Page 68 of Beautiful Desire
“I don’t accept.” Why would he say that?
And why did he look so hurt?
Pressure builds behind my eyes as I finally storm out of the kitchen toward my bedroom. Closing the door, I press my back up against it as thick emotion clogs my throat, choking me as my vision blurs. Fletcher can’t want more…Wecould never be more; doesn’t he see that? It wouldn’t make sense, it wouldn’t work, and it would be a waste of his time to even try, and I’d end up with my heart broken.
That can’t happen.
Moisture spills over my eyes before I can stop it, cascading down my face as I slide my back down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. More tears come, and I can’t stop them. It’s like a dam broke, and suddenly, I’m feelingeverything.
It’s for the best.He’ll see that.
He has to.
30
Fletcher
Acalendar invite? What the fuck?
Swiping my phone off the bed, I find the number I’m looking for and hit call. It rings a few times before it connects.
“Fletcher, I take it you got the meeting request?” My father’s gruff voice fills the line.
“Yeah, but you could’ve just called me. You didn’t need to send me an invite, like I’m an employee you’re setting up a one on one with.”
“You are an employee,” he deadpans, and I can clearly see the bored expression he’s giving me in my mind’s eye.
A smirk tugs on my lips. “Not for long,” I drawl.
“Yes, well, that’s what I wanted to discuss.”
Here we go.“I’m listening.”
“I have a call with Reese tomorrow morning, and I want to get on his schedule for when you’re in town,” he explains. “What day are you planning on arriving for graduation?”
Not where I thought this conversation was going.
“The day before,” I tell him. “My last day at the bookstore is that Wednesday, but they’re throwing me a small farewell thing that night, so I’ll head down Thursday morning.”
“Huh, thought you would’ve quit by now,” he murmurs, and I clench my jaw so tight it pops, not wanting to get into it with him today. “Well, Thursday won’t work for me. I’ll suggest Saturday morning to Reese, if that works for you, Son?”
“Sure thing, Dad.”
Hanging up the phone, I flop down on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s been a weird week, and that call didn’t make it any better. I got word that I passed my capstone—and the rest of my classes—so, in two weeks, I’ll officially graduate with an MBA. And that means I did it—Iactuallyfucking did it—when not even six months ago, I honestly doubted if I’d even be able to.
I should be ecstatic.
I should be relieved.
Yet all I feel is dread. A lead weight sitting in my gut, growing heavier the closer I get to graduation, because that also means I’m closer to the stupid fucking expiration date Georgia gave us. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
A goddamn catch twenty-two, if I’ve ever seen one.
My phone buzzes on my chest, and as I flip it over and look at the screen, I huff out a breath.
Speak of the fucking devil.
Georgia: Hey, are you at home?
