Once I’m alone, I pull out my laptop instead of getting ready for bed. George mentioned the ProMotive letters again on our last call—offhand, like it wasn’t eating him alive, which is exactly how I know it is. I’ve had my old friend Oscar’s name sitting in my contacts for two days now. I finally text him, just a few questions about veteran business coalitions, fundraising timelines for situations like this, whether any of it moves fast enough to matter.
That’s when I see George’s missed calls—three of them, spaced close together. My stomach drops. I hit call immediately, heart hammering as it rings.
He finally picks up.
“G? Hey, sorry—I was in a meeting and forgot to turn my phone back on after. What’s going on? You okay?”
There’s a long pause on his end. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
His voice is too flat. Too careful. I know that tone.
“Bullshit. Talk to me.”
Another beat of silence, then he exhales.
“Kid got hurt during one of the sessions.” His words are clipped. “We were working on an engine teardown. Nothing major, just bad timing. Hand slipped, caught a sharp edge. Needed stitches.”
Of course he’s blaming himself.
Kid could trip over his own shoelaces in the parking lot and George would somehow find a way to make it his fault.
“George,” I say consolingly. “That sucks, but it wasn’t on you. He’s gonna be okay, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then stop trying to personally absorb responsibility for every bad thing that happens within a fifty-foot radius.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Seriously. People trust you for a reason, G. You’re good at this.”
I try to keep my tone light, teasing a little like I always do when he gets in his head, but my own anxiety is bleeding through. I want to reach through the phone and pull him out of it. Want to tell him I’m coming back tomorrow and we’ll figure everything out in person.
He makes a noncommittal noise. “Yeah. Maybe.”
The silence stretches. I hate how distant he sounds, how closed off he is. I don’t push it. Some days you can talk someone out of their own head, and some days the only thing that works is just staying on the line until they’re ready to come back to you on their own.
“I’m coming home tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll come straight from the airport.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m doing it anyway.”
Another pause, longer this time, but it feels a little less than a wall.
“Okay,” he gives in finally. “I’m just tired. Long day. I’ll be better once you’re back.”
“Can’t wait to see you.”
George stays silent on the line, just dead air that makes my skin crawl. I’d give up anything for a grunt right now.
“Gotta go. Late night paperwork.”
“George, wait—”
The line clicks dead before I canfinish.
I stare at the phone in my hand, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen. Cold and heavy disappointment crashes through me. This doesn’t happen with us. When one of us needs the other, we’re there—no questions. We drop everything and show up. We always have.
