Page 27 of The Falcon and the Foe

“Russ, it’s okay. Nobody got hurt,” I said, desperate to mediate.

“It’s not okay!” he yelled back with a fury that felt unwarranted for kids caught playing around. “You both should know better! That was dangerous and careless, and if you do anything like that again, then you’re not going on the camping trip.”

Chase bowed his head and nodded. But not Quentin. Through his tears, he glared at his father with all the daggers in the world.

He heaved in a breath that filled up his entire little body like a balloon. “I HATE YOU!”

The words pummeled Russ, making him stagger back. Honestly, they made me stagger back, too. On instinct, I glanced at Josh, grateful for our relationship.

Quentin ran into the building before his father could respond.

9

RUSS

Numbers were my friend. I was one of those guys who found solace staring into the depths of spreadsheets and making sense of data, uncovering insights to help EbbCo be more efficient. Like discovering that it took sales reps twice as long to create a quote as we thought, which was slowing down business. Numbers were clear. They made sense at their core; even when they didn’t at first, I knew there was an explanation waiting to be unearthed.

Humans, on the other hand, were a different beast.

Nonsensical.

Irrational.

Knocking on my office door with one sandwich in their hand and another sticking out of their mouth.

“Cal? What are you doing here?”

He pulled the sandwich from his mouth and chewed down a hunk of it while he answered. “I wanted to discuss plans for the camping trip.” His face beamed with excitement at this random rendezvous. “Your office is so cool, by the way.”

“Where did you get that?” I pointed at the sandwiches. “Was the deli out of to-go boxes?”

“These are from the marketing department’s lunch meeting in Rockefeller.”

Rockefeller was our big conference room. All meeting rooms in the building were named after famous New Yorkers. And they were for employees only, unless here on official business. Two things that did not apply to Cal.

“Did you get a job in marketing?” Panic overcame me at the thought of sharing an office building with him.

“Hell, no. I am not built for corporate life.”

At least he had self-awareness.

“Then how did those sandwiches wind up in your hands. And mouth.”

“Mo said they had plenty and that I could take some for us. I should’ve gotten plates, now that I think about it.”

“Mo? You mean Maureen Halstrom, our VP of Marketing?”

“Yeah,” he said, totally oblivious to all the lines he crossed. “She’s a blast. Oh, hey, Oliver Garden!” Cal shouted at Oliver Webb, our fiftysomething Senior Director of Product Marketing who played golf and went to bars to watch sports and other aggressively bro-ey activities.

“CALifornia Pizza Kitchen!” Oliver—er, Oliver Garden?—called back.

“My hands are full, but give me some elbow, man.”

They tapped elbows! I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t having a nightmare.

“Good to see you again. I see you got lunch.”

“Your marketing team orders way too much. I’m doing my part to eliminate waste.”

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