The business had grown—acquired competitors, added rows of
personal storage units out back with corrugated doors in faded reds and
blues—but its heart was still the warehouse: pallets, inventory, freight in and
freight out for smaller companies that couldn’t handle storage, tracking, or
shipping themselves.
John parked his truck beside Darrell’s familiar tan sedan,
its paint oxidized and chalky from years in the sun. The lot smelled faintly of
diesel and hot rubber. Somewhere inside, a forklift beeped in steady reverse.
No matter how big the business grew, it still ran like a
family—full of bickering, grudges, and quiet favoritism—and John had always
believed the fighting would work itself out.
The moment he pushed through the heavy metal door, the usual
rhythm—phones ringing, printers churning, the distant thud of pallets—felt
wrong.
As he moved down the narrow hallway toward his office, the
voices hit him—raised, sharp, unmistakable—spilling out from Jeremy’s office.
“Payroll! And! Schedules! Payroll! And! Schedules! That is
your job! Don’t come to me about anything else!”
The words cracked through the air.
A door slammed hard enough to rattle the cheap motivational posters curling at the corners.
Darlene from HR came out fast, eyes glassy and mascara just
beginning to smudge, nearly colliding with him as her heels skidded on the worn
industrial tile.
“Hey—hey, Darlene, what’s going on?”
“John—” she snapped, shoving past him. “I have payroll and
schedules to do. No time to chat about whatever you are up to.”
She said you like it tasted bad.
He turned, watching her go—her back rigid, heels striking
the floor in sharp, angry clicks that echoed down the hall.
John stood there for too long, then turned away from
his office and pushed open his business partner’s door.
Inside, the air felt close, stale with coffee and stress.
Faux wood-paneled walls boxed the room in, cluttered with leaning stacks of
paper, open folders, sticky notes layered over one another like scales. A desk
fan whirred in the corner, pushing warm air around.
“What the fuck was that about?” John asked.
The man behind the desk didn’t look like the Jeremy he knew.
Jeremy’s shirt was damp at the collar, his sleeves rolled
uneven, his hair sticking up in back. He looked tired, unfocused. Maybe defeated.
He gestured weakly to the chair across from him—the leather
still creased and warm from Darlene.
“I don’t care about your personal life. Never have,” Jeremy
said, voice rough. “You’re a felon, but you’re the hardest-working, best
businessman I know. Fuck… no asshole can make money like you. That’s why this
pisses me off. You know I expect better.”
For a second, a smile broke through—quick, familiar. Then it
was gone.
“But this business isn’t just you.” He leaned forward,
forearms on the desk. “My family depends on this. So do theirs.” He nodded
toward the warehouse. “I keep finding myself in the position of explaining you
to people.”
A small pause.
“I don’t like doing that.”
John exhaled slowly, settling into the chair.
“Look—I love you, Kaitlyn, the boys. You know that. So just
be straight with me… is this about her?”
Jeremy let out a humorless laugh.
“Well, yeah. You think you can date the DommyMommy and no
one’s going to notice?”
“We’re not public about our relationship,” John said evenly.
“I don’t take part in her business.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t sit there and insult my intelligence.”
Jeremy pointed at him, sharper now. “I read the book. Anyone who knows
you—really knows you—knows it’s you. And you know that. So don’t pretend
otherwise.”
John didn’t answer right away.
“Would it help if I became a silent partner?” he said
finally. “Or if I got rid of her?”
That broke it.
Jeremy leaned back and barked out a laugh that filled the
room, echoing off the paneled walls.
“Jesus Christ, John. I’m not asking you to kill the woman,”
he said, still laughing. “Hell, I don’t even want you to break up with her.”
When the laughter faded, he leaned forward again.
“I just need something I can point to. Something that makes
this go away. Or at least quiets it.”
John nodded once.
“I’ll come up with something. I will. You know I will.”
“I know.” Jeremy reached into a pile and pulled out a
wrinkled sheet of paper. “Hey—can you grab some stuff for the meeting this
afternoon? Sandwich trays, drinks, whatever’s on there. Darlene ‘doesn’t have
time.’”
“Might win you a few brownie points,” Jeremy added, like he
didn’t quite believe it.
John took the paper, glanced at the list.
“Of course.”
He folded it once, stood, and tucked it into his back pocket.
“And I’ll find a solution.”
Before he could even leave the office, his phone vibrated in
his pocket.
Marvin.
The eighth ignored call today.
John didn’t need to check the screen. Either it would say Call
me back, or worse, just Marvin’s name—steady and patient, like he’d be
there whenever John decided to stop lying.
He wasn’t going to call back anytime soon. Some things were
too hard to hide from a sponsor who had known him drunk and sober, boy and man.
He sat down at his desk and caught the smell immediately.
Grimacing, he tossed a half-eaten sandwich, its bread gone yellow with mold,
into the trash.
His hand moved automatically to the bottom-right drawer.
He stopped.
Looked at the office door.
Locked.
He pulled the drawer open and took out the bottle.
It was one of many now, not hidden so much as distributed:
desk, truck, garage.
He twisted the cap off.
The first bottle had been different.
The first had been bought with the same strange amnesia
reserved for long drives—when you arrive and don’t remember the road. A lunch
break like any other. Errands. Bread. Something for dinner. Dessert.
He had walked past the liquor aisle countless times without
a second thought.
There had been no reason to think that one day his
hand—without asking him—would take a bottle of vodka and set it in the cart
beside a baguette and a pie like it belonged there.
Just a sip became a sip an hour.
And now—today—he knew he wouldn’t make it to the end of the
workday without another bottle.
He leaned back in the chair, the bottle smooth in his hand
and Darlene's list in the other.
Just get the stuff for Darlene. Get the booze. One trip.
Efficient.
The phone on his desk rang, and he quickly—noisily—fumbled
the bottle back into the drawer.
“Yes?”
“John, why is Marvin calling me, concerned about you?”
Jasmine asked, her voice sharp with worry.
“I’m just busy, Jazz. Really busy. The storage units, the
new acquisition—”
“Yeah, but you can answer and say I’m busy. He’s
worried sick, like you’re dead or drunk.”
John began tearing at a water-warped sticky note, shredding
it into thin strips between his fingers. “He gets like that. I’ll call him
back.”
“John…” Her voice softened. “I’m worried about you too.”
“Yeah, well, you’re plenty busy,” he shot back. “Don’t you
have a business manager to meet with?”
She sighed heavily into the receiver.
“John, I’m not having this conversation again. This isn’t
the 1940s, and I’m not doing full ‘anonymity at the level of press and film,’”
she quoted AA with clipped precision. “This is a social media world—with brand
deals and business managers.”
“I know. I know.” He rubbed his forehead, eyes drifting back
to the drawer. “It’s going to be late tonight. We’ve got that employee meeting.
I’ve got to pick stuff up for it.”
“John… maybe hit a meeting too? The AA kind? You sound off.
On edge.”
He rolled his eyes, his hand hovering near the drawer again.
“I’ve got to get going.”
“I love you.” She said it like a reminder, like a habit she
was trying to keep intact.
“Love you too.”
The line went dead.
John stared at the phone for a moment, then down at the
drawer.
As he was leaving, Darlene stepped into his path like she’d
been waiting for it, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other clutching
her clipboard to her chest.
“Jeremy said you’re picking up the stuff for the employee
meeting this afternoon. Don’t forget. Seriously, John.”
“I’m going there right now,” he snapped, jerking his thumb
toward the door. “I’d probably be back already if you hadn’t stopped me.”
Darlene didn’t move. Twenty years in the office had given
her that immovable quality. She knew everyone’s schedules, everyone’s
business—who was late on invoices, who was getting divorced, who was about to
get fired before they did.
“Hey,” she said, lowering her voice, trying for something
softer and not quite landing it, “I know we’ve never been… friends. But you are
a mess. I can’t keep quiet about this.”
Her blond, 1980s permed mullet barely moved when she tilted
her head, but there was something practiced in the gesture.
“Fucking talk to everyone, Darlene,” he said, shoving past
her shoulder. “I don’t care.”
“I already have,” she called after him, not loud, just
matter-of-fact. “Jeremy asked me what was going on.”
That landed, but he didn’t turn around.
“People notice, John,” she added. “You’re not as subtle as
you think.”
He pushed through the door.
He needed another bottle. He needed two or three. He
couldn’t keep running out like this.
Behind him, the door creaked shut, and for a second he
imagined her still standing there, watching, writing something down on that
clipboard in her tight, slanted handwriting.
His old red truck fired up with a relieving grumble. Rolling
down the windows, he breathed in the fresh, cool air. Only noon—only five more
hours. Five hours to make it through.
The grocery store parking lot was too full for a Tuesday. He
sat for a second with the engine running, watching them move in and out of the
automatic doors.
Inside, everything felt too bright. The fluorescent lights
hummed overhead just like in prison. He grabbed a cart and kept his head down,
moving fast. In, out. No delays.
Three trays of sandwiches. Four cases of soda. Chips—he
grabbed whatever his hand landed on, not even looking. Just fill the cart. Make
it look normal.
A loud laugh broke out too close behind him. Someone
coughed; for a second he thought they were trying to get his attention. A cart
wheel squeaked behind him in an uneven rhythm, then veered away.
He cut toward produce, trying to stay moving, trying not to
think about the clock, about the hours ahead, about how to sit through an employee meeting.
That’s when he saw him.
A man, salt-and-pepper hair, standing by the apples. The
angle of his jaw—something about it—hit too familiar. John slowed,
just slightly, watching from the edge of the display.
The man turned. A stranger.
John exhaled, but the relief didn’t land. It never did
anymore.
At the register, the line crawled. The cashier moved like
she had all the time in the world, scanning each item with deliberate, careful
motions. Beep. Pause. Beep.
She looked up at him.
“ID?”
“For what?”
“For the alcohol.”
He stared at her. “You’re kidding.”
She didn’t smile. Just waited.
His hands felt too big and slow fumbling the wallet open,
pulling the card free. He could feel the people behind him shifting, watching,
waiting.
The scanner beeped again. The receipt printed in a slow,
endless strip.
Every second stretched.
Then a brief text from Jazz: I have a fun and evil
lil thought. Want to make it real?
He knew what it meant. He sent her $1,000 through CashApp,
even though she was richer than him at this point. It was tradition. Their
language.
He took another quick swig from the new bottle when his
phone rang. Jasmine.
“John, honey, I’m disappointed. Only a grand?” she teased,
her voice laced with playful sexiness.
“You know I’m busy.”
“I’m busy too, but I always make time for you. You’re just
brushing me aside again. Just talk to me. You used to talk to me.”
He gripped the steering wheel until his hands flushed an
angry red.
“You don’t know what I’m dealing with. I have to find a
solution to a problem I don’t want to go away… and don’t know how to live with”
“Well, what’s the problem? Maybe I can help.” She sounded so
calm it almost made him angry.
“It’s you. Not you. Not us when it’s just us. It’s all the
extra bullshit that came with it.”
Uneasy silence stretched between them.
“Are you breaking up with me? Over the phone?” she asked confused.
“John, what are you trying to say? I can’t even understand
you.” A pause, heavy and searching. Then, more carefully: “Are you drunk?”
He couldn’t tell if he was slurring. He thought he sounded
clear. But suddenly his stomach lurched, and everything inside him tilted—his
thoughts, her voice, the world outside the windshield.
“Jazz… I can’t. I can’t.” He kept repeating it, the words
slipping loose from meaning.
“You can’t what?”
“Fucking do this, Jazz!” he shouted, hurling the phone
across the passenger seat full of sandwiches.
It struck the passenger-side window with a violent
crack—then exploded outward, glass bursting outward in a spray across the
pavement.
The sound rang sharp and final in the cab. Cold air rushed
in through the shattered window. He didn’t move for a second. Then he started
the truck. He drove. He didn’t know how long.
His body ached and screamed. His tongue felt like a thick slug dead in his mouth. A dull,
pulsing pressure sat behind his eyes.
A pool of thick, foul-smelling vomit had dried beside him.
The sour smell hit him a second too late, turning his stomach. He swallowed
hard.
Carefully, he pushed himself upright, pausing when the room
shifted just enough to make him grab the edge of the bed.
In the bathroom, he rinsed his mouth out in the sink,
letting the water run, watching it spiral down as he
steadied himself. He splashed his face, once, twice.
He checked his pockets—wallet and keys. Still there. A good
sign.
So he drove to the one place he knew the door would
open—would welcome him in, no matter what had happened. He pulled into the
driveway, which greeted his tires like an old friend.
He knocked on the door, bracing himself against the brick
wall.
The door opened.
“Marvin, I’m in deep.”
“Come in, man. Come in.”
