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Sam’s nerves are still buzzing as he leaves the podium, the doors shutting against a wall of further questions and dubious board members. Alan’s quick to catch up; he’s at Sam’s side in an instant, and his presence is almost enough to calm the butterflies rioting through his body.
Almost.
“That was good work, Sam,” Alan says, hand on his shoulder and voice close to his ear.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Sam replies. He still feels like he might throw up.
“We could get take-out to celebrate.”
“Please don’t talk about food right now.”
They rush out of ENCOM Tower and into Alan’s sensible green sedan, weaving through straggling journalists and enthusiasts and miraculously pulling from the curb without running any of them over. Alan begins the tedious Bay Area ritual of navigating through traffic—a godsend, since Sam doesn’t think he could settle his hands enough to drive at the moment, but the constant stop-and-go doesn’t do his stomach any favors. Is it too late to start walking instead?
“I mean it, Sam,” Alan says, which means it is. “You did great out there. Flynn—your father… he would be proud.”
“Uh-huh,” Sam says.
“Not a lot of people have that kind of knack for public speaking,” Alan continues. Sam, concentrating on keeping his breakfast of one granola bar down, lets his words flow straight through his head. “Flynn did—though in his case, I’d probably say it was more a sense for the dramatic, or an approaching detachment from reality. Not that he was insane or anything, but, well—he was a visionary. A brilliant one. And brilliant visionaries see things us mortals can’t, you know?”
“Okay,” Sam says, trying to keep his throat closed.
Alan lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry. You just took a big step as CEO, and here I am talking about your dad. It’s just—you remind me of him so, so much. I can’t help it.”
The car makes a sudden stop, and Sam feels his stomach lurch dangerously toward his chest. “That’s okay,” he says quickly.
Alan looks at him, his eyebrows knit close together. “Sam, are you feeling all right?”
Sam squeezes his eyes shut. “Alan,” he says. “Pull the car over.”
“What?”
“Pull it o—”
The drive is, luckily, not much longer after that. Sam showers and changes; Alan drops his sedan off to get cleaned. When they reunite in Alan’s living room, Sam sitting pathetically on the couch, Alan brings him a mild tea and some belated over-the-counter nausea medicine. Sam considers mixing them before deciding he’s punished his body enough already. He touches neither.
“I’m sorry for throwing up in your car,” he says.
Alan sighs as he settles into a nearby armchair. “Not the worst thing that’s happened to it, believe me,” he replies. “Don’t worry about it.”
Sam snorts. If he were in the mood, he’d ask about that. What could a car owned by Alan Bradley possibly have been through? Instead, the remnants of his anxiety scatter the humor of the situation directly to Hell.
The press conference had gone well. Logically, he knows this. Regardless of what a few shareholders might think, he’d said the right things. Steered ENCOM toward, hopefully, a more sustainable and mindful direction. Taken what his dad had believed in and improved upon it.
He feels himself blanch. This is gonna be his life now. Heading a company. Answering to random people who happen to have money. Holding press conferences and being the face of something faceless. Over and over again. Forever and ever and ever until he either retires or dies. And who knows when that’s gonna be?
Jesus. No wonder his father had tried to escape.
“I don’t think I can do this,” he grumbles.
Alan has his own mug of tea, and he takes a sip before replying. “Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s a matter of can,” is what he says. “You just have to, Sam. But here’s something your father never figured out.” He sets the mug down and looks at him. “You can ask for help. There are plenty of people around you who’d be more than happy to pick up whatever slack you put down. The point isn’t doing it alone. It’s just… doing it.” He smiles, and it’s the sadness in it that surprises Sam. “Does that make sense?”
… Yeah. It makes sense. And it’s simple. Embarrassingly so. He can’t believe it didn’t cross his mind earlier. He grins back, showing his teeth.
“That was my last press conference,” he says.
Alan chuckles. “All right,” he says. “Then that was your last press conference.”
“And I’m not doing any more board meetings.”
“Well—no. You still need to attend those.”
Sam shrugs. “Worth a try.”
“Uh-huh,” Alan says, and gestures at the coffee table. “Your tea’s getting cold.”
Sam’s grin widens as he takes the lukewarm mug in hand. “Fine,” he says, “but we’re circling back to this later.”
Circling back. Did he really just say that? He brings his mug up with a grimace, takes a deep sip, and washes it away.