“You’re probably right, but, Jesus …” He drained half of his IPA. “I put in twenty-two hours at the office this weekend, and this is how I choose to spend my day off. Don’t I deserve a minute without someone needing something from me?”

“I’m the last person who should be giving you marriage advice.” I ran my thumb over the frosty glass, the smoothness like the skin on a woman’s navel. “Before I broke things off with Lisa last week, she said I needed to unplug more and suggested I buy a farmhouse in Western Mass and raise fucking goats and shit.” I held up my beer, letting the waitress know we needed another round. “They all want a slower version of me, one who doesn’t spend fourteen hours a day at the office.” I leaned back in the chair, crossing my arms over my chest. “We both know I’m married to work and wired for speed.”

That was the problem with the women I dated—every one of them had tried to switch my priorities—and that was why none of my relationships had lasted more than six months. They were all warned, going in, that work would always win, but like all the previous ones, Lisa had thought she could change me.

“The only thing you know how to do slow is ribs,” Joe joked.

I groaned as I thought about the racks I’d cooked for the boys last month. “We’re due for another cookout, aren’t we?” I took a bite of the steak sandwich the waitress had delivered with our second round of drinks. “When Smith gets back, I’ll make it happen.”

“Now, that’s something I’m really looking forward to.”

We finished our sandwiches and two more beers, and I picked up the tab before we left the restaurant.

Now that we were an hour deeper into the race, the street was even busier than it had been before, the pedestrians rowdier. With Joe wanting to be near the finish line, we headed in that direction, but within a block, he was showing me his ringing phone, a picture of his wife and kids on the screen.

“Answer it. It could be an emergency,” I told him. “I’ll go get us a spot.”

“How will I find you?”

“Text me,” I said as I left him by the crosswalk, following the crowd down Boylston Street.

The pace was slow, giving me plenty of time to check messages between steps. I responded to several from my assistant before reading the text Smith had just sent. It was a photo of Dubai at night, the lights from the skyscrapers illuminating the sea.

Motherfucker, I thought to myself.

I held my phone high above my head and took a picture of the runners and the mass of people who surrounded me. I attached it to the text and started typing.