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The phone rings at two in the morning.
Although Frank is used to answering calls at any hour, it always takes him a moment to truly wake up, to snap back into reality from whatever dream had him in its grasp.
The peeling floral wallpaper of his first shared apartment with Charley bleeds into the plain drywall of his Los Angeles house. The bustle and the sirens and the honking fades into nothing. Charley’s glasses on the bedside table across the only mattress they could’ve afforded in their one-bedroom apartment aren’t there, only the white phone ringing off the hook.
Charley frequents Frank’s dreams. Mostly nightmares. Usually a rehash of that interview, or Charley throwing iodine in Frank’s eyes, or Charley pushing Frank off a cliff and into nothingness; Charley with his eyebrows drawn—an angry Charley. Always an angry Charley.
But this one is worse than any Charley-related nightmare he’s ever had. This dream has him yearning for a friendship he no longer has.
Frank’s heart thumps like a drum, and he has to take multiple steadying breaths until the room around him stops pulsing. Then, he shifts into an upright position, gives himself in the mirror across the room a dazzling smile, and picks up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Frank?”
Even though he hasn’t seen or heard from her in about six years, he recognizes her voice almost immediately. He’s instantly transported back to all those evenings with kids crawling on his lap, over his shoulders, pulling at his hair. He watched them grow up. Do they even remember him?
“Evelyn?” He chokes out the last syllable of her name. His mouth is suddenly dry, and he can’t get any more words out.
“I shouldn’t be calling you,” Evelyn whispers, and her voice is rushed. It sounds like she’s been crying. “But I’m here with the kids, and Charley’s—even though I told him that you ought to know—Charley said I shouldn’t call.” She takes a breath before continuing. “It’s Mary. There was a car accident. Alcohol was involved. I don’t know all the details, but Charley’s her emergency contact, and they’re at the hospital now.”
Frank feels the blood drain from his face. The world spins, his ears ring, the phone feels impossibly heavy. He slumps back down into his fluffy pillow.
“Frank, I know you and Charley don’t speak—and I’m not going to get in the middle of that—but I know Mary might like to see you.”
There’s some shuffling on the other end. Then, Evelyn’s voice is quieter. “Baby, what are you doing up?” Another pause. “Frank,” her voice grows as she places the phone back up to her cheek, “I have to go.”
The line goes dead.
Frank sits in silence for a long moment.
He doesn’t know if he wants to go—if he should go. He knows Charley will be there, but that’s not the only thing that’s holding him back.
He hasn’t heard from Mary since the party where she stormed out. It’s been three years since then, with no contact between them. Does he have a right to go see her?
What if he just…goes back to sleep, wakes up in the morning, and goes to work like always? Cut off the last bit of his past that still lingers like a bad limb? Mary won’t miss him—it’s already been so long—and Charley surely won’t either.
Even thinking about not going, something inside him sours at the idea.
There was a time, after Charley and before the party, when Mary was the only connection he still had from his past. Beth was gone, Charley was gone, but Mary remained.
After everything, Mary was always there. Even when weeks passed where he was busy with work and unable to find much spare time, Mary persisted until Frank did have time and they were able to talk for the few moments they had together before he got a phone call or Gussie managed to push her out the door.
And isn’t that what you want in a friend? Knowing that, no matter how long you haven’t spoken for, you can just reach out and pick back up whenever you see each other again?
He thinks ruefully back to that party, and what Mary said before she left and never came back. He never really took the time to digest her words, as the divorce with Gussie had to be settled, and he moved to another house.
And, by then, he was already in the throes of work. There was no time to think of personal relationships; he needed all his focus to be on the next movie, and then the next.
Mary never reached out again.
And maybe that’s the thing. It was Mary who always reached out. It was Mary knocking on his door, Mary calling him up.
Frank never did.
And now she might die without him being there.
~~~
As Frank walks into the hospital Evelyn gave him the name of, he suddenly feels less than stellar. God, why did he ever think Mary would want to speak with him after three years of radio silence? The last he saw her, she was angry with him.
He slides his sunglasses onto his face—he always feels more comfortable with them on—and asks the woman behind the counter for Mary’s room.
When he finally finds it, the door is wide open, and a nurse is busy inside. Mary’s bed is behind a large, white curtain.
Frank lingers in the hallway, just out of sight. He forces himself to stand still.
This is a Bad Idea, he suddenly concludes. Jetting off to New York City without telling anybody, with only the clothes on his back, without any place to stay.
He’s about to turn around, fly back home, but the nurse bustles out.
“Oh! Are you here visiting Mary?” she asks, fixing a stray hair that’s out of her bun. “Come in, come in,” she says, taking his hand and practically dragging him inside the room. “Mary, you have a new visitor!”
He freezes as soon as he sees her. It’s only her in the room. Charley must be out, and Frank can’t help the small sigh of relief that escapes him.
The nurse quietly leaves.
Mary’s face is black and blue, and her left arm is in a cast. She’s hooked up to a couple of machines, tubes running out of her right hand. The bottom half of her is covered by a light blue blanket, and Frank’s grateful. He already feels lightheaded by it all, unsteady on his feet.
Frank likes to avoid hospitals if he can help it. He’s never been good with blood or needles or even the smell of the place. The last time he was in one was to visit Evelyn after giving birth back in 1964. And even though Charley repeatedly told him that this “was the miracle of life,” Frank still ended up outside the hospital room while a nurse gave him a juice box to raise his blood sugars.
“Mary?” he asks, his feet stuck to the floor.
He might need a juice box.
Mary eyes him up for a second that feels more like five minutes.
Despite everything, Frank can still see the Mary he knows and loves. Who was his and Charley’s first supporter in their songwriting endeavours. Who always had a witty jab at the ready. Who, when he and Charley’s relationship was strained, always managed to bring them back together and make up until their friendship was too far gone.
“I’m so sorry,” Frank says, and he can hear his heartbeat echoing inside his head. The words feel raw, his throat feels raw. “That party. I should’ve reached out. Like you always did. I shouldn’t have let it ruin the friendship.” He swallows thickly, and the next thing he says comes out startingly. He doesn’t know where it comes from. “I shouldn’t have let it get there in the first place. Friendships need to be tended to. Like a garden.” The metaphor feels familiar, and it makes something in the back of his mind twitch in recognition, but he can’t quite place it.
Frank sits in the chair at her bedside, to the right of her.
She looks at him, and her face is unreadable.
“I…miss you,” he continues, and goddammit he means it. “I miss you and Charley and me. Together. I know I burnt a lot of bridges, and I know we could never be like that again—we’re all on different courses of life—but I’d like to try again. If you’d like.” He holds out a pinkie finger, an olive branch.
Finally, Mary speaks. “I can’t take you seriously with those stupid sunglasses on. Take them off and give me your speech again.” Her voice is rough like sandpaper.
Frank chokes out a laugh, and his shoulders relax just slightly. Although, he notices Mary doesn’t intertwine her pinkie with his. So, instead, he uses his outstretched hand to take his sunglasses off. “Mary, please forgive me. I’ve missed you in my life. I should’ve told you this immediately after the party. I’m so, so, so sorry.”
Mary doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, quietly, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better,” she says. “Could be worse, I suppose.”
Frank’s about to ask what happened, but he catches movement out of the corner of his eye and pauses. He sucks in a breath.
Charley’s in the doorway.
Frank stumbles up and out of his chair, and he automatically puts his sunglasses back on. He’s on high alert again, his body tensing up in preparation. It feels like he’s about to go into a particularly challenging second piano movement after thinking the first one was tough. The bright hospital lights fade away, the blinding white floor and walls dimming.
“Charley.”
“Frank.”
There’s something disorienting in seeing Charley here. He looks almost the same, only older (but they’re all older, aren’t they?). He still has on a patterned vest over a button up, although it’s wrinkled and creased in several places. He probably stayed at the hospital overnight, keeping Mary company. There’s only one thing that’s standing out about Charley’s appearance.
“Where are your glasses?” Frank blurts out before he can stop himself.
Charley blinks, still unmoving in the doorway. He’s holding a plate of hospital food. Some grey sludge in a bowl and limp fries. “I wear contacts now.” His voice betrays nothing.
“Oh.” Frank gestures to the chair and steps aside, offering the seat to Charley, but the other man makes no move to take it. “I liked your glasses.”
He suddenly realizes how weird that sounds. Change the topic, change the topic now. A knot of emotions are swirling within him, all a jumble, and he doesn’t know how to untangle them. A diminished chord is ringing through his head.
But before he can think of something to say, Charley beats him to it. “The doctor’s say Mary’s stable, and I know you must have a lot of things going on, so…” he trails off, throwing a glance behind him and into the hallway.
Frank only stares at him, affronted by the clear suggestion of leaving so soon. He finds a loose string in his knot of emotions and yanks one free. It tumbles down like an arpeggio rapidly spiralling out of control. “Oh, so first you were angry that I was too busy, and now you want me to go away because I’m not?” It’s a lie—he’s in the middle of overseeing the casting of the star role in a big movie from a franchise while in post-production of another—but it’s a good lie, so he goes with it.
Charley makes a face, and he stabs his sludge with a plastic spoon. It snaps in half. The bottom half of the spoon sticks straight up. “Nevermind. Forget I said anything. Stay as long as you’d like.”
Frank frowns, feeling the familiar anger swirl. It’s like he’s back sitting in that uncomfortable chair, having to take everything Charley was saying about him on live TV, unable to get a word of his own in. The emotion is back with a vengeance after petering out in the years since.
He narrows his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Oh, so now you don’t want to say anything to me?”
“Oh! Owwww,” Mary cuts in dramatically, elongating the word and letting it wobble like a flute trill. “My throat just started acting up. Frank, get me some water from the vending machine, would you?”
Frank glances at the cup of water at her bedside but nods anyway, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Alright. I’ll be back in a tick.” Charley finally steps inside the hospital room to let him pass, throwing the pieces of spoon into the garbage in the process.
Frank refuses to look at him on the way out.
Once he’s out in the hallway, he hears Mary. “Lay off a bit, okay?”
“Lay off?” Charley responds, his whispered voice rising in a crescendo. “Did you see the way he first looked at me? You should be telling that to him.”
“How could you see how he looked at you, Charley? He’s wearing goddamn sunglasses. Look, I’m not asking you to hug the man, but at least be civil.”
There’s silence.
“I just got in a car crash. Be nice.”
“You shouldn’t have forgiven him so easily,” Charley eventually grumbles. “He’s only here because he thought you were on your deathbed. He wouldn’t be here if not for that.”
Frank winces and speed walks to the vending machine at the end of the hall.
Old friends always seem to know where to hit you where it hurts the most.
Because it’s true, isn’t it? If Evelyn didn’t phone, if Mary just had the common cold, he wouldn’t be here. And even then, he thought about turning back multiple times while on the way. Maybe Charley’s right; maybe he should leave after today. He’s checked that Mary’s okay—he’ll call her once he lands back in Los Angeles. But being here, with Charley, is different. He shouldn’t overstay his welcome.
He buys a small bag of chips and a bottle of water, but eats all the chips and gulps down the entire bottle. He buys a second bottle and drinks half of it. He buys a third, flashes a smile into the glass of the vending machine, and makes his way back to Mary’s hospital room, nervously twisting the empty bottle in his hands until a nurse glares at him, and he throws it into the nearest recycling bin.
Charley’s still there when he returns, sitting in the chair next to Mary. Most of his food is gone.
Frank posts himself by the curtain, on the other side of her. He cracks open the water bottle and gives it to Mary’s good hand. She takes a long swig of it.
“How’s…how’s Frankie?” Charley asks, haltingly. He takes a quick look at Frank before averting his gaze to Mary.
Frank's face muscles tense. Other than calling on his son’s birthday and sending the occasional gift, he’s not exactly kept up with his fatherly duties. The guilt only really shows itself late at night, when he lies in bed awake. He wants to do something about it—Frankie’s his son for God’s sake—but he doesn’t know where to start.
How do you reach out to start a connection with a son who only knew you as a child? Frankie’s a young adult now, with an adult job, with a girlfriend.
“Oh.” It’s clear Charley has more things to say.
Frank’s grateful his old friend has decided to shut his mouth for once in his life. He suddenly feels very exhausted.
“And what about your kids?” Frank asks quickly, deflecting the question off himself and onto Charley.
Mary passes Frank the water bottle, and he quickly twists the cap back on. Then, he squeezes and pokes at it like a stress ball.
“Doing great…doing great,” Charley says, trailing off, bobbing his head. He has his hands pressed together and squashed between his thighs.
The conversation dries up.
It’s painful.
“You know what,” Mary says, probably a bit too loudly. “Last weekend I was digging stuff out of my closet, and I found something in an old Converse shoe box that you both might like. I’d show it to you myself, but well,” she gestures to herself with her right hand, “I’m a little incapacitated at the moment. But I think you two might find it interesting. It’s a faded red box. Should be at the top of the pile.” She points to her coat hung up behind the door, “You two grab my apartment key and bring it back here.”
“Us two?” Frank repeats, panic rising in his chest.
“Surely it doesn’t take two people to grab a box from your apartment and bring it back?” Charley asks.
Mary lets out a loud yawn, and she stretches her good hand above her head. “I’m feeling awfully tired. Honestly, it’ll be boring sitting here at my bedside. Go stretch your legs, and I’ll have a little cat nap while you’re gone.”
When neither of them make a move to leave, Mary narrows her eyes at the both of them. “Go.”
~~~
They don’t speak all the way to Mary’s apartment. Frank allows Charley to lead the way, as the apartment Frank knew Mary to live in was practically falling apart. She probably moved places since then. Hopefully to one that didn’t look like it could tip over in a light breeze.
However, when Charley walks up to the large building, Frank recognizes the crumbling bricks, the rusting door handle, the loose cobblestones beneath their feet. He can’t help himself from making a comment. “She still lives here?”
It seems to break some ice between them, for Charley sighs. “I’ve been trying to convince her to move out for years. She likes it, and it hasn’t collapsed yet.”
They climb three flights of stairs, and then Charley uses Mary’s key to unlock the door.
Frank’s not sure what to expect, but the apartment is cleaner and brighter than the last time he’d been there. Then again, the last couple times he saw her before now, she’d been drunk off her ass.
There are little knick knacks scattered around, and soft rugs on the floor. The place is homey. It reminds him of his old apartment at Central Park West. Frank supposes it makes sense; Mary had decorated that space too.
There’s dirty water still in the sink and clean dishes on the drying rack next to it. Charley instantly goes to them. “Grab the box; I’ll put these away.”
Frank pulls open the door. There’s always something intimate about entering a bedroom that’s not your own. The bed isn’t made up, and there’s a glass of water on the bedside table next to a pile of books. Slippers peer out from beneath the mattress.
He opens the narrow wooden door to the closet and is met with clothes and three piles of boxes that nearly reach his stomach. He sees the red Converse box and, as he reaches for it, his eyes catch on a little green book, balanced precariously on a dishware box.
It’s Mary’s book, translated into Spanish.
Frank grabs it and the box, remembering how excited he was to have found it in a cute little bookstore in Colombia.
He takes off his sunglasses, sliding them onto the neck of his shirt, and flips to a random part. The unfamiliar language lines the paper, and pride blooms in his chest. Mary’s novel is so deserving of its accolades—he remembers reading it after Mary gave him and Charley early copies. He still has his somewhere in his house, managing to survive the multiple moves. Devastatingly sad with a bittersweet ending, it follows the main character and her unrequited love with her neighbour. With colourful descriptions and Mary’s classic clever quips, Frank remembers seeing the scenes play out in his head like a movie.
Frank pauses. The beginnings of an idea start to form in his mind. It feels deliciously similar to finding the perfect melody for a song. He tucks the Converse box under his arm and practically runs out of Mary’s room, gripping the book for dear life in his hands. He’s so excited by the prospect—he needs to share this plan with someone else—that he can’t help but exclaim once he’s back in the main room, Charley putting the last bits of cutlery away, “Is Mary still in contact with her literary agent?”
Charley’s eyebrows draw down, looking surprised by Frank’s enthusiasm. “Uh, no. They more or less mutually terminated their relationship after Mary didn’t write anything after her book…Why do you ask?”
“Okay, here’s what I’m thinking, and let me know what you think: what if I turned Mary’s book into a movie?”
Charley stares at him. It’s not exactly the reaction Frank was expecting, but he plows on.
“It’s genius, right? I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.” Frank starts to pace the room, needing to let this energy out. His footsteps are a metronome against the tiled area of Mary’s kitchen. “I’m thinking someone with a girl-next-door look for the main character—”
“—Frank,” Charley says, and his eyes are wide. Frank really does miss the other man’s glasses. His face looks incomplete without them. “That is an awful idea. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Oh my God, you are so dense sometimes—”
“—Well of course you’d say that,” Frank huffs, rolling his eyes, and nothing can stop his mind from spinning other possibilities. “Should probably either give it a happy ending or lean into the sadness of the book’s one. I’ll have to ask Mary—”
“—Frank.” Charley’s tone is sharper this time, more serious. “Frank, listen to me.”
“What?” Frank says, annoyed. He halts his pacing.
“I’m not trying to be mean, and I don’t have any malicious intent. You have to believe me. I truly, honestly, and am completely telling you that turning Mary’s book into a movie is not a good idea.” For the first time that day, Charley’s face is open, sincere. “I know you think that suggesting this might be the grand gesture you need to rekindle your friendship, but it really isn’t.”
Frank’s brain is only more muddled than before. But one thing rings clear above it all: Charley knows Mary more than Frank does. And it hurts. They used to all know each other inside and out.
After the interview, it was always an unsaid thing that Mary was still close with Charley. And then when Mary left, it never really crossed Frank’s mind that the fallout was only with him, not with Charley, until now. Mary and Charley were still friends. Are still friends. Without him.
“Why?” Frank finally asks, deflating like a balloon.
Charley rubs his face with a hand tiredly. “Look, after Mary got successful with her novel, she found it hard to write again since she was afraid of not living up to everyone’s sudden expectations of her. She doesn’t really like talking about her novel, or even likes other people bringing it up, as it only confirms her doubt that she’ll never write anything as good ever again. Not only that, but the story being about—” Charley rapidly shuts his mouth. He opens it. Closes and opens and closes and opens it like a fish. “You just shouldn’t.”
The hand that’s holding Mary’s book drops to Frank’s side. “Oh.” He frowns. “I didn’t know that.”
Something crosses on Charley’s face. “She told me through drinks; I don’t think she would’ve said anything about it otherwise. It was that night I told you you should end your affair with Gussie.” He pauses. “Sorry,” he mutters quickly, and turns around to drain the sink of dishwater.
“And you didn’t tell me about it?” Frank asks, surprisingly stung.
“I mean,” Charley begins blandly, his back still turned, “Our friendship had kind of left the sharing-personal-stuff stage. You didn’t even show up that night.”
Frank can rapidly feel Charley’s walls rise again.
“I should’ve,” Frank says instantly, bitterly. Why had his past self taken his friends for granted? Assumed that they’d always be there? Why did Gussie take priority?
The only real thing he has taken away from his relationship with Gussie is finally understanding where she was coming from while they were alone in her and Joe’s greenhouse. About being unhappy while successful. Because, at that point in his life, he thought that being successful would fulfill him. But being accomplished just means chasing the next big hit, afraid of falling out of the limelight. He supposes that’s what Mary feels too, to a certain degree.
“I should’ve been there to support Mary. I should’ve been a better friend to both of you,” Frank says quietly, and the words aren’t coming to him as easily as they did with Mary. Why aren’t they?
The sink makes loud gurgling sounds as the water is slowly drained. Charley still doesn’t turn around.
“I was wrong. All the stuff you said in the interview was right. And that’s why it hurt so much. I was putting you—our friendship—second.” He sighs. “I shouldn’t have done that. And I shouldn’t have stormed away. Or, at least, should have reached out after I’d cooled down a bit.” Although, he’d been furious about the interview years after the fact. He’d been unable to hear or see Charley’s name be spoken or written without his vision going red. Charley was difficult to work with, Charley was impossibly stubborn, it was Charley’s fault that things didn’t work out.
But Frank’s not entirely innocent, either.
“No.” And, finally, Charley turns around. His face is pinched, eyebrows furrowed. “I deserved it.” He purses his lips.
Frank blinks rapidly, not sure if he heard correctly. “What?”
“It was wrong of me to air out all my grievances about you on live TV.” Charley looks visibly uncomfortable, although Frank can’t say he was any different during his apology. “It should have been a private conversation. I probably would’ve stormed out too if the roles had been reversed.”
There’s something nice about hearing Charley’s apology and affirming words. That he would have done the same. Charley was at fault, but so was Frank. The years-long anger fizzles out like a decrescendo al niente. His chest feels light, his head clear. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt like this. There’s a peace that settles over him like a blanket.
A too-long beat of silence passes—a fermata over a rest note.
Then, Frank smiles. It’s not the one he gives to people he’s trying to impress or win over, it’s not the one he practices in the mirror until his cheeks hurt, it’s not the one he uses as a front for other emotions. It’s a genuine smile; he feels his whole face lift, not just the corners of his mouth. “No, you definitely would’ve argued with me, camera and reporter be damned. That’s just how you are.” He says it in an affectionate way.
An uncertain smile takes over Charley’s face. “Should we go, then?” He gestures to the book in Frank’s hand. “You should probably put that back where you found it.”
Frank’s eyes catch on the phone hung on the wall by the kitchen. He nods. “Okay. But before we go…can I make a phone call?”
Charley winces.
“No, no, not like that,” Frank says quickly. Although, he knows his own phone back home has probably been ringing nonstop. Someone has likely been sent to his house to see if he’s still alive. He finds he doesn’t care. He’s somewhere infinitely more important. “I want to call Frankie.”
~~~
“What happened to Mary?” Frank asks, on the way back to the hospital. The Converse box is surprisingly light under his arm. The only proof that something’s inside it is the occasional shuffle that sounds like pieces of paper jostling against each other. If not for that, he would have wondered if Mary just sent them on a wild goose chase to get an empty box.
His conversation with Frankie is still rattling about in his head. It was a stilted conversation (which is to be expected) but, to Frank’s relief, his son agreed to go out somewhere with him the next time he was in Los Angeles or Frank was in Houston. Frank invited Frankie’s girlfriend too, in case Frankie didn’t want to go alone, but his son confessed they’d broken up two months ago. Frank winced over the phone—both in empathy and due to the fact that he hadn’t spoken to his son in over two months.
“Was she drinking and driving?” Frank continues. “Do we need to stage an intervention? Was there another person in the accident?”
Charley gives him a sidelong glance. “Mary’s been sober for almost a year now.”
“Really?” Frank asks, and there it is again. That sharp pain that reminds him that Charley and Mary’s life continued after they left Frank’s. He wasn’t there to support Mary, to celebrate her. That is time he will never get back. “That’s great.”
“And she wasn’t even driving,” Charley says, narrowing his eyes, and his next sentence comes out staccato. “Some arrogant bastard who’d just come from the bar ran a red light and hit her while she was crossing the street. He’s somewhere in the hospital too, but I haven’t given him the time of day.” There’s a bite to his words, and Frank’s relieved to not be on the receiving end of them for a change. “I hope he gets what he deserves.”
They’re finally at the hospital and navigate the many halls back to Mary’s room.
She’s wide awake—did she even nap?—and eyes up Frank and Charley as they enter the room. “Well, I see no claw marks,” she declares, trying and failing to hide a wide grin.
“Ha ha ha,” Frank says with a roll of his eyes, setting the box down in Mary’s lap. “Alright, can we open it?” He can’t say he’s not curious about what's inside.
Mary grins and gestures to the box with her right hand. “Go for it.”
Frank glances at Mary, and then at Charley at the other side of the bed. Then, he lifts the top of the box.
Inside are a pile of polaroids and photo strips.
Frank gently picks up the first one that catches his eye: a four picture photo strip of the three of them. They’re grinning at the camera, making silly faces. Happy. He can’t remember for the life of him when it was taken, but they all look so young. Practically babies.
Charley picks up a polaroid where Frank’s holding Charley’s glasses to Mary’s face. “I think you suit the glasses look,” Charley says, showing the picture.
“I should’ve written the dates on the back of them,” Mary says with a sigh, chuckling at one where someone’s shoe is taking up most of the frame, with only the side of Frank’s head in view.
Frank digs to the bottom and takes in a little breath at the sight of a particular polaroid. It’s the three of them outside the large billboard advertising Musical Husbands. In it, he, Mary, and Charley are practically glowing, beaming from ear to ear.
Nostalgia fills him up, and he looks up at the Charley and Mary of the present, the ones in the room with him. He loves them so much—has missed them. He’s going to do better. He’s going to cultivate their friendship more, he’s going to connect with his son, he’s going to find a good work-life balance. It feels like the ending of a story, with all the loose ends tied up and a swelling orchestral finale. If he could pause this moment, and stay in it for a little longer, he would. But he knows that that isn’t how life works; whether you want it to or not, life rolls along.