1. DANNY

"The job is yours, Danny! Well done!"

My boss, Mr. Reynolds, stood up to shake my hand. Everyone was beaming. Everyone, including me. I couldn't believe it. I had made principal architect at twenty-eight. I could not believe it. I was sitting in that room with the wall of senior faces, all grinning at me. I had aced the interview, I knew that, but even so, now it was here.

I knew that the city's architecture WhatsApp groups would be full of it, and my LinkedIn "pals" would be liking every post I ever made. (And I hadn't done one in three years.) But this was it: Danny West was officially going to be a big deal.

The woman from HR was talking:

"So you know the package, and you're okay with it, I assume?"

Okay with it?Man, I had doubled my salary in one fell swoop; I hadn't just broken the six-figure barrier but smashed through it.

"Obviously, there's the pay rise, the extra benefits, the upgraded health plan, those things, but one thing we've just decided to do is to have you in another office a few days every two weeks."

For a moment, I didn't understand.

"Sure," I said, because in these moments, when they haven't actually sent you a contract yet, everyone could back off real fast. "Which office?"

The HR woman smiled as if she had the best news for me.

"New York. We'd love you to be in New York two or three days out of every two weeks."

"New York?" I said, and I could hear my own lack of enthusiasm, so I tried to fake a smile.

"Sure," Mr. Reynolds said, leaning over. "That's okay, isn't it?"

New York? I didn't wanna live in New York with any regularity, even if only a few days every two weeks. I mean, I wouldn't say I hated New York, I wouldn't say that at all, but live there? I didn't want to live there at all. I liked living here, in the city in which I grew up, to which I returned after college. Still, I knew I had to play it cool.

"Is that…is that absolutely necessary?" I asked. "Can't the work be done with Teams and Zoom?"

My boss gave me a firm look.

"It's totally necessary, Danny. You're a big guy." He laughed. "Literally! How tall are you?"

"Six-three."

"Yeah," he said. "A big six-three gym guy who is going to be the principal architect for some of our biggest projects in the country. That means dinners with clients, site visits, just schmoozing new business with a coffee, and a quick look at some cool designs on your MacBook Pro." He nodded. "You're that guy, aren't you?"

There was a rustle around the room, metaphorically as loud as the wind in the treetops: all eyes on me.

I had to say yes. I didn't have a choice. I had to go to New York.

"Of course," I said, and everyone relaxed.

Everyone liked to count on me. Everyone wanted to trust in Danny. That was both good and bad sometimes, you know?

The HR woman was talking again.

"So we understand that there are a lot of costs involved in being in New York part-time, and you will likely have to stay in hotels and need a per diem."

"Sure," I said, trying to look like I hadn't expected that with the significant pay rise, they would just expect me to eat it.

"So how about a weekly allowance of $1,000 to cover everything? Just claim it every week you're there, and we will just let you sort out the details so we don't have to do it for you."

"A thousand every two weeks?" I asked, and I could almost hear myself gulp.

"No," the HR lady went, and I thought maybe I had been too hopeful. "Every week."

"Every week?"

"Yeah, just in case we need to get you there more often." She gave a tight, corporate smile. "Doesn't that sound great?"

My sense of amazement was not in the slightest bit corporate. A thousand dollars a week extra, just to spend.

"Yeah!" I said. "It sounds amazing."

A thousand dollars would indeed make going to New York a lot seem less unappealing.

My boss pulled himself up in his seat. "How would you feel about moving to New York full-time?"

"What?"

"It's not definite, far from it, Danny, but how would you feel about it if we needed it in this new role for you?"

That really hadn't been part of the deal at all. I stared at my interviewers and felt only dread. I didn't want to move to New York.

"I'm not opposed to it," I said, trying to muster enthusiasm. They all nodded. That had been the right answer. "Let's see how it pans out."

"Precisely," said my boss. "Let's see how it pans out."

Of course, I could always have said no. You can always say sorry, guys, but this isn't the job for me. But this was the job for me. I had worked hard to get where I was today. Long story short, my family didn't have two of nothing.

Mine was not a background that favored hard work and talked about success. I would like to tell you my parents did their best, but, well…not all parents do their best.

My dad walked out when I was small, and I hardly ever saw him again, and he never paid a dime toward me after that, and my mom – I mean, I love my mom, but she loved a string of boyfriends, and going out, and some other "things" she loved more than…maybe not me, but at least more than she loved being a mom.

From thirteen years old, when one of my teachers told me I was bright and if I worked hard, I "could be something," it was like I was on a mission. I wasn't going to be a deadbeat. I was going to be someone. I was going to be financially okay. I was going to have a job people thought was cool and worth something. I was going to be worth something.

I was naturally sporty. I was good at football and basketball – guys as tall and broad and rangy as me always get that – so I was first team for everything, and all of it in hopes that someday, someone might give me a scholarship. But in the end, I didn't need sports. I was just good at stuff,and I did well in both science and more arty subjects. I got accepted on a full academic scholarship to study architecture. Don't get me wrong. I was bright, but I also worked hard. Like I said, this life I have got: I felt like I was on a mission toward it.

Man, do you know how long an architecture degree takes? About four hundred years. My tuition was paid, but I still had to live with no support from my folks, so in addition to thirty-five hours of tuition a week, I worked two part-time jobs. But I did it. I got into one of the biggest architecture firms in the country, and I moved my way up.

I worked hard. I still work hard. I got up at six o'clock every day, bounced straight to the gym, did an hour and a half of weights or cardio every morning. Then I showered and was off to the office, sitting at my desk before nine. I powered through, taking no lunch unless it was a work thing, till six-thirty, seven, always focused, and worked at home in the evenings if I needed to.

Because I was born poor, I didn't want to be poor ever again. I worked and worked because I was terrified of going back to how I grew up. I was a good guy all around, didn't squish bugs, picked up the check, laughed at people's jokes. Everyone said I was cool Danny, Danny who gets the deal, and sometimes Danny who gets the girl. I was that good guy. But deep down, I was afraid of not being a success, so I put everything into work. But I didn't tell anyone that.

The word got out in the office about my promotion. My boss had a big mouth, I guess, and let everyone know how happy I was with my "great opportunity." My pal Scotty said that we should go for drinks at seven to celebrate, and I didn't like to say no, so we went. I was just one of those guys that went along with things. Honestly, I would have been happy to head home and order pizza.

The bar was right across the street from the architecture office, one of those low-lit places with exposed brick, barstools, and low music playing. It was the sort of place where people who work together go and drink more than they intended and tell each other things about themselves, or what they really think about this person or that, that they would not have a few hours earlier.

Just after seven, I stepped into the bar, dimly lit, the sounds of laughter and chatter everywhere. Scotty called me over to a table where the whole gang was already gathered, drinks in hands, all beaming at me.

"Hey, Danny, congrats again, man! You're movin' on up," my buddy yelled, grinning, handing me a beer bottle and clinking his against mine.

"Thanks, Scotty. It still feels surreal," I replied, taking a sip.

My colleagues all leaned in to take a share of my excitement. They were happy for me, sure, but maybe a bit envious, too. I was doing well. I was a guy going places.

"So, Danny, New York, huh? Big city, big dreams," said Sarah, flashing me a knowing smile.

"Yeah, a big change, for sure," I said, trying to hide my reservations.

"I would love it, getting whisked away to the Big Apple," chimed in Mark, his tone a little sarcastic. I knew he had applied for the promotion, too, but hadn't even scored an interview.

"It's not all the time. I'm not moving there."

Mark arched an eyebrow.

"Cool," he drawled.

I chuckled nervously, hoping they wouldn't ask too many questions, that I wouldn't drink one too many beers and reveal what I really thought about being there a quarter of my life.

As the night wore on and the drinks kept flowing, the mood became lighter. Conversation flowed, there were jokes and banter, slapping of shoulders, women in the office leaving lipstick marks on my cheek as they wished me well with a friendly kiss before heading home.

As the celebration continued to buzz around me, Whitney, one of our assistant architects, approached me. She was definitely beautiful, tall and blonde – I have dark hair, dark eyes, but I love blonde hair and blue eyes – and her radiant smile could light up a room.

"Danny! Congratulations!"

I found myself returning her smile.

"Thanks, Whitney," I replied.

Her eyes glowed as she leaned in closer, and she pressed her lips against my cheek, but only an inch from my lips so that I could almost imagine we were kissing. Maybe that was her intention.

I pulled out of the embrace and looked at her, her eyes fixed on mine.

"You know, Danny, we could celebrate your big promotion properly. Maybe we could grab a drink before you head off to New York? Just you and me, maybe."

Whitney had made subtle passes at me before, and if I'd seen her on Tinder or something, I would definitely want to meet her. But relationships in the office were a no-go for me. I took work too seriously. I was not messing anything up at work. It mattered too much. And that was possibly why I was alone!

"Uh, yeah, maybe." I smiled, my response vague enough not to offend.

Whitney's eyes stayed on mine, trying to work out what was going on. Just then, another colleague, Nicole, appeared at my side, a welcome interruption.

"Danny, there you are!"

Nicole was a really cool girl, our marketing manager. I really liked her, though there was never any vibe between us. Her timing couldn't have been more perfect.

Whitney looked at Nicole and then at me.

"We'll catch up later, okay, Danny?"

I nodded and said, "Sure." But I felt relieved to have an escape. As Whitney moved away, keeping her eyes hungrily on me, I raised my beer toward Nicole and gave a grateful smile.

"Thanks for saving me back there. I owe you one," I said.

Nicole's eyes were twinkling with amusement.

"No problem, buddy. She wants a piece of you." Then she looked around the room. "Half of the women in the office do."

I arched an eyebrow.

"But not you."

Nicole laughed warmly.

"Not me!" She flashed an engagement ring at me. "I am a married lady, very nearly."

"Lucky guy."

We grinned at each other, and then she started speaking:

"So, man, New York, huh? That's a big move," she said, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"Yeah, big change," I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

Nicole was perceptive, nobody's fool. She was often the one who saw what was wrong with something in a meeting and could find solutions.

"You know, Danny, it's okay to have reservations. It's a big move. It's a lot to wrap your head around."

We sat there for a moment, the two of us considering this, sipping our drinks.

"Didn't your brother move to New York?" I asked. "Did I hear that?"

She nodded brightly.

Bruno Burgess had been a boy in my grade at school, but we had never really been friends. But the mention of him brought back memories of him in our high school days. He was the artsy type, always drawing in his sketchbook during lunch, on his own, or occasionally with some girl who wore emo clothes and talked about obscure British guitar bands no one else had heard of.

I was always out on the field in those days, practicing for the next game, always working hard, striving. They seemed just to hang about, take nothing seriously, and yet – trying to be alternative, maybe – taking everything seriously, too. He was the sort of guy that jocks called the F slur. I never did. I was never like that. But I hung around with those same jocks then, most of them idiots, to be fair, and so my and Bruno's paths never crossed much. He always seemed cool, no matter what the other guys said about him.

"Oh, yeah, been there years now," Nicole said. "Loves it."

"Wow, what does he do?"

"Freelance writer," she said.

This surprised me.

"Really, like books?"

She shrugged.

"More journalism. I think he'd like to write a book, but he hasn't yet. I think he's writing a novel."

"Man!" I cried. "I could never. That's impressive."

Bruno had often had a novel with him at school, some small, slim type of book that you've heard the title of and know is important, but you never actually get to read. Bruno had read them. I always liked people who read a lot of books, who know about them.

Sometimes, I would go over and ask him about a novel he was reading, and he would look up at me with his big blue eyes and his hand in his tousled blond hair as if he was amazed that I was interested in literature at all. But I was interested in everything. I would give anything a go once. I love to read, but I do get that I don't come across like that. Anyway, that was about the limit of our contact, though, me and Bruno.

A look of inspiration passed over his sister's face.

"Hey," Nicole began, "why don't I text him and see if he can help show you around a bit?"

"Show me around?"

"New York," she said.

I had a bottle of beer in one hand but raised the other, almost in a stop motion.

"Oh, no, man, that's not necessary. Bruno won't want to—"

Nicole shook her head and reached for her phone in her pocket.

"No, Danny, he would be happy to. Let me text him."

"Honestly, Nicole, I don't want to impose," I protested, and I could hear my own reluctance. "It's been years since I've seen Bruno. I'm not even sure if he remembers me."

Nicole wouldn't hear of it. She started texting and saying aloud what she was typing as she did it:

"You—will—never—guess—who—I—am—with." Breath. "Danny—West—from—high—school—he—is—moving—to—New—York." Breath. "Can—we—call—you?"

After less than a minute of us grinning at each other and chatting, Nicole's phone buzzed, a text message. She glanced down at the screen and texted back. "What's he on about?" she said to herself. I knew at once he had met my hesitation with his own. There were several texts back and forth, furious thumbs on her side and his, too, presumably. I could tell he was asking questions about me, but what?

"I'll call him," she said.

"Honestly, Nicole."

She put the phone to her ear.

"Hey, Bruno, what are you on about?" I heard a tense burble on the other end. "Shut up, man." She looked at me and grinned. "Here he is," she said and then, without another word, handed her phone to me.

And that was how Bruno came back into my life.