Getaway

Chapter 12

Fletcher knocked on my door in a surprisingly rhythmic – and loud – pattern. I jumped off of the bed; my brain somehow supposing that the quicker I got there the quicker it would be over and done with. My logic was flawed but I was past the point of caring.

“The door is unlocked,” I told him.

Picking my bag up from the side I checked my reflection in the mirror one last time before turning to face Fletcher’s thoughts.

He stared at me for a few minutes, eyes skimming over my outfit coming to a stop when he caught my eye. I blushed – for no apparent reason – and then Fletcher let out a sigh that told me he was dreading it just as much as I was.

“It’ll be alright,” I said in a half-hearted effort to rally his spirits.

“I don’t know why I thought this would be a good idea,” Fletcher groaned.

His voice was muffled, at some point his head buried itself in his hands and because of that I only just managed to work out what Fletcher was saying.

“Because you’re an idiot,” I teased.

“I know,” he replied.

“Well that’s kind of insulting.”

“I don’t mean that I’m an idiot for inviting you. You’re not the problem here, my parents are the problem,” he told me.

“I’ve already met your mum and I survived that. I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I reassured him.

“You caught my mum in a good moment.”

I seriously thought that Fletcher was overreacting, after all I’d met my fair share of bad/annoying parents and I hardly doubted that Fletcher’s could be all that bad. I’d met his mum, she seemed nice, a bit overenthusiastic but nice none the less.

But Fletcher seemed to be convinced that I was going to hate her and it was just making the knot in my stomach tie itself even tighter. Not for the first time in the short time I had known him, I willed Fletcher to shut up before I strangled him.

I tugged Fletcher’s shirt and forced him out the door before he could say something that convinced me that it really was a bad idea.

Fletcher looked thoroughly unimpressed at my efforts and lounged against the wall grumpily as he waited for me to lock the door and sort out my shoes.

“Are you ready yet,” he asked me after several moments of fiddling with the straps.

“Nearly.”

“You’ve had god knows how long to sort that out,” he told me, his tone not entirely harsh.

“I know,” I replied, “And I did sort them out. And then they went again.”

“You need shoes that fit properly,” he said.

“I know, but I don’t have time to sort that out now,” I pointed out, “Come on, let’s just go.”

The two of us walked down the corridor arms lightly brushing together every few steps, conversation somehow struggling to bridge the gap between us.

“It won’t be that bad,” I repeated, “If it is then we’re even.”

“Even for what?”

“I don’t know, there’s probably something though.”

Fletcher laughed at that – it sounded slightly, although thankfully not entirely, forced – and I was glad for the decline in tension and the return on conversation. It was weird walking in silence with Fletcher, like something was there that didn’t belong. I was so used to him always nattering on about something that it was strange when he was silent due to a lack of words and not because he was ignoring me.