Misconduct(80)

“Well,” she inched out. “It’s also about being with peers that challenge you. Braddock Autenberry has an excellent student body full of students that excel, but there are always a few who could use a more stimulating environment.”

Why hadn’t I known about this? I’d stayed up on all the social media groups and e-mails from all of his teachers. I may have been late to his soccer game, but I wasn’t dropping the ball on everything.

And it’s not like I hadn’t seen Easton. She’d had opportunities to tell me.

“Thanks.” Christian shook his head. “But I like being in classes with my friends, and I like your class. The activities are fun.”

She tried to hide her smile, but I could tell she liked hearing that. And I wasn’t so sure I wanted Christian out of her class.

Of course, if she were no longer his teacher, our relationship wouldn’t be such an issue, but I wasn’t willing to sacrifice a good teacher that made him happy just so I could have what I wanted. If I had to make the sacrifice, I would. But not him.

“You could just take the test,” Easton offered. “To see where you stand in case you change your mind.”

“Does my mom want that?” he asked.

Easton’s eye flashed to mine for a moment, and I knew she felt awkward talking about Christian’s mother as if my thoughts didn’t matter.

But I guess Christian had every right to trust his mother’s opinion more than mine.

“Your mother wants to see you reach your full potential,” she answered.

Christian sat silently for a moment, staring at the table as he chewed his macaroon.

And then he looked to me, his eyes thoughtful. “What do you want me to do?”

My eyebrows shot up, and I opened my mouth but nothing came out. He’d just asked for my opinion.

I searched my brain, trying to think of what he wanted me to say. Or maybe what my father would say.

This was an opportunity to not fail, so I struggled with what to tell him, because I honestly didn’t feel strongly about the advanced-placement class. He’d have a bright future no matter what classes he took. I only wanted him to know that he was free to choose, and in my eyes, I’d be okay with either choice.

I locked eyes with his and spoke with certainty. “I want you to do what you want,” I told him. “Just remember, you’re the only one who has to live with the decision, so whatever you decide, just have a good reason for it.”

And that was all I wanted him to learn. Bad decisions were made from either not thinking them through or for the wrong reason. As long as he had a good one, he’d feel confident about his choice.

He let out a breath and looked to his teacher. “I’ll do the test,” he told her. “Just to see what it says.”





“You did a good job today,” I told Christian, grabbing a couple of Gatorades out of the refrigerator and tossing him one.

I’d driven us back to the school tonight and watched while Easton got safely into her car and drove away. Bringing her home with me had been all too tempting, but it was impossible.

“Would you like to practice again tomorrow?” I asked. “Driving, I mean.”

He twisted the cap and turned away, heading out of the kitchen. “I’ll be busy.”

Shit.

He was pulling away again.

I rounded the island. “You forgot you hated me for a little while today,” I reminded him.

He stopped and turned around, his eyes faltering as if he was trying hard to stay angry because his pride wouldn’t let him forgive.

“Come on,” I urged, brushing past him down the hallway.

I pushed open the door to the den, hearing his reluctant steps behind me, and I headed straight for the cue rack, taking out two sticks.

He hovered in the doorway, slowly inching inside as he took in the large, darkened room. I’d told him my den was the only place off-limits when he moved in. It was two rooms joined, my office and the billiards room, great for entertaining and bullshitting with guests over cognac and cigars.

But I rarely used it, since I almost never had people to my home; last Sunday’s luncheon was the first time in more than a year.

I racked the balls and then grabbed the pool cues and handed one to Christian.

He reached, looking annoyed as he took the stick.

“This is stupid,” he grumbled.

“It’s what I know,” I told him. “My father always talked to me over a pool table.”

Men and women were different creatures. My mother, before she passed away when I was fifteen, tried sitting with me and talking to me about her being sick. About the fact that she wasn’t getting better and she wouldn’t be around for very much longer.

She kept wanting me to react, to say something or tell her what I was feeling and how she could help, and all I remembered was feeling uncomfortable, like the walls were closing in.

So my father took me into his den, and we played pool. After a while, we started to talk, and by the end of the night, I’d let it all out. My anger and my sadness… how she couldn’t die and how much I loved her.

In that respect, I knew my son. Forcing him to sit down and bare whatever was in his head would be just as uncomfortable for him as it would be for me.

We needed to be moving and doing something. We needed to have an activity together without the pressure of conversation. The communication would eventually come.