He says the word “health” like it’s sour.
“It wasn’t a waste,” I defend, the pleasantness gone from my voice. “It’s what I’m fucking good at and what I want to do.”
“Sure, sure.” Brent waves a hand like he’s indulging me. “I’m just saying, you used to run with a different crowd. People who made sense for you.”
His gaze drifts to George and lingers.
“Seattle would be good for you. I mean, come on, Lance. You can’t seriously tell me this is where you pictured yourself ending up. No offense.”
The words land like a slap. Heat rushes up the back of my neck. My jaw tightens so hard it aches.
George doesn’t react. His face stays completely neutral, glass back on the table, one hand resting flat beside it. He stares into the middle distance like he’s already decided none of this room matters. He’s already halfway out the door in his head. Most people would miss it. I don’t. He’s enduring this. For me.
“Offense taken,” I say, looking straight at Brent. “I can see and hear what you mean, dude. My friend here built a business from nothing after coming back from the Navy. You heard what he does. You, on the other hand, spend an awful lot of time talking about who belongs where for a man who’s never had to earn his place anywhere. Your greatest professional achievement is still being born into the correct zip code. So, yeah. That’s the crowd I roll with now.”
The table falls silent.
Under the table, George’s hand finds my knee. He squeezes once, firm and almost too tight, then lets go.
It should have grounded me. It didn’t. Something in me had already tipped too far.
I push my chair back.
“Nice catching up with you all,” I say, looking around the table once, just long enough to make sure it lands. “May I never see you again.”
The reactions are immediate—confusion, discomfort, the slow realization that this isn’t the version of me they expected.
Brent sets his drink down like he’s trying to reset the moment.
“Hey, man,” he says, a little too quickly. “Meant no disrespect. I apologize.”
I don’t bother acknowledging it.
George is already standing too, falling into step beside me without a word.
We turn and leave the table.
Marcus follows a second later. We reach George’s truck.
“Lance, wait—”
I can’t take it anymore.
“I’m not going,” I say, loud enough for both of them.
George says nothing, probably expecting it. Marcus is clearly ready for this answer, watching what I’ll do next.
“Lance.” His voice is measured and precise. “You would be exceptionally good at this work. The people moving through those systems would be better served because of it.”
“It really doesn’t matter, Marcus. I’ve already thought it through, and I’m not going.”
“Help me understand what’s keeping you here.” He prods without looking at George.
Marcus isn’t careless. He’s never been careless with words or timing in his entire goddamn life. But right now, I’m seriously questioning his judgment, because dropping this in front of George—the guy I still haven’t had this conversation with—feels like a special kind of ambush.
I’m painfully aware of George standing just a foot to my left, completely silent. The same man who just told me I should move to Seattle like he was commenting on the weather and then went right back to his drink.
I hold my words in check on that one.
