I’m just afraid that if I open my mouth to do either, another nervous laugh will end up escaping, especially if Abila has it in hand. I catch her eye, lifting a brow. She rolls her eyes, shaking her head.

“I’m...going to get another coffee,” she announces, earning a glare from Mark for interrupting his story of “epic drunken debauchery.” “Please don’t follow me,” she says, her voice laced with quiet disdain.

“Christ, uptight much?” he mutters.

Or maybe she didn’t feel like being sexually harassed on her first day, Mark.

Mark’s elbow digs into my ribs, spilling my, luckily, lukewarm coffee. I pat at my hand with a napkin, putting the cup on the conference table behind me.

“Wesley! I see you’ve met my intern, Mark.”

Richard pats my back hard enough that I buckle a little under the pressure and I’m so glad I’m not still holding my coffee because I would have spilled over more than my hand. Mark and I greet Richard, Mark smiling that chimpanzee smile again.

“If you’ll excuse us, Mark. I need to borrow Wes for a moment.”

Something shifts in Mark’s smile as we walk away, his eyes snagging on Richard’s hand on my shoulder. He suddenly seems a little less primate-like and a little more sharklike.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for Laura’s funeral,” Richard says, once we’ve found a private space in the corner of the conference room away from Mark’s dead shark eyes.

At the mention of Mom, my stomach drops.

I really don’t want to talk about this today.

“Did you get the flowers I sent?” he asks.

I nod, swallow past my dry throat and dread, and try to get the words to come out. I’m at that point where I think it’s okay. I think I’m okay with my mom being gone. But then someone asks about her or how we’re doing and my stomach clenches, my tongue ties. I realize I’m not okay. I’m small again, a skinny, scared kid who really, really misses his mom.

“Yes, we got the flowers. Thank you,” I manage.

Richard smiles and not for the first time, I wonder how this kind man could ever be a friend to my father. Richard speaks fondly of Mom, repeating stories he’s already told me about the three of them—my mom, my dad, and Richard—in college. The longer he talks about her the less my lungs feel like they’re being crushed in someone’s fist.

“I’m sorry.” He smiles ruefully. “I’m sure I’ve told you all of these before.”

He has, and each story hurts like a knife to the gut, but I’m starving for them nonetheless. Memories of Mom where she was the happy, healthy version of herself. Our last few months together, when she was sick and so tired of being sick, are imprinted on my brain. It’s a relief to be reminded that she wasn’t always that way.

Richard walks me through a maze of hallways, pointing out departments. We pass a large, open concept area he calls the Pit where teams already work together, walking until we reach a sandblasted glass door, the words Marketing Director etched across it. He claps his hand on my shoulder and squeezes, smiling warmly.