Page 11 of So This Is War
I lean against the wall behind me and take a few deep breaths.
Ugh, the biggest cock block of all time. But if my dad caught us kissing, he would have not only killed me . . . but he would have murdered Levi.
Little less than a year later . . .
I knockon my dad’s office door and take a bite of my bologna sandwich. Whoever’s bologna this is, it’s freaking good. It’s my third one this week.
“Come in,” my dad’s raspy voice says, so I open the door and walk right in, making sure to shut the door behind me. When he looks up at me, he sets his tablet to the side and leans back in his chair. “What the hell are you eating?” he asks in greeting.
“A sandwich. Bologna. Want to try?”
“Christ, no.”
I shrug and take a bite. His loss.
You’d think winning last season would have lightened the old man up, but according to the scowl in his brow and the distaste in his expression, nothing is ever good enough for this man. I chalk it up to the new season and the pressure on his shoulders for another win. “You beckoned?”
“Yes, I did.” He leans forward now, his chair creaking beneath his large body. His bald head is shinier than ever under these lights, and the muscles in his traps look like they’reabout to explode out of his shirt from the tension set in his shoulders. “I want to know why I just got a call from your college admissions saying they’re returning the check I made out to them for your tuition this semester?”
Crap.
Freaking admissions. They couldn’t give me the weekend to figure out what to say to my father? They had to contact him right away?
“They called you, huh?” I ask, going for casual.
“Yes, they fucking called me,” Dad nearly roars. “What the fuck is going on, Wylie?”
Here’s the thing, when you have a father who has been a single dad for a better part of two decades, he tends to be very cranky, very short-tempered, and very demanding of perfection. I knew he wouldn’t take this well, but he’s already at level nine out of ten, and ten is when he blows a gasket.
Trust me when I say you don’t want to see that happen.
I’ve seen it, and the fire in his eyes will make your legs quiver with fear.
Clearing my throat, I rest my sandwich on the edge of my dad’s desk. “Well, I planned on telling you after your game tonight, but since they called, I guess I’m going to have to let you in on what’s happening.”
“Damn right, you’re going to let me in on what’s happening. Tell me what’s going on, Wylie. Now.”
Yup, he’s fuming.
Tread carefully.
Still trying to be casual because maybe my soothing voice will calm him, I say, “You see, I’ve been doing some thinking for almost a year now, ever since last semester to be precise, and well, I sort of haven’t been having much fun at school?—”
“School isn’t supposed to be fun, Wylie. School is supposed to be educating.”
“Yup, hear you on that one, Dad,” I say, pointing at him. “Love education, but, uh . . . well, I don’t foresee myself continuing down the road I’ve been studying.”
“The road as in business?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“And what road would you like to continue down exactly?” he asks, his nostrils flaring—a sure-fire sign that the steam inside him brewing like a tea kettle is ready to spout out of his ears.
Knowing there’s no easy way of putting this, I go with the facts. “I’m not finishing my business degree. I’m pursuing independent graphic art instead.”
“What?” Dad roars, spittle flying from his mouth as he stares me down. “No, not happening.” He shakes his head and picks up his phone. “Miranda, transfer me to the University of Vancouver’s admissions.”
“Dad.” I lean forward to grab the phone from him, but he leans back. “I’m not going back there.”
