She must really be desperate for me to dish the Fletcher Scott gossip. And I know whatever’s happened between me and Fletch isn’t meant for the town gossip mill, but I think, unlike with Leslie or Kayla, talking to Claire is safe. I need this. I really need this.
…
“So, you really did put Cheerios up his nose?”
I nod.
“I had no idea that he’s allergic to so much,” Claire says. “I’ve seen him at the bar, in the back booth studying and ordering nothing but bottled water…I just figured Manny told him he could hang there without buying anything. If my dad knew this stuff, he’d definitely figure out how to serve him something without killing him.”
“I don’t think it would matter to Fletch,” I say with a sigh. “He doesn’t trust restaurants. Like ever. I spent eight hours scrubbing my kitchen top to bottom and removing any food particles from anywhere—I was going to make him some allergy-safe cookies or a pot of soup as a thank-you for the tickets, but I couldn’t go through with it. Even I’m scared of killing him.”
Claire curls up on her side, facing me. Both of us are pretty zonked, especially after we’ve polished off a bottle of pink wine Claire swiped from the restaurant kitchen downstairs. “Okay, so Fletch is afraid to trust people, but he gives amazing speeches about empowering women and encouraging them not to get infatuated with him, but to instead get infatuated with being in control over their lives and their feelings. Am I giving an accurate summary?”
I exhale. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“And do you feel infatuated with your control or…”
“Not,” I admit. I flop back onto Claire’s bed and stare at the ceiling for a long minute. By the time I’m looking her way again, her eyelids are fluttering.
“Let’s sleep on it, okay?” she mutters.
I yawn, which counts as agreeing. If I don’t fall asleep soon, I’ll end up witnessing another sunrise. But when I roll onto my side and close my eyes, I’m still wide awake. I pull out my phone and stare at it, the half bottle of wine swimming in my blood and removing inhibitions. If I hadn’t seen him tonight, it would be easier to resist.
I type a quick text to Fletch. It’s likely he’ll be awake. Tomorrow I’ll have willpower to ignore any response he may send. Although he hasn’t called or texted me since I decided to text him. It’s almost like he knew my plan.
ME: hey, I’m sure u r asleep. Just wanted u to know that Mrs. Markson ended up giving me an A- in Civics
ME: I still feel a little weird about the extra time she gave me and letting me go back and finish the other tests
ME: But she wouldn’t do it if she didn’t think it was fair…it’s not like she’s an easy teacher, right?
ME: OK I’m done. 3 texts with no reply means: Haley=pathetic. Oops make that 4 texts
I start to send a fifth text to apologize—yeah, the wine is getting to me—but my phone vibrates in my hand. I roll over to make sure Claire is still sleeping before glancing at it.
FLETCH: Haley=unpathetic and no worries, I’m up
ME: Why? Did Jamie and Leo keep u out all night?
FLETCH: I’m home. Just couldn’t sleep
ME: b/c ur lovelorn?
FLETCH: why r u up? R u lovelorn?
ME: no, I’m pathetic, remember? Ur turn
FLETCH: I’m…idk. Hard to explain
ME: doesn’t have to be. Complete this sentence: “I’m feeling _____”
FLETCH: conflicted, retrospective, unsatisfied
ME: this has lovelorn written all over it
I slide carefully out of Claire’s bed and head for the back balcony. I dial Fletch’s number and wait for him to answer.
“Hey,” he says. Already I hear the hesitancy, the walls up. But he did answer the phone.
“So, what happened? You were thinking about how lovesick you are over me and couldn’t sleep?”
He laughs, cutting the tension. “No, it’s not that. Jamie told me something tonight—something I thought I wanted to know, and now…”
“You’re not so sure,” I finish for him.
“Right. I should feel angry or some kind of satisfaction, but I don’t.” Fletch goes on to explain the reason he left school for a couple years, the incident on the bus and how he didn’t know who did it all this time. I keep very quiet, listening to the details, but already my heart is racing, feeling the panic younger Fletch must have felt, the fear of going to school or doing anything normal. And all that is after his parents and grandpa suffered through some nasty side effects of Juniper Falls gossip. “I figured Jamie was just messing with me a few weeks ago. I didn’t think he knew who it was.”
“Wouldn’t they have asked all the kids? It’s not hard to scare nine- and ten-year-olds into ratting out a friend,” I say, trying to keep from shouting, oh my God it was Mike Steller! And now I’m seeing that conversation in the car from a whole new angle. “Conflicted” isn’t a strong enough word to describe these feelings. Obviously, this incident stayed with Fletch all this time, but it stayed with Mike, too.
“Jamie says he didn’t know until right after,” Fletch explains. “I guess a couple of middle-school guys dared Mike to do something to me. They told Mike the whole allergy thing was bullshit and I was just trying to get extra attention at school.”
“Okay, but after, wouldn’t Mike have told on those guys or something? Stuff always comes out eventually with little kids,” I protest.
Fletch sighs. “Jamie said Mike couldn’t say anything because his dad would have beat the shit out of him. Of course, I was like, well, my dad probably would have done the same to me if I’d done that. He wouldn’t have settled on a lecture and a time-out, that’s for sure. And then Jamie said, ‘no, he would have beat the shit out of him.’”
Yeah, this is probably true. I’ve heard as much from talking to Jessie. Both she and Mike are determined not to be like either of their parents. That’s a tough task in this town.
“I thought I’d find out who did it and everything would make sense. Someone who grew up to be a punk-ass loser,” Fletch continues. “But Mike Steller….”
I debate telling him about the conversation in the car. Will it help? Or will it make him more conflicted? “Here’s the thing. Not to discredit what you felt on the bus that day, but look at it from Mike’s perspective. He had to watch you nearly die and know that he caused that. What do you think that does to a person?”
“He was really cool tonight,” Fletch says. “Didn’t even think twice about helping me. You’d think he’d be bitter, considering Jamie and Leo are off to college and he was the big talent last season. Or he should have been, at least.”
“Why would he be bitter? It was Mike’s choice to quit the team and drop out of school.” I respect his choices, but I never thought he needed to sacrifice everything just to prove he could be a better parent than his parents.
“I don’t know. Guess I don’t know much about Mike.” Fletch yawns loud enough for me to hear through the phone.
“Look, Fletch, I can’t solve this puzzle any better than you can, but I will say that Mike would take it back in a second if he could.” I decide to explain Mike’s gloomy state on the drive home and his declarations about Andi.
Fletch is silent for several moments after, but he finally says, “If he’s thinking about it right in front of me, why doesn’t he have the balls to say anything?”
“I’m sure he has the balls to tell you it was him. Jesus, this is the guy who walked out of our arena mid–home game. That’s grounds for lynching. He probably saw that you were okay and maybe that his encouragement meant a lot. If he told you, it would devalue that.” I lean on the railing, feeling the cool breeze hit my bare legs and arms.
“Haley?” Fletch says. “This thing with us…”
Confidence—and probably alcohol—surges through me, and before he can finish what he’d started to say, I blurt out, “Go out with me.”
Oh God, did I just do that? I did. I totally did. “What I mean is that I ne
ed a date. For the end-of-summer dance. I’m on the planning committee, and it looks really bad if I show up alone.”
“And I’m the right person for this job?” Fletch says, not even trying to hide the disbelief in his voice.
My hands are literally shaking. My insides are twisting into a tight ball, but still I reach for the most honest response I can offer. “You’re the only person I wanted to ask.”
Silence of the absolute worst kind falls between us. And then finally he says, “Haley, I can’t do that. I just…”
Okay, so this hurts a little more than I expected. Maybe because I’ve never really asked anyone out before. Maybe because this is the first time I’ve put myself in a position to be rejected by Fletch.
“Is there anything you would do with me? Like on a date?” Clearly, I’m a glutton for punishment. “A movie?”
“I haven’t been to a movie theater since I had my first anaphylactic reaction,” he says. “Look, Haley, you’re beautiful and smart and funny, and I love hanging out with you, but—”
“You can’t be seen with me,” I finish for him. “Or in the town you actually live in. You can’t ever be the one to kiss me. You never kissed me, did you know that? I always made that first move. You can’t put yourself out there.”
“It’s not that simple, and you know it.”
There’s a finality in his voice that I know means we’re done. With this conversation. With hanging out. With everything. But I already knew that. Our talk earlier was just more moves that went nowhere, that led back to this inevitable draw.
“Okay,” I concede. “You win. Or it’s a draw or whatever. I’m officially done trying. I didn’t even want to try in the first place, but here I am, four weeks of summer school and half a bottle of wine later…”
“Haley, wait—”
“See you around, Fletch.” I hang up before he can say something sweet or cute or sexy. Or infuriating. It’s done. Like summer. Like a bag of cotton candy at the circus. Eventually you hit the bottom of the bag.
Even I’m smart enough to walk away while my head is still up, my heart mostly intact. Mostly.
Chapter Thirty-Three
–Fletcher–
“Scott,” Coach shouts from his office when I pass by his open door. “Get in here!”
Tanley, who just appeared at my side from the locker room, lifts an eyebrow. I’m frozen outside the door, my heart racing. What does he want with me? Did I screw up in practice this morning? I replay the entire two hours. I did some kick-ass maneuvering around Stewart, but Bakowski didn’t say anything to me about it. He just barked insults at Stewart.
Tate gives me a nudge. “It’s fine, man.”
I shuffle into the small office and stand awkwardly in front of Coach’s desk. Ty is seated in a chair in the corner of the room. He’s the head JV coach, so I’m more skilled at reading his face than Bakowski’s. Ty makes eye contact and nods to the empty chair across from the desk.
I don’t sit until Bakowski barks, “Sit, son.”
My backpack falls to the floor, and my ass falls into the chair. I try not to fidget with my hands. Bakowski stares me down, his fingers drumming on the desk.
“I’ll be frank with you, I wasn’t planning on keeping you on my team after the summer,” he says. My stomach sinks, my face heating up. Seniors can’t play JV, so this means I’m out. “But…”
Ty’s pen freezes in his hand. He exhales at the same moment as I do.
“You’re a scrapper,” Bakowski says. “And you aren’t taking no for an answer. That goes a long way with me.”
I don’t even attempt to mumble thank you, because I still have no idea where this is going.
“The Longmeadow scrimmage game next month is how I pick my lineup. Always,” Coach says. “As of now, I’m tossing Johnson back to JV. He’s young, I figured that would happen but wanted to test the waters. Now it seems we’ve got a space open when the real season starts. If the scrimmage goes well, then maybe…”
I stare at him for a good five seconds before saying, “Wait…so I’m in? For the game?”
“You’re in,” he confirms. “Now let’s see how you do.”
“Yes, sir.” I nod.
Bakowski leans forward, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him. “But you need to keep your personal stuff personal, understood? Longmeadow or any other team in the division gets ahold of that information, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they use it against us. I can’t have that kind of trouble on my team.”
Yeah, I get it. I worry about this every single day of my life.
“Don’t talk about it with the other guys, don’t talk to myself or Ty except in private situations like this one. Think you can handle that?”
“Yes, sir,” I say with another nod.
“Go on.” He waves a hand, dismissing me. “Give Beverly at the rental counter your info. She’ll get you a varsity uniform.”
Still dazed, I head out of the office, and my first thought is to go right to Civics and tell Haley the good news. Except Mrs. Markson canceled our last class. She said we’d covered everything and didn’t need it. Haley’s at cheer practice right next door, I’m sure. But she made it clear that I’m either in her life fully or…not. And I don’t even know how to begin being someone who hangs around town with Haley Stevenson. I can’t give her what she wants.
I walk outside alone—Cole still has Health class today—and head for my car in the near-empty lot. Practically the entire summer thus far, I haven’t been able to avoid having Haley or Jamie pop up in my personal space out of nowhere, making me anxious and on guard. I just didn’t realize how much I’d grown to expect and even enjoy them being around. Makes it a little harder to go back to my old ways.
And then before I can stop myself, I shoot a quick text to Jamie and Leo.
ME: Bakowski gave me a varsity spot for the Longmeadow game
Both guys respond at some point during the ten-minute drive home from practice.
JAMIE: about time
LEO: you earned a spot. Nobody gave you anything.
…
I don’t know exactly why Haley’s at the club tonight. She couldn’t have known I’d be here, because up until twenty minutes ago, I didn’t know I’d be here. I’ve never felt the urge to step through these doors on Manhattan Club nights.
I slide behind a tall guy and prepare to work my way to the door. Haley wouldn’t be too excited to find out that I’m here, considering our last conversation. Plus, she’s brought girlfriends—Claire, Leslie, and Kayla. The last thing I need is Leslie and Kayla telling everyone in town about my job. I glance down at my clothes and remember that I’m not dressed for work—no dress shirt and pants, no heeled ballroom shoes. If any of them spot me, it wouldn’t be social suicide. Tonight is definitely designed for cool people. Yet another reason why I’m never here on Thursdays.
Haley heads over to the bar alone. I keep an eye on her while she orders. My mouth falls open in shock when, after flashing an ID, she receives a tray of shot glasses. I’m about to go over and question this new bartender, but someone taps me on the shoulder.
I spin around, and I’m face-to-face with literally the last person I ever expected to see here—Tate Tanley.
“Dude, what are you doing here?” he says.
“Uh…my brother. He’s a bartender.” My gaze flits to the bar and back to Tanley. “Just finished up his shift. I’m on my way out, too, actually.”
“You’re leaving?” He looks disappointed. “I’m dying here. Claire dragged me. She and Haley have been coming the last few weeks, but she says she’s sick of dancing with girls.”
So, this isn’t Haley’s first Thursday-night club night. “Was that your way of asking me to stick around?”
Tate nods. “Pretty much.”
On the other side of the bar, all four girls down shots, and then they head for the middle of the dance floor, making it even more difficult for them to spot me. It’s weird being here without the stage, w
ithout everyone noticing me, just another guy in the club. It’s more like the School Me.
“I’m gonna need a drink for this,” I tell Tate, and we head toward the bar. I order a vodka tonic and hand the bartender one of Braden’s old IDs. Luckily, he doesn’t look too closely, because I don’t resemble my brother at all. I ask Tate what he wants. He shakes his head and holds up a set of keys.
He’s just moved up to martyr status in my book, taking on the job of getting four drunk girls into the car and home later on.
We shift away from the bar and hang back off to the side. Tate just stands there, looking painfully uncomfortable, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He should probably be the one drinking.
“If Jamie and Leo knew I was here, I’d never hear the end of it.”
I stare down at my drink, trying not to laugh. “They might surprise you.”
He gives me a long look like he knows I’m keeping some big secrets. Then he nods toward the dance floor. “You into this?”
I shrug. “Sometimes.”
I can’t exactly say no. Kinda creepy showing up here alone just to watch. Especially considering that I don’t have a girlfriend who coerced me into being a designated driver.
“Well, I’m not,” he states.
“Which part are you not into?” I take a long drink. “The loud music? Crowded floor? Handsy dudes with exposed chest hair? Or the dancing?”
“Mostly the dancing,” he admits.
But even while he says all this, he’s focused on Claire, probably watching for handsy guys making a move on his girlfriend. We stand there for several minutes not talking. It’s pretty hard to carry on a conversation at this volume. Tate is busy watching the girls, and I’m busy polishing off my drink, trying to decide if I wanna risk helping him a little. Normally I wouldn’t consider it. But I think being at the club—I mean it’s kind of what we do here—makes things a little different.
“This music,” I tell Tate, half shouting now. “It’s either about jumping up and down a lot or being loose. Don’t overthink it.”
He scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, that doesn’t help at all.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Angel in Ricky’s office, the black dry-erase marker we use to update the calendar poised in her hand. She stops when she spots me. I nod for her to come out here.