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The picture frame turned face down on the shelf catches Andrew's eyes immediately after Fletcher leaves the room.
The rest of the apartment looks exactly like Andrew expected it to look from the ashtray of stubbed out, half smoked cigarettes on the arm of a battered leather sofa, the modest little upright piano against the wall and the record player with the needle still at the edge of the label. There's something deeply emotional about a hidden picture. Fletcher's beside him again before he can even begin to consider flipping the picture and he's sipping at the drink he'd returned with in a way that reminds Andrew that he wasn't offered one.
"Are you gonna tell me why you're here?" Fletcher asks.
Andrew silently prays Fletcher can't see the heat that comes up and over his cheeks, but he can hear the old man huff out a low chuckle. Every moment around his former teacher still feels like looking up at a tidal wave moments before it crashes ashore, but here he is again, waiting to be crushed. He glances at the door across the room, visualizes walking through it and then, of course, doesn't fucking do it.
"Job offer in Chicago," he chokes out. Something that doesn't make me feel empty, he doesn't say.
Fletcher nods slowly and takes another sip, forcing Andrew to suffer in silence. Smug piece of shit.
"You want me to tell you if you should take it."
"Yeah."
Andrew expects another almost comical stretch of silence, but Fletcher reaches over his shoulder and turns the frame upright. The photo is of a woman and a little girl sitting beside each other on a leather sofa, caught in the middle of what looks like a deep gut sort of laugh at whoever is behind the camera. A wallet size school photo of the same little girl is wedged into the side and the pale blue of her wide eyes gives anything that wasn't already obvious away.
"Sometimes the shit you work the hardest on won't amount to anything. Sometimes it does, but then you realize it's not what you wanted," Fletcher says before turning the photo down again and looking to Andrew. There isn't a trace of mourning in his eyes despite a clear loss, "You're no fucking exception."
"So why try when it's all gonna go to shit anyway?" Andrew mutters.
Fletcher shrugs. "Don't take the job."
It's precisely what Andrew wants to hear. It's that one last thrill of defiance that charms him into thinking he can do something more meaningful and it pushes him onto a flight the next day.