What a waste.

There are far more important things in the world than my high school reunion but you wouldn’t know that based on my news feed right now.

I lean against a wall at LAX, scrolling on my phone past the dense haze of photos and messages posted by my classmates over the last few days.

I can’t believe its been ten years!

Can’t wait to see you all again.

Where did the time go? I feel so old.

It’s not like social media hasn’t kept our lives front and center to each other this whole time anyway. I’ve already seen photos of Blaine McNally’s kids and Carter Queen’s London wedding (and island honeymoon/annulment) and Sally Sweet’s nose job. I’d much rather spend my evening elsewhere.

I glance at the monitor on the wall above my head. Flight 929. Delayed.

I chuckle to myself. He must have hit something.

My phone vibrates in my hand. I turn it up to find a new text message.

Sally. She’s been dropping hints for weeks, telling me she can’t wait to be near me again and that she gets so wet every time she sees my face on the news. I’ve done my best to steer the conversation away from my dick but Sally wears desperation like a runway model wears this season’s shoes.

I reply.

My thumb barely rises off the screen before she fires one back.

I’m hesitant to argue but my fingers tap it out anyway.

She replies just as fast.

I shake my head.

A pouting emoji pops up. I roll my eyes and drop the phone into my pocket.

I’m not that guy anymore but I’m not surprised they still think of me that way. A bit of questionable ethics comes with the Monahan name. I’ve spent the last few years doing everything I professionally can to distance myself from that reputation. Easier said than done, turns out.

My phone rings and I reach for it, praying that it’s not Sally. Luckily, it’s just my dad but that doesn’t make hitting the answer button any easier.

I clear my throat as I raise the phone to my ear. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m great. Thanks,” I say. “How are you?”

He ignores it. “David just told me you’re passing on the Argento case.”

I flex my jaw. I’d hoped that bit wouldn’t hit his desk until at least Monday. “Yeah, I’m not interested.”

“And why not?”

“Because he’s guilty.”

My father sighs. “Oh, come on. Not this bullshit again—”

“I’m not standing up and defending an Italian mobster in court.”

“It’s not your job to pass judgment, Max,” he growls. “You represent clients — and you represent the ones I tell you to represent.”

“It’s just one case, Dad. David can handle it,” I say.

“David isn’t my son.” His voice rises. “David’s not the future of this practice. You are. I don’t know where this sudden crusader-for-justice attitude came from but I want it checked at the door on Monday morning before you head to the prison to meet with Argento. Do I make myself clear?”

Several people come walking out of the gate, some rolling their carry-ons behind them as they head toward baggage claim. I glance at the monitor again. Flight 929. Arrived.

“I gotta go, Dad.”

“This conversation isn’t over, Max.”

I hang up and let the phone go into my pocket.

Laughter and voices pull my attention across the airport terminal. I watch for several minutes as the last group of passengers come walking out the gate. Families and friends reunite together with embraces and smiles. A child races toward a man in uniform with tears in his eyes. A young couple falls into each other’s arms and kiss. It’s a good feeling. For one moment in their hectic lives, they stop to appreciate just being near each other again.

Reunions. One of life’s little ambiguities.

They can be good, like old friends coming together for the first time in years. Or bad, like a fucking mobster being released back into the world on a damn technicality.

I’ve had my hand in one more than the other. About time I changed that.

“Maximillian.”

I look to the empty gate to see a man standing a few feet away from me with an old suitcase slung off one shoulder. He wears a black suit and a red checkerboard tie with a pilot’s cap casually flung on the side of this head as if he wasn’t the coolest motherfucker in the room.

“Thaddeus,” I say.

He opens his arms and launches toward me. “Come here, you pretty bastard!”

I laugh and hug him back, accidentally knocking his cap off in the process but he doesn’t seem to care. We trade a few hard pats on the back before releasing each other.

“How you doing, man?” I ask.

Thad bends over to grab his hat. “Couldn’t complain at all, even if I wanted to,” he says, brushing it off and sliding it onto his dirty blond head again. “And you? You’re looking well-laid.”

“I try.” I chuckle, my eyes drawn to that checkerboard tie again. And not in a good way. “Cool tie,” I quip.

“Thank you.”

“What was with the delay?”

He exhales hard as he loosens the knot. “Eh, just a loose screw on the landing gear. Had to wait for them to find it before taking off.”

“Yikes.”

“No big deal. Got to spend a little extra time with that new flight attendant.”

“Carrie?”

“Katie.”

“Ah.”

“She’s still not biting, though,” he says. “Think she’s got a boyfriend or something.”

“Or she’s just not interested in hooking up with co-workers,” I suggest. “Like a professional.”

“Hot chicks with morals.” He sighs. “I mean, what’s that about?”

“I think you might be the real reason why we need feminism, Thad.”

“It’s a burden I’m proud to bear.”

We start walking through the airport as he claws into his back pocket for his phone. “I am more than pumped for this reunion. Sally’s been texting me like crazy this week.”

“Let me guess, she gets so wet every time she sees a selfie of you in your uniform?”

He chuckles. “You, too, huh?”

“Yep.”

“The desperate housewife.” He smirks. “I like it.”

“She’s all yours, man.”

“Why? Who do you have your eyes on?”

“I don’t,” I say.

“Bullshit.”

I surrender my hands. “No, really. The only reason I’m going to this thing at all is to have a long-overdue drink with you.”

He lays his palm over his chest. “That’s beautiful, dude. I’m touched.”

“I have too much to worry about right now,” I say. “The last thing I need is a distraction — as hot and bothered as she may be.”

His face winces. “Dad still being an ass?”

“Something like that.”

“Broken record, Max. You should just quit.”

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow.”

He scoffs. “Again, I say, broken record.”

“I can’t just quit.”

“Yes, you can,” he argues. “It’s easy. You just walk up to your old man and say the words, ‘I quit.’”

“It’s not that simple when your name is on the wall,” I point out.

“It’s not your name,” he says, his voice echoing across the airport lobby but he doesn’t seem to care. “It’s his name. A man makes his own destiny.”

I look at him. “That might be the most profound thing I’ve ever heard you say, Thad.”

“And tonight,” he grins, “I’m making my own destiny all over Sally Sweet’s new nose.”

I let out a heavy sigh, amused and unsurprised. “It troubles me that the fates of hundreds of lives are in your hands on a daily basis.”

“Yeah, that is a bit unsettling.” He winks and pats my shoulder. “Thanks for letting me crash with you this weekend.”

“Anytime.”

“And I am very, very sorry — in advance — for the mess I’m going to make all over your bed later.”

I laugh and slap his hand off my arm. “You are not having sex on my bed, Thad.”

“Why not? I’m sure Sally will let you watch.”

“No.”

“If I promise to tag you in every once and a while, can we use your bed?”

“No.”

“Well, would you at least film it?” I glare at him and he throws up his arms. “Okay. All right. Message received. We’ll take the couch.”

“Thank you.”

We reach the entrance and start the long trek across the parking lot toward my car.