Slow Shift by Nazarea Andrews (best summer reads of all time txt) 📕

“I’ll teach you to spar. You can let your aggression out that way.”

Chase swallows hard. “Why? Why would—”

Tyler scowls and stands up. “If you don’t want to...”

“No. I do. I—thank you,” Chase blurts out, anxious and grateful.

Tyler studies him for a long moment and then points. “Homework first, ok?”

Chase nods, and Tyler smiles, small and pleased, before he goes to the house to work.

~*~

He doesn’t mean to snoop.

Ok, no, that’s wrong. He totally means to snoop.

Because Chase is fourteen goddamn years old. Because his clothes are dirty with sawdust and dirt, and sometimes John finds blood on crumpled toilet paper in the wastebasket. Because he’s quiet—so fucking quiet, but sometimes, when Chase thinks he’s alone, he smiles at something on his phone, a small, secret smile.

Because his browser’s search history is a mess of long-term health care and home improvements and self-defense, of all things. There’s only so much John can put down to curiosity and school assignments, to teenage secrets, and Chase—he’s gone past that. So far past it, John has to wonder who his kid even is anymore.

There’s also the fact that sometimes John will see his son walking through Harrisburg with Ben. It doesn’t happen often anymore, and every time it does, it strings unease in his gut, because there’s always that man.

Tyler Reid, twenty-four with a truly fucking tragic past, enough baggage to fill a bus, and always watching Chase, never close enough to draw his attention, but never far enough that he can’t see the boy at all times.

So John does mean it when he follows Chase, when he undoubtedly snoops.

He’s quiet, creeping through the woods behind his son, and that’s a revelation in and of itself, because Chase walks with a grace and purpose that startles him, none of the aimless, clumsy fumbling—the deeper he tramps into the woods, the more it fades.

Chase pauses once, twitching his book bag on his shoulders, and then huffs at something on his phone.

Two hours later, when Chase wanders back home after sitting in an empty clearing and doing his homework after he walked for another two miles without any real destination—John has to wonder what the hell that message on his phone had said.

~*~

He sees Tyler three days later, leaving the coffee shop with a bag of donuts and a book tucked under his arm, his head down to avoid conversation.

Maybe it’s the grey dust on his black boots, maybe it’s the phone call he got from the school—again—or maybe it’s that Chase didn’t even engage to argue with him this morning, even though he’s been quietly angry for days.

John isn’t sure what it is that makes him push Tyler Reid against the coffee shop wall and snap, but there he is, snarling, “What the hell do you want with my boy, Reid?”

Tyler stares back, impassive, seemingly unbothered by the furious chief of police in his face.

“I want him to be ok,” Tyler says, “I don’t want him to turn out like I did after my parents died.”

John flinches back at that and stares at Tyler, who isn’t reacting but John knows he’s furious.

“You’re a fucking pervert,” John says, disgusted.

“I would never touch Chase,” Tyler says, fury leaking into his voice, finally. “But maybe if he had someone who cared at home, Chief, he wouldn’t have wandered into my woods.”

That hits hard, and John kind of gapes, breathless and aching from the unexpected verbal blow. Tyler shoves him off and glares at the older man before he starts to stalk away.

“Stay away from my son, Reid!” John shouts, furious and uncaring who hears him. “You stay the fuck away from my son!”

~*~

When John gets home after a long shift that caused more headaches than it resolved, the house is quiet and still. There’s no dinner waiting in the kitchen and no happy chatter from the TV and no Chase sitting on the couch studying. There’s nothing to even indicate that Chase is home except a thin strip of light under his bedroom door.

John knocks and pushes the door open, his eyebrows raising when he finds Chase cross-legged on his bed, Skyping with Ben.

“Hang on, Benny,” Chase says and mutes the computer before giving John the blankest look he’s ever seen from his son.

“Can I help you?”

John takes a heartbeat and then grumbles, “Reid told you.”

“Told me what?” Chase says flatly.

Something like shame squirms in his gut, but he’s right, dammit, he knows he’s right. “Son,” he starts, and Chase laughs. It’s sharp and bitter and cutting, and John flinches back at it.

“Now I’m your son? Now? Fuck you, Dad,” he says.

John blinks, because Chase is fourteen and he sounds so tired—so tired and broken, like all the anger has drained away and he’s just been left empty.

“I needed you to remember I was your son a year ago, when Mom died and I was alone, and you sent me to live with Gran for the summer instead of being there for me. I needed you to remember I was your son when I came home to an empty house, or when I started school, the freak whose mom died. Or when we were at Gran’s for Christmas and you spent all of it drunk or fucking fishing. I needed you and you weren’t there, so don’t trot that shit out now. Not when it’s convenient.”

“I know I haven’t been there,” he starts again.

Chase shakes his head. “You don’t. If you knew how much you hadn’t been here, you’d know why Tyler is important to me. You’d know that he helps me with my homework and makes sure I eat every night and is teaching me to protect myself.”

That snaps John’s attention around. “Protect you from what?”

Chase laughs bitterly and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it taken care of. Just go back to drinking and leave me alone.”

“I’m your father,” John snaps, enraged suddenly. “And Tyler Reid is—”

“My friend,” Chase snarls, “And maybe I need that more than a father who forgot me.”

“Chase—”

Chase twists