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  Bob waved to the waitress for a warm-up. “Was there any doubt?” he said.

  “Phil just sent me a text asking me to check in,” she said. Her brow furrowed once more.

  So it was Phil’s quick text that had irritated her. A familiar sense of dread rose in his belly as he watched her take out her Moleskine notebook, square her shoulders and give a little sigh. Her dislike of Phil was always there in the background, a little static in the air between them. Usually he managed to ignore it, except for days like this one, when they needed to work together so closely. He should smooth things over with her.

  “I wasn’t asking you to check in,” he murmured. “I only wanted to know if you were on your way.”

  “Exactly,” she said, and before he could respond, she tapped her stylus on her tablet and said, “Shall we get to work?”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  Phil picked up his own tablet, reminding himself that Kerry was angry at Bob, not him, that she was using Phil as her personal scapegoat because she couldn’t take it out on the real object of her frustration. Well, he wasn’t here to make friends. He had never wanted to make friends among his co-workers at Petrol; that was the whole point of taking the job.

  It was only about three years ago that he’d joined the crisis-management team at Petrol, after a day of intense interviews with Bob Packer and upper-level human-resources executives. He’d never forget his first impression of Bob, how the man had come in twenty minutes late for the interview (deliberately, Phil figured out later), how he’d sat on the edge of his desk instead of behind it, how he’d leaned in very close to Phil’s face, smacking his hands across his pants as if he were brushing dust from them, and asked exactly one question: “So. Why should I give you this job?”

  Phil could remember very little of the initial answer he’d given Bob that day—something about the challenge of working in a high-pressure environment, of helping the hardworking employees of Petrol under the most difficult of circumstances, etc., etc.—but he remembered very well the sight of Bob leaning backward against the desk, his big hands gripping the edge, and the distinct feeling that Phil was about to be shown the door. Everything about Bob’s body language was broadcasting the fact that the interview was going badly, and Phil knew it; the man had heard these kinds of canned answers before, and this one was no different, no better. It was disingenuous at best and dishonest at worst. Phil was a human-resources professional, for God’s sake; how could he forget everything he knew about giving a great interview when he was the one on the other side of the desk?

  By the time Phil realized neither of them was talking, there had been a good ten seconds of silence. Finally Bob asked, “Is that it?”

  All the air seemed to go out of the room. He would lose the chance at this job if he didn’t say something true, and say it fast. And he did want this job, wanted it more than he’d been willing to admit to himself until that moment. Wanted it for reasons that had nothing to do with money or helping others or work-life balance or any of the other bullshit he’d just been spouting off.

  Would a man like Bob understand the truth, though? That was the question Phil kept asking himself.

  “No,” he said finally, looking down at his shoes. Then, realizing that was exactly the wrong thing to do, he looked up, straight in Bob’s eyes. Bob was waiting for something, something that would catch his attention and make Phil stand out among the dozens of other people who’d applied for the job. Some leverage, maybe. Phil decided to give it to him.

  “I don’t just want this job,” Phil said, “I need it. I need it very much right now.”

  That got Bob’s attention. Now the old man narrowed his eyes, looking at Phil with greater interest. “Need it why?”

  Having opened up that much, Phil knew he had no choice but to go straight to the heart of the matter. “I—lost someone recently. My wife. She died very suddenly last year. Ovarian cancer. Since then I’ve found it nearly impossible to go to work at my old job. It’s just—too much familiarity.” He was nearly choking on the effort to say this much, but he couldn’t stop now, because he was sensing in every change in body language and facial muscle that he was saying exactly the kind of thing that Bob Packer liked to hear. That need, more than loyalty, was a thing Bob valued in his employees. “Everyone at my present job knew my wife, and having to face them, face their pity every single day, it just—it—”

  He was getting emotional, the one thing he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do. He could feel the color rising to his face and looked down at the floor. He didn’t like talking about his wife with anyone. He didn’t like anyone to see him lose his composure, much less the powerful senior VP of a company he hoped to work for.

  Phil took a breath, composed himself again, and said, “I need a change. I’m looking for a place where I can go back to being anonymous. Where I don’t have to talk about my wife with anyone who knew her and knows what happened to her. I almost don’t even care where it is, to tell you the truth.”

  It was risky, this strategy. Bob Packer was still staring at him, not speaking, using one of the oldest tricks in the book—stay silent and force the interviewee to fill the gaps in the conversation, thereby forcing him to reveal more of himself than he might have otherwise.

  Phil lifted his chin. “And, frankly, I’m looking for a place where I will have more work than I can ever do in one lifetime. I want to be busy so I won’t have to think about anything else.”

  Now Bob spoke again. “And you think this will be the place?”

  “Why not? You need someone who doesn’t have a life. Someone who can be at your beck and call 24/7. I’d not only be willing, I’d welcome it.”

  “Is that so?” Bob said, the outline of a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. “You think you can really run away from your problems by coming to work for me?”

  Phil had choked out a single word: “Yes,” he said. He realized, to his horror, that his hands were shaking.

  “Well, if that’s the case,” Bob said, “I think we can work together. Welcome to the team.”

  Phil had nearly wept. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret this.”

  “I’d better not.”

  Phil reported for duty that first day with an enormous sense of relief. Although he knew Bob Packer owned him after that interview, would ask for the moon and expect to get it, the job still offered a fresh start, a chance at forgetting his old life. The big glass Petrol Tower on Wacker Drive couldn’t have been more anonymous, more coolly corporate, and as Phil entered the sliding doors and gave his name to the security guard, he sighed audibly. It was exactly the way he’d imagined it: no one looked at him out of the corner of an eye; no one stopped to ask him how he was doing, gave him a nod of barely repressed pity, or lowered their voices into a whisper when he walked by. Not a single person here knew about the days he’d broken down in tears at work, the wreck he’d been at Emily’s funeral, which had been populated with hundreds of Phil’s co-workers. No one even so much as glanced at him. Not a single person here, except for Bob himself, knew that Phil had even been married, much less that his wife had died in agonizing pain, hardly able to recognize him at the end. He was totally and completely anonymous, which was exactly what he’d wanted when he applied for the job.

  So when he stepped out onto the thirtieth floor of Petrol Tower, Phil was feeling like he’d truly be able to disappear into the job. He could be a useful member of the team, not a man whose emotions had crippled him on a near daily basis for the last year. He wanted to be all about the work, and nothing more.

  He was feeling so great about the decision to accept the position at Petrol, in fact, that when he arrived in Bob’s office that morning, he had been completely thrown off by the sight of a young woman sitting across from Bob’s desk. Kerry Egan looked like a kid—long red hair done up tightly in a knot at the base of her neck, neat gray skirt and white blouse,
a long silver necklace around her neck, towering heels. He got the impression of a young woman trying on her mother’s clothes. A very young, very beautiful woman.

  He’d been so thunderstruck he’d paused in the doorway and taken a moment to compose himself, feeling shame over his attraction to any woman who wasn’t Emily, and discomfort when he realized the young woman was there because they’d likely be working together. If that was so, why hadn’t Bob included her in the interviews in the first place?

  Because Bob Packer was a man who didn’t need, or want, other people’s buy-in on his decisions, that’s why. He’d been there for an hour and he knew that much about the man already.

  She’d stood, welcoming Phil to the team as Bob made introductions. “Glad to hear you’re joining us,” Kerry said. “You must have a strong disposition; Bob usually scares off our potential new hires.”

  She’d reached out her hand to Phil, but he didn’t take it right away, afraid as he was that his palms were sweating. This was the director of media relations? For a minute he could feel the color rising to his face and tried to get hold of himself. He was determined to be businesslike and professional in his new position, like he’d told Bob. Nothing more.

  She was still holding out her hand, so Phil wiped his hand on his pants and took it, shaking it once, loosely, and then letting go as quickly as possible. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Bob says you’re the youngest director in the company. I can see he was right. You don’t even look like you’re thirty yet.”

  “I’m thirty-one. Does that surprise you?” she asked.

  He felt himself beginning to squirm. He found looking in her eyes distinctly uncomfortable, as if she were the sun, and decided to focus over her shoulder instead. “Maybe a little. But it’s great,” he stammered, and then said again, “I think it’s great. Looking forward to working with you.”

  “Kerry’s our ace in the hole,” Bob said, putting a beefy hand on her shoulder. “Been at Petrol nearly a decade now, isn’t that right? She’s proved herself time and again to be the best in the business.”

  Phil had watched Kerry’s face burn and realized he’d made a cardinal error. He knew better than to comment on a co-worker’s age or appearance; what was wrong with him? Nor did she like her boss defending her against the new guy’s fumbling. It was his first day, his first hour, and already he’d gotten off on the wrong foot.

  Phil mumbled something about needing the washroom and then excused himself. Later that day, he’d heard Kerry in her office complaining about him to Judy Akers. What was Bob thinking, she’d said, bringing a guy like that onto such a tightly knit team? Who hired an HR director who had zero people skills, who made a critical HR error the minute he opened his mouth?

  He’d been so ashamed of himself that he’d done everything he could to avoid direct contact with her. In her presence he was always carefully professional, never asking her questions about herself or crossing the line into anything the slightest bit personal about his family, his home life. No one wanted to hear about his dead wife anyway, the dark thoughts that crowded his head whenever he had a free minute to himself. At first, Kerry had tried to win him over, seeking him out for his ideas, offering to brag him up to the media, but the sight of her caused him so much pain those first months that he could never bring himself to be much more than polite. “Thank you, but I don’t think this is the right time,” became his constant refrain with her.

  Eventually she’d gotten the hint and started keeping him at arm’s length, coolly professional in the hallways, at office parties, on the road; she was never rude, but never warm, either. The fact that he couldn’t keep his eyes off her didn’t help: more than once she’d caught him staring, and that little frown would tick at the corners of her mouth. Phil’s sense of helplessness seemed bottomless. He’d come to Petrol to erase the mistakes of the past, and instead he’d made a whole host of new ones.

  He started thinking he was simply not fit to be around other humans. He should just do his job and keep his mouth shut, keep away from any distractions and do what he needed to survive, nothing more. His wife was dead, and his future along with her. Any happiness or hope he’d felt was long gone, and everyone would be better off, Kerry included, if Phil kept to himself.

  He threw himself into work, took on extra projects and longer hours, anything to keep him at the office as long as possible. He sold the house in the suburbs he’d shared with Emily and got a new apartment downtown. He never socialized at work, never went to lunch or out for a beer. He kept his head down, his mouth shut and his mind occupied. If he kept himself busy, he wouldn’t have time to think about anyone, especially Kerry Egan.

  For the most part, he was successful, too—except when they were all on the road together. Then it was harder to stay away from her, but he did what he could, avoiding her at dinner, holing up in his hotel room whenever he wasn’t immediately needed. It would be easier that way to ignore the way he felt whenever he looked at her: dizzy, like he’d just looked over the edge of a very tall building.

  Then there was that trip to Gulf Shores. Phil remembered the plane ride and how the new guy, Daniel Albrecht, had done his little stand-up routine for the whole plane to hear. Then Daniel sitting down casually next to Kerry, the two of them laughing together. Phil had been sitting a couple of rows back, and he’d been overwhelmed with jealousy at the ease Daniel had with her. Despite all his efforts to the contrary, he’d have given anything to chat with her so amiably, have her look at him that way. The only emotion in Kerry’s face whenever she spoke to him was annoyance.

  He’d spent three years trying to disappear into his work, and it wasn’t enough. It was easier back in Chicago, where he could be anonymous at the end of every day, but when they were all forced to spend time together on the road, Phil was always uncomfortably aware of her, of her perfume, of her laugh, of the physical presence of her, and felt that same small tightening in his throat. He shouldn’t be attracted to her, he thought. He didn’t have the right. His wife was dead, he reminded himself, and Kerry was going to marry Daniel. Better for them all that way.

  Now Kerry and Judy were sitting across the table from Phil, who looked down at his tablet and wished for the thousandth time that the very sight of her didn’t turn him into a stammering mess.

  She’s a beautiful woman. She’s smart and accomplished. Why shouldn’t you be attracted to her? It was his dead wife’s voice, Emily’s voice, he always imagined in his head in those moments, her teasing putting him immediately at ease. You’re not dead, are you?

  Phil shook his head; Emily always had had a way of understanding him, even when (especially when) he didn’t understand himself. It wouldn’t do to think of her now, sitting in a diner in Barrow, Alaska, in the middle of a workday. Emily was gone, and Phil had work to do. He picked up his tablet and bowed his head.

  Bob had already taken his heart pills and eaten his protein bar, the same breakfast he ate every morning. Phil ordered a bowl of oatmeal and more coffee, while Kerry asked for yogurt and bananas, possibly the most expensive meal she could have ordered in a place where perishables had to be flown in daily. Judy ordered a muffin and coffee. “Now, we’re doing what this morning?” she asked.

  “Last things,” said Bob. “Phil says he’s got a little humanitarian story for you two to pitch before we get out of town. Something about a new program Phil’s developing to pay for the son of one of the victims to go to college.”

  “Sounds promising,” said Kerry, not looking at Phil as she poured cream in her coffee. “Let’s hear it, then.”

  But before Phil could get started, Bob stood up, pulled out his phone and excused himself. “Pardon me,” he said, “but I think I have some calls to make. I’m sure you all can handle this without me?”

  “Sir, we’d really appreciate getting a quote from you for the press release,” Judy said.

  “Don’t you want to weigh in on t
he value of the program, all the features and benefits, et cetera?” Kerry asked.

  “I’m sure you can handle the et cetera without me,” said Bob, not looking up as he scrolled through his phone. “This is Phil’s baby. He can tell you all about it. Make up a quote for me—you know the kind of thing I always say.” Then Bob was pushing buttons on his phone and walking away. Phil heard him say, “Daniel.”

  Kerry looked up at the sound of her fiancé’s name, staring after Bob as he walked toward the door. She seemed to be only dimly aware that, next to her, Judy and Phil were already going over notes for the press release, getting the facts about Phil’s scholarship program, deciding where and how to pitch it.

  She was still watching Bob’s back when Judy poked her shoulder. “Hey,” Judy said. “Earth to Kerry.”

  “What?”

  Judy touched her friend’s shoulder again and said, “Are you going to chime in, or am I on my own here?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking back toward the entrance of the restaurant, where Bob was gesticulating at the phone. “I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”

  Phil felt himself staring again and looked down at his tablet. “It’s natural to be worried,” he said.

  “I’m not worried,” Kerry started. “I’m furious.”

  Phil cleared his throat and said, “Daniel’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

  “I know he can take care of himself,” Kerry snapped, rounding on him, her voice cracking with emotion. “Bob has no right to take chances like this with people’s lives. You don’t have to be so flippant about it, either.”

  He coughed and looked over at Judy, who looked as surprised as he did, and said, “Let’s not get personal here, Kerry. Let’s keep this professional—”

  “I was keeping it professional.” She started to say something else, then stopped herself and threw up her hands. “Oh, hell. I’m sorry, Phil. This isn’t about you.” She blew out a deep breath and said, “Can you two please excuse me? I have some calls to make, too.”