to walk out on his parents?
They’re both staring too, frozen. His dad pulls himself together first. “Wait a minute, Josh.”
“I’ll wait as long as it takes the waiter to bring our to-go boxes,” Josh says. “You might even get more than a minute.”
“You can’t just walk out because you don’t like the advice we’re giving,” Mr. Brower says.
“Not when you’re giving it to me, no. But you’re trying to tell Sami how to live her life, and you don’t know her well enough to do that. You don’t know what she’s capable of, so your opinions don’t count here. This is a night for us to celebrate an invitation she’s worked hard for, and we’re going to do that without any wet blankets, please and thank you.”
Mr. Brower gapes as the waiter arrives to box my food for me, and I don’t say anything until the server is done and Josh stands as a signal that he’s ready to leave. I’m torn between wanting to give him a standing ovation and quietly slipping out in hopes that his parents will forget I’m the reason they’re having this argument.
I decide silence is the best option here and follow him from the restaurant.
“So that is a thing that happened,” I say carefully when we’re settled back in his car and he’s pulling out of the parking lot.
“Yep.” He sounds neither annoyed nor pleased.
“Are you okay?”
He turns onto the main road before reaching for my hand. “I don’t want you to stress out or feel responsible for what happened in the restaurant.”
“I kind of do. Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing that you stuck up for me. But I don’t want you to be in a fight with your parents because of it.”
He sighs and gives my hand a squeeze, his eyes staying on the road. “It’s not exactly because of you. A disagreement like that was coming anyway. After I screwed up that meeting a few weeks ago, I realized that despite years of good behavior, they’d just been waiting for it to happen. And if I’m perfect for the next ten years, when I do finally make a mistake, they’re going to say, ‘Knew it.’ I don’t think I can change the way they think about me. So why bother?”
I turn his hand over and gently trace lines along his palms, appreciating the light calluses from lifting at the gym, memorizing the lines and their branches as they crisscross his skin. “Those are sad words, but you don’t sound sad.” His voice sounds more . . . detached. Is it his way of not feeling hurt?
“I’m not. I was pretty upset when it happened, but I’ve had a few weeks to think about it, and . . . I don’t know. I don’t think I’m mad or even hurt. All I know is that they’re not going to believe I’ve changed. I spent too long refusing to. And if they’re not going to expect more of me, I’m going to quit trying to figure out how to give them what they want, because I don’t know what that is.”
His words worry me. “You shouldn’t give up on them, Josh,” I say quietly.
“I’m not.” He shoots me a quick look with a reassuring smile before he puts his eyes back on the road. “I’m not cutting them off or pushing them away or anything. But I’m going to do the things that makemehappy. Maybe that means cutting down to sixty hours a week at the office since three years of doing eighty-plus hours didn’t make the point.” He slides me a rueful grin. “I kind of do like the work. Or at least, I don’t mind it. So I’m not going anywhere; just re-evaluating.”
