I won. Through the glass, I catch him watching me again. This time, when our eyes meet, I smile.
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly and returns to his call. But I saw the crack in the armor. He definitely knows I'm more than adequate; he was just trying to rile me up.
I save my files, shut down my computer, and gather my things. The office has emptied around me except for a few workaholics burning the midnight oil.
The elevator doors open, and I step inside, watching the numbers descend.
This weekend, I’ll attend the family reunion, smile through awkward small talk, endure Mom’s passive-aggressive comments about my career choices, and watch Trevor introduce his star best friend.
Then, next week, I’ll pretend I don’t know exactly what Daniel Williams looks like when he loses control.
4
Daniel
Trevor’s family reunion is the last place I want to be on a Saturday afternoon.
I pull into the Rodgers’ driveway at two fifteen, exactly fifteen minutes late. I'm not late enough to be rude, but to make a point. I have three investor calls waiting, a crisis brewing with the Larsson deal, and I'm yet to handle Cassidy’s latest media stunt.
But Trevor called in a favor, and I owe him more than I can ever repay.
The house is a modest two-story colonial in the suburbs. Even without Trevor going on about the countless times he had broken his teeth on the swing set in the backyard and the basketball hoop over the garage, you'd feel the pieces of his happy childhood all around the place. Unfortunately, it's not my world. Not even close.
I straighten my tie, already regretting the decision to wear a suit. Everyone else will wear jeans and polo shirts, and I’ll look like I’m attending a board meeting. But the armor always helps.
The front door opens before I can knock.
“Danny boy!” Trevor grins, pulling me into one of those back-slapping hugs that straight men do when they’re too emotionally repressed to hug properly. “Thought you’d bail.”
“Considered it.”
“Liar. Get in here.”
He drags me inside, past family photos cluttering every wall. Pictures of graduations, weddings, and Christmas cards spanning decades fly past me before I can make anything out of them.
The backyard is full of kids chasing each other and adults clustered around picnic tables with the thick smell of burgers on the grill in the humid air. Pop music drifts from a speaker.
“Beer?” Trevor offers.
“Please.”
He hands me a bottle from the cooler, condensation already beading on the glass. I take a long drink, scanning the crowd out of habit.
“Mom has been asking about you,” Trevor says, nodding toward a woman with graying hair and Trevor’s smile. “Just a warning, she’ll ask when you’re getting married.”
“I’ll tell her the same thing I tell the press. No comment.”
“Coward.”
“Realist.”
Trevor laughs, clapping my shoulder. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the family.”
We make the rounds between aunts, uncles, and cousins whose names I’ll forget in ten minutes. Everyone is friendly and curious about Trevor’s mysterious college friend who “made it big.” I smile, shake hands, and deflect personal questions.
Someone calls Trevor's name from across the yard. He excuses himself, leaving me with my beer and some lousy cousins. Making up some silly excuse, I drift toward the edge of the lawn, away from the conversation clusters. From here, I can see the whole gathering, the beautiful chaos of a real family enjoying each other.
Then a bright and overly familiar female laughter cuts through the noise and pulls my attention like a magnet.
