Chapter Nineteen
Julien
I was late.
Seventeen minutes late, to be precise.
Seventeen minutes.
The old Julien, the one who existed before Las Vegas, before Athena, before I spent an entire night having sex with my wife until we were both delirious with exhaustion, would have been having a panic attack.
The new Julien? Well, the new Julien woke up with Athena’s head on his chest, her leg thrown over his, her hand resting directly over his heart, and spent twenty minutes just watching her sleep, cataloging the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the slight smile on her lips even in sleep, the absolute peace on her face.
Then I made love to her one more time. It was slow, lazy, and perfect, and afterward, my beautiful wife convinced me to shower with her, which had led to another round against the tile wall, which had led to the both of us laughing breathlessly while the water went cold.
Also, I had actually eaten breakfast. At the table. With another person. Then I kissed my wife goodbye at the door and meant it when I said I would see her tonight.
So yes. I was seventeen minutes late.
And I genuinely didn’t care.
The universe really does have a sense of humor.
I pushed open the conference room door and was met with silence.
Complete, absolute silence as six faces turned toward me with identical expressions of shock, as if I’d just walked in wearing a clown costume and juggling scalpels.
Fitz’s coffee cup was frozen halfway to his mouth.
Hayden’s pen had stopped mid-word.
Nathan’s mouth was literally hanging open.
Gabriel had both hands flat on the table as if he were bracing for an earthquake.
Quinton’s eyes were wide behind his glasses.
And Winnie looked as if she were watching the season finale of her favorite show.
“Good morning, everybody,” I happily greeted, closing the door behind me.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
I walked to my usual seat at the head of the table, pulled out the chair, and sat down.
Still nothing.
“Shall we begin?” I asked.
Fitz made a sound like a dying walrus.
“Julien,” Hayden said, his voice very slow, very careful, like he was talking to a jumper on a ledge. “Are you... feeling alright?”
“Perfectly fine. Why?”
“You’re late.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re seventeen minutes late,” Nathan said, his voice climbing into dolphin territory. “To a meeting you insisted we needed. The meeting where you once made me write ‘I will not be tardy’ fifty times because I was three minutes late.”
“I did that?”
“YES!”
“Seems harsh,” I muttered.
“SEEMS HARSH?” Nathan’s voice cracked. “You made me use a fountain pen! You said it would ‘build character’!”
“Did it work?”
“NO!”
Gabriel was staring at me as if I’d grown a second head. “Who are you and what have you done with Julien?”
“I’m right here.”
“No.” Fitz set down his coffee cup very carefully, as if it might explode. “No, you’re not. Because Julien Darcy doesn’t show up late. Julien Darcy doesn’t—”
He stopped.
His eyes went wide.
His mouth fell open.
“What are you wearing?” he whispered.
I glanced down at myself.
Comfortable slate-gray slacks. A green Henley that Athena had pulled out of my closet this morning and declared that it “brought out my eyes,” along with white sneakers that I bought two years ago for a charity 5K and never worn again.
No tie. No jacket. No pristinely starched shirt.
“Clothes,” I said.
Fitz spit his coffee across the table.
Directly onto Nathan’s notes. A perfect arc of liquid projectile that would have made a ballistics expert proud.
“FITZ!” Nathan jumped up, grabbing his papers. “These are patient files!”
“HE’S WEARING SNEAKERS!” Fitz shouted, pointing at me with his dripping coffee cup. “JULIEN DARCY IS WEARING SNEAKERS!”
“They’re quite comfortable,” I said mildly.
“Comfortable,” Fitz repeated, his voice strangled. “He said comfortable. Did everyone hear that? He used the word comfortable in relation to his clothing choices.”
“I heard it,” Gabriel said faintly.
“I’m documenting it,” Hayden added, actually writing it down.
“And a Henley,” Nathan said, still staring. “Is that... is that a Henley?”
“It is.”
“Not a button-down Oxford?”
“No.”
“Not even a polo?”
“Correct.”
“A Henley,” Gabriel repeated. “Like... like a graduate student. Or a person who enjoys comfort.”
“Both accurate descriptions.”
Fitz was shaking his head slowly. “Next you’ll tell us you’re wearing jeans.”
“These are slacks.”
“But you considered jeans, didn’t you?”
“Briefly.”
“brIEFLY!” Fitz clutched his chest. “He considered jeans! Someone call cardiology. I’m having a heart attack!”
“You’re not having a heart attack,” Hayden said.
“I’m having something! A stroke? An aneurysm? A complete psychotic break?”
“You’re having a dramatic reaction,” I said.
“BECAUSE YOU’RE WEARING SNEAKERS!”
Nathan was circling me like a shark. “What brand are they?”
“Does it matter?”
“YES! Are they at least expensive sneakers? Limited edition? Handcrafted Italian leather?”
“They’re New Balance.”
Nathan sat down heavily. “New Balance. He’s wearing New Balance.”
“The dad shoe,” Gabriel whispered.
“The ultimate dad shoe,” Fitz agreed.
“I’m not a dad.”
“You’re wearing the shoes of a man who’s given up!” Nathan said. “The shoes of a man who prioritizes arch support over aesthetics!”
“They have excellent arch support.”
Fitz made the dying walrus sound again.
Hayden was studying me with the clinical precision of a man who’d spent forty years diagnosing the impossible. “Julien. I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and I need you to answer honestly.”
“Of course.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“No.”
“Are you on any medications?”
“No.”
“Have you been replaced by a pod person? Recreational drugs?”
“No, and not to my knowledge.”
“Are you having a stroke right now?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Can you smile for me?”
I smiled.
Everyone gasped.
“Both sides of his face moved!” Nathan yelped.
“It’s symmetrical!” Gabriel added.
“Not a stroke,” Hayden confirmed, looking genuinely disappointed.
“Then what,” Fitz said, his voice climbing, “is happening right now?”
I leaned back in my chair—another thing the old Julien would never have done; I usually sat with perfect posture, spine straight, feet flat on the floor—and smiled wider.
“I had a good weekend.”
Silence.
“A good weekend,” Nathan repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
“That’s it? That’s your explanation for”—he gestured wildly at all of me—“this?”
“HAPPY!” Fitz shouted, pointing at my face. “You look happy! It’s unnatural!”
“I am happy.”
More silence.
“But you’re never happy!” Gabriel said. “You’re competent! Precise! Professionally satisfied! But not happy!”
“I am now.”
“Why?” Nathan demanded. “What happened?”
“I stopped fighting.”
“Fighting what?”
“Everything.”
Quinton was watching me with a small smile, his fingers drumming on the table.
Winnie was definitely suppressing laughter now.
“Right,” Fitz said, setting down his coffee cup as if it might explode. “The weekend. With your wife. Your wife, who showed up here and talked for forty-five minutes about chakras and—”
“Athena,” I said, and even I could hear the warmth in my voice.
Everyone’s eyes widened.
“He said her name like a human person,” Nathan whispered.
“With affection,” Gabriel added.
“I’m scared,” Fitz said.
“How is that... situation... progressing?” Hayden asked carefully.
“Quite well, actually.”
“Quite well,” Fitz repeated.
“Yes.”
“Define ‘quite well.’”
“We’re very happy together.”
“Happy,” Nathan said. “He keeps using that word.”
“I don’t think it means what he thinks it means,” Gabriel muttered.
“It means exactly what I think it means.”
“Does it, though?” Fitz leaned forward. “Because the Julien we know doesn’t do ‘happy.’ The Julien we know does ‘satisfied with optimal outcomes’ and ‘pleased with surgical precision’ and—”
“That Julien was miserable.”
“WHAT?” they all said in unison.
“I was miserable,” I repeated calmly. “I just didn’t know it.”
Hayden pulled out his phone. “I’m calling neurology.”
“I haven’t had a stroke.”
“Tumor?” Nathan suggested.
“No tumor.”
“Possession?” Fitz tried.
“Not possessed.”
“Then explain,” Gabriel said, “how you went from panic attacks about staplers to showing up late in sneakers, claiming you were miserable your entire adult life.”
“I met Athena.”
“We know you met Athena,” Fitz said. “We were there when she showed up and talked about your ‘divine masculine energy’ for forty-five minutes while you looked like you wanted to die.”
“That was last week.”
“It was six days ago!”
“A lot can change in six days.”
“Not this much!” Nathan gestured at me. “This is a complete personality transplant!”
“I’m still me.”
“Are you, though?” Fitz squinted. “Say something only Julien would say.”
I considered this. “The proper organization of surgical instruments is essential for optimal patient outcomes.”
“Okay, that’s Julien.”
“But I don’t care if someone moves my stapler anymore.”
“NOT JULIEN!” they all shouted.
“I’m evolving.”
“You’re devolving,” Nathan corrected. “Into a person who wears sneakers and shows up late and doesn’t care about staplers!”
“The stapler thing was excessive.”
“IT WAS YOUR DEFINING CHARACTERISTIC!”
“I had a panic attack about office supplies,” I said. “That’s not a defining characteristic. That’s a cry for help.”
Winnie snorted, then tried to cover it with a cough.
“So what happened this weekend?” Hayden asked, his voice gentle now. “What changed?”
I considered how much to share. I considered that these people were my friends, not just my colleagues. I considered that they had been betting on my marriage and clearly cared about the outcome. “We had dinner with both sets of parents on Saturday,” I said.
“Oh God,” Nathan muttered.
“My parents were their usual judgmental selves,” I said. “They made several condescending comments about Athena’s parents.”
“Oh no,” Winnie said softly.
“Oh yes. My mother used the phrase ‘legitimate career path.’”
Gabriel winced. “Ouch.”
“It was.” I paused. “Until Athena’s father revealed he’s Woodlawn Malpas.”
Silence.
“Malpas,” Hayden said slowly. “As in—”
“Malpas Shipping. Yes.”
“The Greek shipping company.”
“Correct.”
“The one that operates in—”