Page 58 of Fiery Romance

Reeling my anger and shock back in, I answer in a calmer manner fitting for conversations with a civilian.

“Can you repeat that? I’m sure I misheard you.”

“Your son was found smoking behind the bleachers with a group of other boys today.”

“No, not my son. My son doesn’t smoke. He’s twelve-years-old for—”

“Well, hedidsmoke,” the counselor interrupts me.

I whip furious eyes in Abe’s direction.

My son shrinks into his prep school jacket and seems to fold himself deeper in the chair. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the roaring in my heart.

Abe.

Smoking.

Abe.

Smoking.

I try to picture him with a freaking cig between his lips and I just can’t do it. It’s utterly inconceivable to me.

“Since Abe claimed it was his first time, we’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt. However, we take cases like this very seriously. Not only is smoking terrible for a child’s health, the act could lead to a fire, property damage, loss of life. We cannot let this slide.”

“Understood.” I dip my chin. “I totally agree.”

Abe glares at me.

I glare back.

“With all things considered and given this is Abe’s first and only infraction,” the counselor stresses the word ‘only’, “we’ve decided on a two-week suspension. Abe, clear your lockers and leave the school grounds today.”

Abe pouts.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Answer the teacher, Abe.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles.

I clench my jaw and keep my tone level. “Thank you for your time, ma’am. I’ll make sure this never happens again.”

“Of course, Mr. Bolton. And if you have any questions, you just give me a call.” Her eyes linger on my biceps.

I ignore the obvious offer in her gaze and march my son out of the office. I say nothing to him while he cleans out his lockers or as we do the walk of shame past full classrooms or as we shuffle out the front door.

But the moment we get in the car, I grip the steering wheel hard, hang my head, and struggle to keep my temper from flying off the rails.

“A freaking cigarette, Abe? You really thought that was a good idea?”

“It was just one time,” he squeaks. His voice has yet to find that balance between the deep timbre of adulthood and the high-pitched tones of adolescence. “It didn’t even taste that good.”

“You know you’re not supposed to smoke. Period. But much less on the school grounds where cameras are everywhere.”

“Are you angry because I did it or because I got caught doing it?”

“I’m angry because you did a stupid thing and you don’t seem to get how stupid it was.”

“They told me to try.”

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