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“Absolutely nothing to do with that.”
“I’m going to get the truth out of you eventually, you might as well spill now.”
Fletcher huffed out a laugh and turned to the photo wall again, his eyes finally snagging on a picture of Micah and Emery during a Pride March. Both of them had colorful flags painted on their cheeks, and their faces were split into wide grins. How could he ever walk away now? When the sight of Micah in an old photograph made his heart race.
“We have some history, and I didn’t expect to see her here.”
“Ah, another gentleman left heartbroken by our resident badass.”
Fletcher’s head snapped to Jensen so quick, he felt the twinge in his neck. “What?”
“I’m kidding. She’s got her kid and her best friends, and that’s it. But your reaction says way more than your silly comment about history.”
“Asshole,” he said under his breath and with one more glance at the photograph, he headed to the exit.
“I’ll see you in a few days, Fletcher Claus.”
“Not if I see you first, Mr. Mars,” Fletcher responded with the creepiest smile he could muster up. At Jensen’s wide-eyed stare, Fletcher cackled and walked out of the office.
“You weren’t kidding, you’re a terrible teacher,” Emery said with a look of disdain he was sure she’d obviously perfected over the years. Her Avril Lavigne outfit had been traded for something more akin to a small beach town—bright pink shorts and a black cropped T-shirt that read ‘die beach, die!’—but her hair and personality were still intact.
Still so much like Mick, it’s unsettling.
“Blaming the teacher because you can’t understand simple instructions is childish.”
“I am a child!”
Fletcher stood up from behind the drum kit and twirled the sticks in his hands. “You’re a teenager.”
“Teenagers are children.”
“Actually,” Nico started, from where they were hunched over a bass guitar, tiny hands struggling to touch all the frets Fletcher had showed them earlier. “Teenagers are not children, we might still be called adolescents, but not children.”
Emery shot her friend a glare and then turned to Fletcher with a huff. “Okay, fine, I don’t understand what you’re telling me to do.”
Fletcher held the sticks out to Emery with a small smile and nodded at the stool. “You remember what I did, right? You need to repeat those movements, without actually hitting the drums.”
She sat down, adjusted the stool, released a heavy sigh and looked up at him. “Snare, pedal, tom, snare, pedal, hi-hat?”
“Sure, let’s see how those movements feel to you.”
Emery rolled her shoulders back and without hitting anything, swung her arms around and then made a face. “Maybe I should start with the tom and work my way right to left instead,” she said, not even glancing at him as she followed her own instructions. Smiling when she seemed to settle into the movements a little better, he nodded for her to keep going.
Even though she’d been drumming on her pillows, she was absolutely messy behind a kit. She jumped and swerved and swung around without a care for herself or anyone else. The first few sessions, Benson had to grab them earplugs to block out the noise she was creating. Since then, he’d been teaching her to read sheet music and get a better understanding of what it meant to be a drummer.
But despite being a menace behind the kit, she was really eager to learn and listened to his instructions carefully. Like her mother, she challenged him at every turn, making sure to keep him on his toes. And she also worked well as Nico’s cheerleader since they were having a much harder time picking up the bass. Neither of them gave up, though, always asking questions and making sure Fletcher and Benson were being honest with their progress.
Since they didn’t have a timeline, Fletcher knew that he could show the two of them the best way to enjoy their instruments. It would take longer than he expected.
“Emery, your Mom called to say that she’s going to be late tonight,” Benson said as he walked into the back. “She wanted to know if one of us could drop them off.”
Fletcher nodded. “I can do it.”
“Thanks, man.” Benson patted him on the back and headed for the offices. His wife had left him and their four year-old daughter recently, and Fletcher knew that Benson was struggling to find the balance.
Turning to the teenagers, Fletcher clapped his hands to get their attention. “Do you two want more time or are you ready to head home?”
Nico sighed and set the bass aside. “I’m good to go home. I need to rethink my choice of instrument.”
