“Dad, I’m twenty-three years old. I don’t need you to protect me.”
“Yeah. You do. God, I love you, Gray.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
He hung up, and I blinked. Was he apologizing for being such a dick while I was home? Probably not. It wasn’t in his nature, and he wasn’t exactly approving.
Thirty-seconds and two blocks later, my phone rang again.
“Lieutenant Masters?”
“Major Davidson?” Please don’t send me anywhere else. I have to see Sam.
“Son, I’m going to need you to come in and see me.”
My chest clenched. “Okay, sir. When do you need me?”
“Right now. I know you just landed a couple of hours ago, but I need you to come to my office.”
“Yes, sir. I can be there in ten minutes.” There was an audible click. Good thing I hadn’t changed out of uniform.
Had I fucked up something on the flight?
I went through every detail of the flight as I pulled onto post, trying to find where I could have made an error. I’d had Mr. Stewmon with me, who would have blasted me if I had, that was for sure.
I parked next to Jagger’s Defender and headed inside. At least none of us had moved a thousand-pound polar bear in the last week. I couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding, like what waited was a hell of a lot worse.
Jagger sat in the hallway with Mr. Stewmon on his left.
“Any clue what this is about?” Jagger asked.
“Not unless I made a mistake during the flight?” I looked to Mr. Stewmon, who shook his head.
“Lieutenant Masters,” Major Davidson called from his office.
“Sir,” I said, stepping inside. It had been a year since I’d been here last, and he still hadn’t decorated.
“Have a seat.”
I did so, but didn’t lean back. He tapped his fingers on his desk, thumbing through a file. My medical records. Shit.
“I received a call today that made some very serious allegations about your health history, Lieutenant Masters. Allegations that, if true, would end your place in the flight school program.”
My fucking father. “Sir?”
“Are you dyslexic?”
Funny thing about ripping off a Band-Aid—it still hurts like hell. “Not that I’m aware of, sir.”
He sighed. “That’s what he said you’d say.”
“My father.” The words tasted sour.
“Your father.” He nodded. “Would you care to explain?”
“I can’t explain what there’s no factual base for, sir. I have not now, nor ever been diagnosed as a dyslexic. I was slow to learn to read in school, yes, but by high school graduated in the top two percent of my class, as well as at the Citadel. Neither location found a reason to believe I would be dyslexic.”
“Why would your father say this?”
“Because he thinks I’ll kill someone while flying.” Be brutally honest, it’s the only way they know you’re not lying. “The night of my eighteenth birthday party, I was involved in a car accident where the other party was drunk. I didn’t react fast enough. My girlfriend spent five years comatose. My father believes it was my fault. He’s never accepted my decision to become a pilot.”
Major Davidson nodded slowly. “Can you prove that you’re not dyslexic?”
“Sir, can you prove that I am? I take tests slowly, yes. I read slowly, yes. But take a look at the Order of Merit list for Primary, where I finished in the number one position, and the Apache course, and I can guarantee I’m in the top five percent. Five percent because I’m in the class with the walking 5&9 book of Jagger Bateman.”
“True.”
“Sir, there is no record of any concern of dyslexia. Not since I began my education, or before. These accusations are unfounded.”
He studied me, and I stared back, unflinching.
“Send in Mr. Stewmon as well as Lieutenant Bateman, and wait in the hallway.”
“Yes, sir.” I gripped my cover so hard I thought I might rip it, and walked into the hallway. “He’d like to see you both.”
“Everything okay?” Jagger asked me.
“Family is a bitch.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and looked me straight in the eyes. “Until you find your own, right?”
“Right.”
He nodded and then went into the office, shutting the door behind him. I’d take a polar bear over this shit any day. At least I’d done it, moved the fucking bear.
I tapped my foot while waiting, watching the minute hand pass fourteen times until the door opened. “Come on in,” Mr. Stewmon said, holding the door for me.
I took the empty seat while he stood behind us. Major Davidson was on the phone in the corner with his back to us. More than likely ending my flight school career because my father couldn’t trust me. Ever.
“Did you move Sgt. Ted E. Bear?” Jagger whispered.
“Not the fucking time.”
“Oh, come on. Like you weren’t thinking it.”
“Since the moment I walked in.”
Major Davidson hung up the phone and turned. “There’s no record of the word ‘dyslexia’ appearing in your records from the Citadel or high school.”
“Sir, I will say it again. I have never, in my life, been tested for, or diagnosed with dyslexia. I think my scores and grades speak for themselves.”