“Yes, you are, Fletcher,” I snap. “You’re going to work two weeks there. I will not have you embarrassing me. If you don’t like it after two weeks, you can stop, but you will ride it out and at least give it a chance.”
Fletcher rolls his eyes and sits at the table, and I put his spaghetti bolognese down in front of him. “I made your favorite.”
“I’m too tired to eat it.”
I fake a smile and run my fingers through his hair. “I know, baby, me too.”
I sit at the table and wait for Fletcher to arrive home from work. Honestly, who knew having a child start work would be so stressful? I can’t think, I can’t sleep, and I’ve been leaving work early every day so that I can get home well before he does and cook his favorite meals.
Tristan is giving him hell, and I know that he may need it. But the mother in me is worried that Tristan is just trying to teach him a lesson over the way they met. I close my eyes in horror. I can’t even think of that day without cringing. Whipping him with underpants and then trying to stuff them in his mouth . . . oh, the horror.
What on earth was Fletcher thinking?
But you know what? I’m proud of Fletch. I’m proud of him for making it above all those other candidates, for taking the job in the first place, and then for having the courage to stick with the job and go back day after day.
The door bangs open, and I smile and pick up the chocolate cake I just made him. He comes around the corner, and I force a smile, even though I feel like bursting into tears at the sight of his sad face. “Hi, Fletch.”
“Hi.” He yanks off his tie aggressively.
“I made you chocolate cake.” I hold it toward him. “Your favorite.”
“Thanks.” He sighs. He sticks his finger out and swipes it through the frosting and shoves it in his mouth.
I brace myself to ask the dreaded question. “How was your day?”
He slumps into a chair. “Hell.”
“Really?” I whisper. Damn it. I really want this to work out. “Why? What happened today?”
“I’m just not very good at it, Mom.”
“Honey, you’re not supposed to be very good at it. You’re just new.”
He exhales heavily and swipes his finger through the icing once more.
“What’s Tristan like?” I ask.
“Mean.”
“Mean?” I frown. “Like how?” I watch him for a moment. “Give me an example.”
He puffs air into his cheeks. I’ve never seen him so deflated. “Well.” He pauses as he gets it right in his head. “We do this thing where he goes and visits all the managers on each floor, and I follow him around like a puppy and take notes. Today there was a meeting of everyone together.”
“Yes, okay, that’s standard.”
“Well, today we got down to the fortieth floor and into the meeting, and I realized that I left my pen up on my desk.”
“Yes.” I frown as I listen to him. “Go on.”
“There weren’t any other pens there, so I just sat and listened to him talk along with everyone else.”
I nod as I listen.
“Halfway through the meeting he noticed I wasn’t taking notes and asked why. I told him I left my pen behind, and he completely lost his shit, screamed at me in front of everyone, and kicked me out of the management meeting.”
“What? He was screaming at you?” I frown.
“Like a madman. Sayin