Page 106 of Fly Boy
“Nothing, sir. I take full responsibility for my actions.”
He looks at me skeptically, like he knows it’s not the complete truth.
But it’s not my truth to share alone.
“Very well.” Mr. Cartwright’s face is grim as he regards me before pulling open a drawer in his desk and sliding an envelope toward me. “I hate to do this, but there really is no other choice. Your employment with Cartwright Oil is terminated. Effective immediately.”
A lump forms in my throat, a bittersweet feeling dusting over my skin.
I was going to quit.
I was going to hand in my notice next week. He just beat me to it.
When it rains, it fucking pours.
Standing, I dust down my pants, lift the envelope, and hold out my hand. He might have fired me, but this is still the father of the woman I love.
“Thank you for everything, Mr. Cartwright,” I say, turning to walk out but stopping at the last second. “If possible, can you not tell Miss Cartwright until next week?”
He nods solemnly. “I think that’s a good idea.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Hey, baby,” I sayto my phone as soon as the video call connects, flipping my middle finger as Evan makes a mock gagging sound from somewhere behind me. “Look what I’m wearing.”
I pan the camera down my legs, the bar stool allowing me to stretch them outward comfortably as the RecoverRx boots do their thing.
“They’ve been helping?” Wyatt asks, positioning his phone on his nightstand. I scan the screen, and my eyes hungrily eat up his profile—no shirt, dark sweatpants, and tousled hair. There’s a suitcase open on his bed, clothes piled nearly beside it, and what looks like his toiletry bag.
“I think so,” I reply, propping my cell against my kitchen wall before looking contemplatively at the boots. “Evan thinks they’rea load of shit, but that doesn’t stop him from stealing them all the time.”
“It’s called borrowing,” Evan says, then stands behind me to lean over my shoulder. “Looking good, Mr. Sexy Pilot Man.”
Wyatt barely acknowledges my partner, continuing to meticulously pack his things. I glance at Evan as he heads to my fridge and helps himself to a protein shake.
“Well, he’s definitely stealing my food,” I say, waiting for a sarcastic comment from Wyatt, only to get nothing. That’s weird. By now, there would have been snarky remarks firing back and forth between the two men.
“Are you getting ready for your boys’ trip?” I ask, awkwardness making my skin tingle as he doesn’t appear to hear me. Moving closer to the screen, I watch as he throws a shirt across his room before picking up another one and adding it to his case. “Wyatt? Are you listening?”
“Sorry, baby,” he says vacantly, not looking at the camera.
“That’s okay. I just asked if you were ready for this weekend?”
“Not really,” he replies, balling up another shirt and throwing it away.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll pack in no time,” I tell him, the small talk almost painful.
What is wrong with him today?
“Uh-huh.”
I tug at the front of my shirt, unease making the fabric feel too tight. Somethings up with him. He wasn’t like this the other day when I called him after practice and he told me about Fiona and Sadie. Even when I brought up his search for a therapist—a topic I thoughtwouldhave been awkward—he was fine.
Chatty, laughing,engaging. Not like now.
“How was the flight to Maine yesterday?” I ask, hoping that if I bring up planes, he’ll stop being so distracted.
“Maine?” he repeats, and he sounds confused.
