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Fletcher
Ithought that once I graduated high school, Dad would finally stop treating me like a kid and give me a little bit more freedom. But nope. He hadn’t really let up all summer, and it didn’t help that I was taking a semester off before deciding to go to college. But that was because I was trying to find a way to tell him I didn’t want to double major in business and accounting and take over his accounting firm.
I wanted to study art and graphic design. And on top of that, I was heavily leaning toward online schooling. Both of which Dad would have a coronary over. He was so outgoing, and I wasn’t, which I imagined I got from my mom—God rest her soul. She was taken from us when I was a toddler by a drunk driver, and Dad had never fully recovered from it. At least, not that I could see.
“Dad, I don’t understand why I can’t just stay here by myself,” I told him, a little irritated that he still thought I needed a babysitter. That I wasn’t capable of taking care of myself for more than just a few hours. I was technically an adult now. But I had a feeling that since I wasn’t following whathewanted, which was immediately beginning the fall semester of college and live on campus, he thought I wasn’tmatureenough yet.
“This is two weeks on your own, Fletcher. And considering you still haven’t picked a college, I’m not inclined to think you’re ready for adulthood at all.” Just what I thought. “So, you’ll be going over the road with Conan while I’m gone. It matches perfectly since he’s coming in with a load on the day I need to leave, and he’s scheduled to get home time again when I come back.”
I groaned and let my head fall back on my shoulders for a moment. Speaking again, I lowered my head to meet his gaze. “Dad, me not picking a college doesn’t mean I’m not a responsible adult.” But telling him that was like speaking to a brick wall. He pretended he didn’t hear any of it. And honestly, why had I thought this would be any different? We’d been arguing about this for days, but one thing to know about Tyler McNair, it was his way or the highway.
And I hated when he threatened to make me take the highway. It usually meant I lost most of my privileges. I loved my dad. I was grateful for him. But he was so controlling and overbearing. Most of the time, I felt suffocated under his pressure and rules and the expectations he pushed on me.
“Nothing you say will change my mind, Fletcher. It’s already a done deal. I called Conan yesterday, and he agreed to take you on the road with him.” He waved me away as he turned back to finish chopping vegetables. “I suggest you get to packing. He only has a few hours when he gets here before he has to hit the road again tomorrow, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to waste them waiting on you to get your things together.”
I ground my teeth together, my fists clenching. I imagined all of my anger contained in my fists before I slid down off my barstool and headed upstairs to my room. The stairs squeaked under my feet, and I gritted my teeth. It was almost as if this old house was mocking me. Built in the seventies, Dad and Mom had spent the first few years of their marriage remodeling it and doing updates. I guessed the stairs got missed because they’d squeaked my entire life.
Once I was in my room, I quietly shut my door behind me before collapsing face-first into my bed. Grabbing my pillow, I bunched it up under my face before grabbing my other one, slamming it on top of my head.
And then, I screamed into it until I felt somewhat better.
I respected my dad way too much to ever fight with him or raise my voice. Not to mention, I wasn’t keen on facing the consequences if I ever did that. Honestly, I didn’t know which was worse to endure: losing all of my privileges—like having a phone, watching TV, sometimes even being able to read my books—or seeing the disappointment etched into his features.
That disappointment cut deep. And lately, I was facing it every day when he asked me if I’d picked a college yet and had changed my mind on starting school in the fall.
My answer was always no to both. And then his disappointed face would follow, making me feel like utter shit.
Tossing my pillows aside, I rolled onto my back and grabbed my phone out of my pocket. I pulled up my text thread with my best friend, my fingers rapidly flying over the screen as I began to vent.
Fletcher: He’s really going to do this. He’s really making me go with Conan for two weeks. I can’t do this! You know how much I like Conan! God, this is a nightmare, Brent! What the fuck am I going to do?!
Brent: One thing we’re not going to do is have a panic attack. So breathe, yeah? Let me know when your heart rate is calm, and we’ll resume this conversation.
I couldn’t help it. A chuckle spilled past my lips. Brent knew me better than I knew myself. The first time he ever witnessed me have a panic attack, we lost our first football game of the season in ninth grade. Didn’t even matter that I hadn’t even gotten playing time in since we were freshmen. I panicked because I knew Dad would be disappointed.
Brent had freaked the hell out and yelled for Coach. Once I was calm, Brent demanded to know what happened, and the medic explained I’d had a panic attack. The next day, Brent came to my house with a whole fucking stack of papers on coping mechanisms for anxiety.
We memorized each one together.
Fletcher: I think I’m okay now. But fuck, Brent. What the hell am I supposed to do?
Brent: You’ll go on this trip or whatever the hell you wanna call it with Conan. And you’ll do what you always do when you’re around him, which is pretend you don’t have any romantic feelings for him.
Fletcher: That’s going to be so fucking hard, Brent.
Brent: Life is hard, bro. But honestly, and I’m gonna sound like a jackass when I say this, but if you ever feel like you’re going to do something stupid, remember what your dad’s reaction will be.
Fletcher: Shit, yeah. That’s actually not a bad idea. Thanks, man.
Brent: Always here for you, bro.
And man, wasn’t he. For years now, he’d had my back. And during these next two weeks, I was going to need him a hell of a lot if I had any hope of keeping my fucking sanity.
Because not only was Conan hot as fuck…
He was also twenty-five years older than me and my dad’s best friend.
