34. George
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-sentence and 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.
“George,” she acknowledges. She already knows who I am. “He didn’t mention you were coming.”
“He doesn’t know.”
She studies me for a beat, then steps aside. “Second floor. End of the hall. He’s had a rough few weeks.”
“I know.”
She bows a little, then lets me in.
The inside is exactly what you’d expect from a family like this—wide hallways, dark wood, art on the walls. Luxury. A far cry from my place back home. My boots sound loud as fuck on the polished floors.
I leave the trolley at the bottom of the stairs and head up. I find the door at the end of the hall cracked open and hear his voice inside—low, tired, talking to someone on the phone about schedules, treatments or whatever shit he’s been carrying.
I knock once and push the door open. His room is bigger than my bedroom and living room combined.
High ceilings, tall windows looking out over a garden and the gray edge of the city.
Expensive furniture that doesn’t try too hard.
But it’s still him in here. Books stacked crooked on the nightstand, a couple of his hoodies thrown over a chair like he never learned how to hang shit up.
A photo of him and Eleanor on the dresser.
Lance is sitting in the middle of the bed, laptop open, phone to his ear. The second his eyes land on me his whole face changes. The sentence dies. He says something short into the phone and drops it on the mattress. He’s on his feet and crossing the room before I’ve even cleared the doorway.
“What the—George?” His voice cracks. “You’re here. You actually flew up here.”
“Hey.”
“Don’t just ‘hey’ me, you asshole.” He gets both hands fisted in my flannel and pulls me in.
His mouth crashes into mine like he’s been waiting four weeks to do exactly this.
I wrap my arms around him and drag him closer.
For a long minute, the rest of the world can fuck off.
He tastes like coffee and relief, and I realize how bad I’ve been missing this exact thing.
“You flew here,” he says it like he can’t believe it.
“Couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Couldn’t take what—”
“You not being there.” I pull back just enough to look at him. He looks tired—shadows under his eyes, shoulders too tight.
“Yeah.” He shakes his head once. “I was getting pretty fucking tired of doing this without you around.”
We don’t make it much further than the door for a while.
That evening, Eleanor descends downstairs for a few minutes before she retires.
She moves carefully, Patrice close but not hovering. She glides into the sitting room and finds me standing there. She doesn’t look all too bothered a strange man is in her house.
Then she holds out her hand.
I shake it. Her grip is light but steady.
“George.”
“Mrs. Bradford.”
She reads my eyes. Then she turns towards Lance, who’s leaning in the doorway watching us both like he’s waiting for a verdict.
“He’s quiet,” she says to Lance.
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said about one of my friends in years,” Lance says, deadpan. “I’m touched. Really.”
“Good.”
She pats my hand once, fingers light over my knuckles, and then she and Patrice move toward the stairs.
Lance peels himself off the doorframe before he drops onto the couch beside me, his shoulder against mine. “She likes you.”
“She barely said anything.”
“That’s how she likes people. If she didn’t, you’d know.”
“How?”
“She’d have asked you a lot of very polite questions as if you’re being interviewed for a job you didn’t apply for. Those are worse than the silence. Trust me.”
“What was she looking for?” I ask.
Lance is quiet for a moment. His face flushes slightly.
“Probably trying to figure out what took me so long to introduce someone to her,” he says.