Make You Miss Me by B. Celeste

CHAPTER SIX

The last thing I want to do is enter the principal’s office under the circumstances I’m about to, but I have no other choice after what happened.

When I see elderly Mrs. Willington, the secretary who looks like she’s been here since the day the school opened in the ‘40s, gesture toward Ms. Clifton’s door, I know that when I knock and hear my boss’s voice tell me to come in that there are already going to be two, maybe three, other people in the office with her.

Walking in, I see a bigger body taking up the tiny chair and a smaller body occupying the other one next to him. There’s a third chair off to the side that I take after closing the door behind me.

“Thank you for coming in,” my boss says, gesturing toward Fletcher and Dominic. “I was hoping you could elaborate on what happened earlier today for Mr. Miller.”

My eyes go to the little boy who’s the reason we’re having this meeting before my gaze turns to his father. “There was an…incident in the classroom after lunch. Some of the students were having a disagreement, and Nicki threw a bit of a tantrum leading to one of his peers’ glasses getting broke. He did apologize after we got him calmed down, but I had to say something because we can’t tolerate any type of violence.”

I feel bad knowing the child who hasn’t looked up once since I walked in will probably be grounded, but what happened needs to be handled immediately. There’s no way I could have let it go even though Dominic told Zachary he was sorry when prompted.

My boss clears her throat. “I spoke with the other parents, and they said the cost of a replacement pair of glasses will be covered by their insurance, but they’d like an upfront cost of the appointment to be covered by you and Dominic’s mother.”

Fletcher nods once. “We’ll handle it.”

I try not to let the ‘we’ part make me too curious, even though I haven’t seen another vehicle at their house in…ever. There may have been one there at some point that I just didn’t notice since I don’t actively spy on any of my neighbors, but for the most part, it’s just his truck that comes and goes from their property. The file on Dominic goes through the SALT—speech and language therapists—reports that helped clear him for enrollment at his previous school, and old grades and teacher’s notes on behavioral and participation habits from his old district. Though I looked, more than once, I didn’t see much about Nicki’s mom anywhere.

Ms. Clifton goes on. “Given the circumstances, we know that incidents will happen from time to time. But Stanton Central still can’t permit any type of violence. It’s against our policy, so we will need you to keep Dominic home for a day for out-of-school suspension.”

If that’s a problem for Fletcher, he doesn’t give it away. Like with his soldiers, he keeps a stoic expression on his face as he dips that strong chin of his. “I understand. Do you have the contact information for the other child’s parents?”

My boss rifles through some papers before handing him a piece with a phone number and name on it. “That’s the mother. They understood some of the situation once I explained, but—”

“Dominic’s condition doesn’t excuse what happened today. And it shouldn’t,” Fletcher cuts in firmly, giving no room for excuses. “He knows right from wrong enough to know better, even if he struggles with his impulses. The punishment shouldn’t be any different than any other student who did something they shouldn’t have. If out-of-school suspension for a day is justified, then fine. If it’s more, then we’ll do it. I’ll be sure the parents are paid for their son’s glasses, but I don’t want them, or this school district, to brush off Nic’s behavior simply because of his autism. That teaches him nothing.”

My boss gapes in shock.

I glance down at my lap to hide my small smile.

Nicki remains silent.

Then a chair scrapes back. “If that’s all, I’ll take my son home.”

My boss agrees and wishes them a good rest of their day, but before they leave, I hear a rough voice say, “Dominic, I think you owe your teacher an apology.”

I couldn’t imagine being the child of anybody in the military, especially not someone with Fletcher Miller’s authoritative nature. But maybe it’s precisely what Nicki needs in his life to help him learn and grow into somebody strong like his father.

In a voice so quiet I almost miss it, I hear a murmured, “Sorry, Ms. Foster.”

Because I have a feeling that his father doesn’t want me to forgive him so easily, I simply respond with, “We’ll see you the day after tomorrow, Nicki.”

 

 

I’m pulling into the driveway a few days later with a backseat full of groceries when I see somebody sitting on the front steps of my front door. When I put the car in park, my eyes narrow to get a better look since the sun is right in my line of vision.

The body stands, and it isn’t until I put up my hand to shield from the sun’s rays that I see who it is based on the height alone. “What the…?”

Fletcher Miller is standing at my door.

Turning off the car, I step out and calmly grab my purse and some groceries from the back before walking over to him. “Is everything okay?” I ask. He’s never come over since the day he let Dad and I use his mower. I’ve hired a lawn care service, so I haven’t had to bother him or my father for one again.

His eyes go down to the reusable grocery bags in my hands, then to my car where the back door is still open, so I can get the rest. “Do you need some help?”

“Oh, you don’t have to—” He doesn’t let me finish before grabbing one of the bags from my hands while I try fishing my keys out of my purse.

“I was raised to have manners,” is all he tells me in a gruff voice that has me arching a brow.

Not sure what to say, I turn to the door and unlock it before gesturing for him to come in. We get the rest of my things inside and set them on the counter before I turn to the man studying the plants on my hanging shelves, then the funny signs I found at some garage sales over the years that I hung on the walls.

He makes a noise in his throat, something sounding sort of like a low chuckle at one of them, before turning his body toward me. “I didn’t get a chance to apologize about Nic.”

Is that what this is about? “It’s done and over with,” I tell him carefully. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, one of his palms going to his buzzed head and swiping along the stubble. “It is. He’s had some problems over the past few months, but his mother and I were hoping a new change of scenery would help.”

As tempted as I am to inquire about Nicki’s mother, I don’t. “Has it helped?”

Besides that one time, Nicki hasn’t been any trouble in school. The other kids seem to all get along fine with him despite his outburst over a seat change.

“For the most part,” Fletcher answers in a low tone before sighing to himself. “Sometimes, I don’t think he wants to be here. I’m figuring it out as I go. We both are.”

That’s…something. “It always takes time to adjust. Kids can be finicky.” Or so I hear. “I’m sure it’ll get better with time.”

I refrain from letting my curiosity get the better of me about his co-parenting situation after reminding myself it’s none of my business. If I asked him to let me have my privacy, I’d be a hypocrite to pry in his personal life.

Even if I’m tempted.

So, so tempted.

“Like I said,” I tell him, “it’s okay. He’s been fine since he came back. Even Zach, the boy with the glasses, talks to him. I think they trade fruit snacks at lunch every day.”

Fletcher’s lip twitches upward in the tiniest smile as he says, “He likes the red ones. Would leave the rest if I didn’t make him eat them so they’re not wasted.”

I guess that explains why I only ever see him trade other students for the red ones. I smile at that too. “He’s a good kid.”

There’s no hesitation. “He is.”

We’re quiet for a long moment, my eyes drifting along the untouched groceries that I need to start putting away. “Um, well, I have ice cream in here somewhere that I should put away before it melts. But all is forgiven and forgotten. Thank you for apologizing anyway.”

His eyes go over his shoulder toward the door before turning back to me. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.” I’m about to tell him he didn’t, that anything involving his son would never be an overstep when he chooses to clarify. “At the bar that night.”

Oh.

I blink.

He clears his throat and scratches the side of his neck with one of his fingers. “You didn’t look comfortable, and he seemed a little too eager to get you alone. It was reflex.”

Not knowing what else to do, I wave it off with an awkward but appreciative smile. “Oh, that was nothing. You didn’t overstep. In fact, I thought it was nice you stepped in. Although Miles is harmless. I wouldn’t have gone home with him anyway.”

“Well, in case you did want to…” His words trail into silence as he scratches his neck again. “I wanted to apologize anyway.”

More silence.

Then, “Okay. Thank you.”

He nods once.

Both our eyes turn to the groceries.

“Thanks for helping bring these in,” I offer since I hadn’t said it already.

He looks like he’s about to say something but chooses not to. With a strange look on his face after his eyes go to some pictures I have on a different shelf in the kitchen—me as a teenager with my parents shortly before I went off and got married—he gives me a wave and leaves.

It takes me a few minutes to shake out of what happened before I get to work putting the groceries away.