James - 3/15/2024, 6:54 p.m.

James removed his right hand from the two o’clock position on the steering wheel only long enough to wave the other car through at the stop sign, then returned it to mirror his left at ten. He turned onto Pacific Ridge, entering the affluent neighborhood of La Jolla View.

The streets glowed softly in the fading light. Palms lined the medians in neat, symmetrical rows, their fronds barely stirring in the ocean breeze. Sprinklers hissed in unison across the immaculate lawns. A fine mist rose off the grass.

The houses were curated in pastels, whites, and coastal blues, with bougainvillea spilling over stone walls and shrubbery trimmed into symmetric shapes. Every driveway held a pair of spotless cars, glinting beneath the street lamps just coming to life.

James rolled through the neighborhood with the windows up and the cabin at an even seventy degrees. But the smell of cut grass wafted through the vents anyway.

As he crested the hill and the road curved left, the ocean appeared briefly. The final sliver of sun slipped into the sea far beyond, leaving the sky glowing in deep oranges and purples.

James registered none of it.

Classical music played softly through the speakers. It was his default selection, chosen for its calming effect. His thoughts dismissed it. They moved quickly, circling the same ground and refusing to settle.

It was always like this, even on Fridays. But today’s announcement changed the landscape. The vacancy he’d been preparing for. The opening he’d been waiting on for years.

Now—instead of replaying conversations or reanalyzing a colleague’s expression—he was consumed by optics. He told himself he was ideally positioned. No missteps. No detours. Nothing that could be used against him.

There would be time to strategize. The weekend would be quiet. Productive.

His mobile phone lit up with a call coming through. He saw it before he heard it ring through the car’s audio.

702 area code. Las Vegas.

Thinking it could be a client, James pressed the green button to answer.

“James Allen Bryant,” he said.

“Junior,” the voice on the other end said flatly. “You always leave out the ‘Junior.’ I wonder why.”

James stiffened, knowing the voice immediately.

“Bobby,” he said evenly. “How can I help you?”

“I…uh.” There was hesitation in Bobby’s voice. “I just got out of rehab.”

James exhaled through his nose and tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

“I’m pulling into my driveway,” he said. “This isn’t a good time.”

“I know,” Bobby said quickly. “I just thought—”

“If you need to talk,” James said, “reach out to Michael.”

“Jimmy—”

James flinched at the name and felt his face flush with heat. His jaw clenched as he pressed the red button and shifted the car into park beside his wife’s SUV.