Page 8 of Ruthless Dream

I know Mom means it with love. She can’t help but pick at our appearance all the time. It’s the Italian mafia princess in her.

I’ve kept it casual for move in day. Lululemon leggings and a T-shirt. My dad, on the other hand. . .

“You can’t wear that!” I tell him as he sips his coffee.

“What?” He defends the purple crewneck he’s got on. NYU is stitched in big letters.

“Dad.” I groan. “It’s so cheesy.”

“I like it,” Lennie whispers, smiling. She would, of course, the sentimental creature.

Even Mom laughs, amused at her husband, before saying something quietly to him in Italian. It’s hard to keep up with them sometimes, their words always in three different languages and normally all little asides to one another.

I’m aware my parents love one another, and it’s another way I count myself lucky. Those families that appear on the TV in every Christmas movie. . . They’ve got nothing on the Akatov clan.

“All right.” Mom hustles everyone to the door.

“Thank you, Henric,” I say as I climb into a black SUV. To my surprise, the chauffeur doesn’t get in. “Dad!”

“What?” He glances back as he adjusts his seatbelt. “I can’t drive my youngest off to college, either?”

“You hate driving.” His time is better spent negotiating on the phone while being driven around. “And when’s the last time you tried to drive around New York City?”

“Well, one thing’s for sure.” Lennie’s seatbelt clicks as she settles in. “You’re definitely not driving.”

My mouth hangs open, impressed and annoyed at my sister’s sarcasm.

Mom sighs, leaning her head back as we pull out of the driveway. She’s looking out the window but offers her hand out to Dad, who grabs it, driving with one hand on the wheel.

Sickening, I tell you. But sweet.

“So is Adam Sandler here, or?” Lennie asks before grimacing. My sister has lived most of her life in New York City, yet has never quite come to terms with the crush of people.

And since it’s move in day for many, it’s a mad house.

“I’m sure Brittany Hall has never heard that joke before,” I say, huffing and puffing as I drag in another box.

My sister hits the elevator button. I’m on the tenth floor. Not exactly the penthouse I’m used to, but this dorm room has some of the best views.

“This is nice,” my mother says, taken in by the triple dorm.

“What are you going to do about your clothes?” Lennie mutters, eyeing up the closet space.

I can do a little less with her sarcasm right now.

“It’s fine.” I smile brightly. Everyone knows dorm living comes with some serious downsides, i.e., closet space. It’s why I spent all summer curating my capsule wardrobe. “Dad!”

My father freezes, the fairy lights twinkling in his hands.

“That side is crooked.” I correct him, explaining exactly how they need to be hung up.

Lennie touches me slightly, but I shake her off. Until the tap becomes more insistent and I realize what she’s trying to tell me.

“Oh, hi.” There’s a girl in the doorway, headphones around her neck and only one suitcase. “I’m Adeline.”

“Trish,” she replies, adding nothing more.

My mother swoops in, taking in this goth girl with her heavily kohl lined eyes and jet black hair. She nods as my mom does the whole ‘Hi, how are you? I can’t believe the views of this place. Are you excited to be starting NYU?’ Never in my life have I seen someone look so bored.