Page 61 of Antagonist

Following that with a string of mistakes that seem to get covered up by his long-suffering secretary and his friends was another strike against my respect for the man.

But wanting to damage my hard-earned reputation in the company? Trying to use his family connections for personal gain? That’s another level of weaseling.

Fletcher’s hand lands on mine, and I realize my fists are clenched tight. I open and close my hands to relax the tense muscles.

“You okay?”

He removes his hand, but I take it back and lace our fingers together. Fletcher’s lips curl into a smile. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but he squeezes my hand a little.

This connection with him is the only thing that can help me take my mind off things.

“I’m okay. Don’t get me wrong, it may be a few days until the need to tightly squeeze Bradley’s neck downgrades from imminent to avoidable.”

“Will this bring you problems at work?”

“Not really. Bradley might not be aware of it, but his uncle has his number. I’m more concerned about the kind of culture this behavior breeds in the workplace. Toxicity spreads faster than kindness.” I stare outside at the passing houses with their lights on. “When we moved to Stillwater, I thought I was done with all the backstabbing and pretending.”

“I get it. The art world is full of that. Fran always moved much better in those circles. I just want to paint and spend time with my kid.”

“Fran?”

“George’s mom. We met at college and traveled together, painted, went to art exhibitions, had fun…lots of fun.” He laughs. “But I didn’t like how we had to fake our way into certain places. How unless you went to a certain school, you weren’t artistic enough. How you had to be stoned or drunk to produce your most meaningful art…”

I squeeze his hand, and he smiles.

“I was never that person, you know? I grew up in a chaotic family of artists. Painting is in my blood. The only thing I need to get going in the morning is coffee and maybe a few of Arlo’s Nankhatai cookies.”

The more Fletcher talks, the more I’m certain I’ve misjudged him. In some ways, we’re not so different from each other. I just hope it’s not too late to repair some of the stuff I’ve said or implied to him.

As we drive out of town, we descend into a comfortable silence. I still don’t know where Fletcher is taking me, and maybe, for the first time in my life, I don’t need to know exactly where I’m going.

At some point, we turn off the main road and onto a forest-lined street.

I see a few flickering lights in the distance. As we keep going, the lights get brighter until I see water.

“Are we at the lake?” I ask.

“Yes.”

A moment later, Fletcher stops the car in front of a log cabin. I follow as he steps out of the vehicle. The air has become considerably chillier than earlier, but it’s a good chilly. Perfect for sitting outside wrapped in a blanket.

“This place is yours?” I ask as Fletcher takes out a set of keys to unlock the front door.

“Kind of. It’s the family cabin, but George and I use it the most now.” As we walk in, I’m met with a picture-perfect image of a family home. The door opens straight to the living area with a large kitchen at the other end. There’s a fireplace and a couch big enough for an entire family to sit comfortably.

“My grandparents bought the cabin in the sixties,” he continues as he turns the lights on and checks the circuit board. “I still remember my grandad telling stories of the parties they had here in the summer. It was eventually passed down to my dad and uncle, but my uncle moved to Florida years ago and only visits once a year. My parents spend two weeks a year in the summer.”

“How often do you come here?”

“Maybe twice a month. George loves it out here. I usually set up a treasure hunt for him. Although my days on that are numbered. He’s becoming too clever. Last time he asked me why my pockets were always full when we left the cabin and empty when we returned and then called me selfish for not sharing my snacks that I clearly ate while he was treasure hunting.”

I laugh, thinking that’s something Megan would totally do.

Fletcher flips a switch and the outside deck lights up with a million fairy lights. He takes my hand and leads me through the sliding glass doors.

“This is beautiful, Fletcher. So calm. What a special place.”

I look at him, and he’s staring at the glistening moonlit lake. His hair is still in a perfectly styled bun that I suddenly want to mess up.