31. Lance #2
Marcus lets a beat pass, then his eyes move to me. “Lance, on the other hand, is holding back on something that could move him considerably further in his own field.” He says it lightly, the way he’d casually mention the weather. “If he ever stops sitting on it.”
I reach for the chips and say nothing.
Marcus clears his throat and leans forward.
“I was at a panel yesterday on integrated governance models in major health systems. Someone mentioned the pipeline problem in clinical leadership—how the people who best understand frontline care are almost never present in the rooms where decisions get made.”
He sets his glass down and looks at me. “It made me think about North Harbor Hospital in Seattle. Lance is one of their strongest candidates for the next leadership cohort. The role will carry meaningful influence on how a health system operates from within.”
The comfortable rhythm of the conversation dies.
George shifts beside me. His eyes lock on mine while I’m busy shredding a cocktail napkin.
“You applied to work in Seattle?” His voice is calm—too calm, but I catch the flicker underneath it.
I force down the sudden dryness in my throat. “Yeah…it was a while ago. I haven’t been actively pursuing it or anything.”
There’s a beat where I can feel him putting the full picture together. I would normally like how perceptive he is. Right now, it makes the back of my neck burn.
Brent chimes in smoothly, “I heard it’s a hell of an opportunity. First year mostly residential in Seattle, then a management pathway on the clinical governance side.”
Marcus nods. “Exactly. He’s already deferred twice. The matter can’t remain pending much longer.”
“When is it?” George asks him.
“Second week of December,” Marcus supplies.
George hasn’t looked at me since the word “Seattle” left someone’s mouth. I’m painfully aware of it.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, then finally turns to me. His voice is even, almost detached. “You should go. You’d be good at it.”
That seemed to be the full extent of his feelings on the subject of me potentially moving to Seattle for three years. A few flat words delivered with the same energy he used to tell me my brake fluid was low.
Brent spreads his hands. “You were always one of the sharper guys in the room. Even back when Marcus used to drag you to these things. Always thought it was a waste, you going into… health or whatever.”
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.
“I’m not going,” I repeat, flat and final. “I’d really appreciate it if you respect that.”
There’s a flicker across Marcus’s face. The steady control he’s held all evening fades. Beneath it, he looks just plain tired. His next words carry a different kind of caution.
“You really need to come home, Lance,” he sighs.
“Why?”
He holds my gaze and his voice stays steady with visible effort.
“Mom’s sick.”
The world comes to a halt.
“They discovered it eight weeks ago. She’s been with specialists. They’re moving forward with treatment, but it’s serious. She asked me not to say anything to you. Yet.” He pauses. “I couldn’t sit here and not tell you, now I know you’re choosing to stay.”
I hear myself ask it before I’ve decided to. “Is it the same one as Aunt Matilda?”
Marcus holds still, the gravity of the news brutal.
“Yes,” he answers, resignation settling into his voice.
I take in my brother’s face and the words hit me. I heard every single one of them, but I’m not entirely sure I’m on the other side of them yet.
Beside me, George remains silent. Maybe he remembers what happened to my favorite aunt from those long, random conversations about family years ago. But I don’t think he’s ever fully understood the weight I carry from that part of my life, or the choice I’ve made because of it.
His hand settles flat and warm between my shoulder blades. He says nothing. I’m grateful beyond what I can currently account for, that he’s standing right where he is.