Chapter Five
Sam lay on his bed after work on Thursday, scrolling aimlessly through social media on his phone.
He’d been given a lot of the same advice: Disconnect to reconnect.
Life isn’t a post; it’s a journey. But it drew him in like a drug.
He tapped on images of his contemporaries at product launches or sipping champagne on a client’s yacht and zoomed in on their wide smiles and designer bags.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already lived it—albeit riddled with imposter syndrome the entire time.
Strange how the things he’d idealized had turned out to be so bad for him.
Flopping onto his stomach, he looked up at the boxes of sequins. His mother had organized them in darkening shades, stacking each incrementally lighter hue above the other. Maybe perfectionism ran in the family.
In his hand, his phone buzzed. It was an email from a coworker at his old job.
The two of them had gotten on all right when he worked there.
She was equally driven, and they’d stoked each other’s ambition.
She’d been the one to bail him out when he failed to show up for his big presentation.
She took his deck and ran with the idea, and he heard afterward she’d killed it.
The client loved the pitch. Needless to say, Sam’s boss had decided he wasn’t ready for the account.
Which didn’t matter in the end because a couple of weeks later, Sam no longer had a job.
He clicked on the icon to open the email.
Hope you’re well. Thought you’d like an update.
Beneath the string of x’s and o’s was a link.
Despite his better judgment, he clicked on it, and it led to an article—in Vogue of all places—about the brand collaboration he’d conceived several months back.
Except he wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the piece.
But she was. There was a photo of her with the creative director, and midway through the article, they’d included a quote from her about how excited she was to spearhead the partnership.
Sam dropped his phone onto the bed. His heart slammed in his chest. “Fuck... fuck...” he muttered, pressing his fingers to his temples. He felt the tightness returning, his lungs contracting. He needed to get out of this sad little room. He needed a drink, something to dull the edge.
Grabbing his jacket downstairs, he made an excuse to his mom about heading out for some fresh air.
She eyed him with suspicion but said nothing.
Since his return, they’d engaged in an unspoken tug-of-war, he pushing back against a level of vigilance he hadn’t experienced since being a kid and she pretending her overbearing concern was perfectly normal.
It was a ten-minute walk to the only decent place in town that served alcohol at this hour, Thistle Inn. He stepped inside and saw that the bar was packed with people wearing themed shirts and holding elaborate props. That was when he remembered Brian and Thursday-night trivia.
“Samuel!” Across the room, Brian was sitting with a couple in matching black T-shirts and waving him over.
Sam wound his way through the groups of contestants, passing a team dressed as Vikings before he reached Brian’s table. He was now close enough to read the text on his friend’s T-shirt: The Wise Guys.
“It’s our team name,” Brian said with a grin. “Glad you could make it. Wasn’t sure when I didn’t hear back.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Sam took a seat, chastened. He’d gotten Brian’s text and meant to craft a plausible excuse, but the effort of composing it had proven too much.
“This is Marcus and Evie,” Brian said. Evie gave him a wave, and Marcus leaned over to shake his hand.
“And here comes Finnis with the brain juice.”
Sam glanced up to see Connor approaching in an identical Wise Guys T-shirt, with a pitcher of beer and a stack of empty glasses in hand. Surprise registered on his face.
“Well, this is unexpected,” Connor remarked. “Lucky I brought extra glasses.”
Brian wrestled the pitcher from Connor and began pouring beer for the team. “Sam, you remember Finnis from school?”
“It’s Connor, if we’re being adult about it,” Sam quipped, alarmed by his own audacity.
Connor laughed. “Right, Spielman. We’re not sixteen anymore.”
Brian cocked an eyebrow. “That’s for sure. I was scared shitless of the sixteen-year-old you. Keeper of switch knives, destroyer of woodsheds.”
Sam frowned, not sure he got the reference.
“All right, all right.” Connor cleared his throat. “Sam’s actually giving me a hand with the business, getting on top of all the paperwork I’ve neglected. He’s been a real help.”
Sam was just answering phone calls and loading jobs into the system. But as he’d done with his father, Connor seemed intent on talking Sam up.
“Oh, cool.” Brian was distracted by the MC, who’d walked up to the front of the bar and was tapping the head of his handheld microphone. “Okay, shush. We’re rolling.”
The MC began reading out the rules of the game, and Sam took a long pull from his beer, only half listening. He realized that in the bustle of chance meetings and friendly introductions, his hammering heart had slowed.
“It’s got to be The Jeffersons,” Marcus declared.
“Wasn’t the husband in I Love Lucy Cuban?” Brian asked, tapping the tip of the pen against their answer sheet.
“Did they even kiss, though? That show was vanilla as fuck,” Evie shot back.
Connor glanced at Sam, who was sitting across from him, eyes narrowed in concentration, and felt strangely self-conscious.
He looked forward to trivia. It stoked his competitive streak and was one of the few things he was good at, but he didn’t know how that might come across to someone as accomplished as Sam.
The MC raised his mic. “One last time before we move on to the next round. Which show is widely credited as featuring the first interracial kiss on American network television?”
Connor leaned forward so that the table could hear him above the excited chatter of the other teams. “It’s Star Trek: The Original Series.”
Brian smacked a palm against his forehead. “That’s it! Finnis for the win!”
“Didn’t pick you for a Trekkie,” Sam said as Brian jotted down their answer.
Connor shrugged and downed the rest of his beer. “I’m full of surprises.”
Sam snickered. It had taken two beers, but he was finally loosening up.
When Connor had first spotted him sitting at the table next to Brian, he’d looked like a deer caught in headlights.
Sam was also outrageously bad at trivia.
He thought the capital of Turkey was Istanbul, which had prompted the rest of the team to launch into a raucous rendition of “Istanbul (Not Constantinople).”
Connor was having trouble hiding how pleased he was to see Sam outside of work.
Sam looked far more casual in a sweater and jeans, his hair ruffled and falling across his forehead instead of artfully styled.
Despite the simple nature of the job, Connor had noticed Sam took particular care with his appearance.
He arrived at the office in pressed shirts and tapered slacks that accentuated his slight frame.
“All right, pass your answer sheets to the front and take five before we get started on our final round: What’s that sound?” the MC drawled.
There was a chorus of groans from their table. They always did the worst on this one.
“I’m getting more beer before the bloodbath,” Evie announced.
As she jostled through the throng of people to the bar, Marcus turned to Sam. “So, Brian says you’re back from Austin. What’s it like? Heard it’s a fun city.”
“Pretty much what you’d expect. Everyone’s hustling—it can be a bit cutthroat.” Sam gave a constricted laugh. “But it’s nice, decent weather. There’s always something going on—festivals, premieres, that sort of thing.”
“Give me zero traffic and a rock-bottom mortgage any day,” Marcus said.
“I know, right?” Brian said. “I can see why you moved back. Sounds intense.”
As though hoping for the discussion to end, Sam glanced toward the front of the room, where the MC was preparing for the next round.
“Come on, there’s no comparing Oakdale to Austin,” Connor said, feeling the need to nudge the conversation away from Sam.
“Then why don’t you move there, big shot?” Brian countered. He was joking, but it rankled, unseating all of Connor’s familiar insecurities.
“I’ve got a business to run. What’s your excuse?”
Brian held up his left hand to reveal the gold band on his ring finger. “I’m tied down. Family man, househusband. There’s no more hope for me.”
“I’m sure The Real Housewives would be open to featuring their first male star, gender equality and all,” Marcus offered.
“Too bad my wife isn’t rich enough to bankroll me,” Brian said as Evie returned and began refilling their glasses.
“I think it’s crazy you guys all grew up here,” Marcus mused while they waited for the final round to get underway. “Must feel like being stuck in a time machine.”
Connor took a sip of beer. Marcus and Evie had moved from Lincoln in search of small-town vibes. Small towns always seemed to appeal to those who hadn’t spent their entire lives in one.
“I don’t know. Despite the clichés, you don’t have to move away to change. I think we’re all pretty accepting of the fact that we’re not the same people we were growing up,” Brian said matter-of-factly. “Look how our resident troublemaker straightened out.”
“I’m sensing a theme this evening,” Connor retorted.
Across from him, Sam had gone quiet. Pushing back his beer, the man stood. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“Hurry back. We’re about to start!” Brian called as Sam disappeared down the corridor past the kitchen. “Sam’ll be great with film scores and SFX stuff. He’s a big movie buff. Or at least he was back in the day.”
The MC returned to the front of the bar, and Connor watched a ring of condensation form at the base of Sam’s glass. He turned to Brian. “Oakdale’s not as accepting as you make it out to be,” he said quietly. “Not for everyone.”
“Aaand we’re back!” the MC exclaimed. “Put on those listening ears for our final round of the night!”