Tomorrow can’t come fast enough. The second I land in San Diego, I’m going straight to him. No detours, no excuses. I need to see his face, need to fix whatever this distance is between us.
“I miss you too, dumbass.” I whisper to the empty room. “Fuck, I miss you.”
34
George
A month.
Lance has been in Seattle for a fucking month now, and somewhere around the third week I stopped keeping track of the exact reasons why, because there’s always a new one. His mother’s scans showing something that needed a second look. Hearthside’s board calling another meeting he couldn’t skip without leaving half of what he built unfinished. Every time it sounds like things are about to settle, something else needs him there for another few days.
I stopped asking when he’s coming home. His mother has cancer. That’s not a timeline anybody gets to negotiate.
Lance also had to extend his leave at the hospital twice now. He even mentioned he might end up resigning instead of dragging it out much longer. He thinks it’s getting unfair to other staff covering his shifts.
We talk every night. Video most nights, voice on the ones where he’s stuck at the house and doesn’t want to risk waking Eleanor with the sound of his own laugh carrying down the hall. Some nights it gets late enough that neither of us hangs up. The calls just runs quiet in the background, his face half-lit on the screen propped against a pillow, until one of us drifts off mid-sentenceand wakes up hours later to find the other one still there, four hundred miles apart, still connected by a thin little line on a screen neither of us has the sense to close.
It’s not enough. It’s also more than I ever thought I’d need from anybody.
ProMotive’s been sniffing around other businesses near me too, talking bigger parcels, and I’ve had to sit through a couple community meetings to see where people stand on the whole buyout mess. Carter hasn’t said anything about leaving yet. That storm’s still coming, but for now the days are steady. I started taking fewer of the bigger jobs without really deciding to, handing more off to the guys, blocking out time I haven’t blocked out in four years. Told myself it was smart scheduling. Didn’t look too hard at why.
Trevor’s the one who finally got tired of listening to me pretend everything was normal.
“Why don’t you just go?”
We were sitting outside his place after work.
“Go where?”
“Seattle.”
I looked at him. He looked right back.
“Mate,” he said. “You’re calling me way too much.”
“Fuck off.”
He ignored that. “You miss him.”
I stared at him long enough that most people would’ve backed off. Trevor isn’t most people.
“We don’t know what kind of trouble our friend is getting himself into up there,” he reasoned out. “Somebody should supervise.”
That part, unfortunately, made sense.
I booked the flight the next morning.
Four days. Check on Lance. Check on his mom. Make sure he hasn’t volunteered himself for three extra jobs and forgotten how to sleep.
Then come home. Simple enough.
The closer the plane got to Seattle, the harder it became to convince myself that’s all this trip was.
I’ve got one backpack and a single rolling trolley. I packed like a dumbass who didn’t want to admit he was hoping to stay longer, even though some part of me had already thrown in extra clothes just in case.
The house hits me the second the gate opens. Big stone place, three stories of pale grey and black trim, ironwork everywhere like they’re trying to keep the world out. Security cameras at the gate and by the front door. Feels like walking into a place where people have real power and money.
Patrice meets me at the door. I remember Lance mentioning her. She looks me up and down—blue flannel shirt, worn jeans, boots that have seen better days—and her expression doesn’t change. I can already tell she’s silently judging me though. Probably would’ve done the same in this kind of place.
