33. Lance
Lance
Two weeks in Seattle, and I hope I can stick to the return date already pinned down. I’ve had to push my flight back more than once now.
Mom hit a rough patch after her most recent round of chemo when I was supposed to go back to San Diego that first time. The reaction was so much worse than expected, that it kept her in bed for three straight days. I extended my leave to be around her.
It’s not that she doesn’t have help—she does. Between the private nurses, oncology team, and Marcus, she’s covered.
But treatment decisions have been coming fast lately, and somebody has to be around asking questions when the doctors start speaking fluent oncology.
Dr. Lee walked us through the latest scans a few days ago.
The good news is the chemotherapy is doing what it’s supposed to do.
The primary tumor has responded well, and there are signs the treatment is buying them the surgical window they were hoping for.
If that continues, surgery is still on the table.
Nobody’s promising a number of months or years, but for the first time in a while, every conversation isn’t centered around worst-case scenarios.
We’re finally talking about next steps instead of backup plans.
Hearthside work took longer too.
Once the board realized I wasn’t just visiting, they started pulling me into meetings.
Most of the problems Grant showed me on day one turned out to be exactly what I suspected—less “everything is on fire” and more “nobody’s been allowed near the extinguisher in six months.”
It’s good that people here actually give a shit.
The staff cares. The board cares. Nobody’s asleep at the wheel. They just need somebody to untangle the mess long enough to figure out what needs fixing first. So, that’s what I’ve been doing.
Building timelines. Prioritizing what gets fixed first. Reworking grant outreach.
Cleaning up reporting processes. Looking at staffing projections six months out instead of six days.
The work itself isn’t complicated, but it requires somebody to be around long enough to connect all the moving pieces.
More importantly, it should keep working after I’m gone.
By the end of the second week, the board still asks me to meet one last time before I go.
I sit at the end of a conference table with seven people who knew my aunt in varying degrees, all of them looking at me with some sort of gratitude and scrutiny. It’s like when help arrives at exactly the right moment, and they’re trying to figure out whether it’s temporary.
At the end of the meeting, Constance, the board chair and one of the few people still here from the day my aunt founded Hearthside Home, folds her hands on the table.
“We’d like to formalize your involvement,” she states. “In whatever capacity makes sense.”
The offer catches me off guard. I thank them, but I respectfully decline. I tell them my mother is in treatment, that I’ll come back when I can. They’re welcome to call if they need another set of eyes on something.
They nod and try very hard not to look disappointed. I try very hard not to feel guilty about it, but nobody’s moving to Seattle.
I drive back to the house after the meeting, the city lights blurring past my window as the weight of the day settles in my chest. Mom’s already had her early dinner with the nurse when I get there, so I sit with her for a bit, making sure she’s comfortable before heading up to my room.
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 can finish.
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.
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.”