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My eyebrows furrow. “Huh. There’s no reason a firewall should come up in that program. Eliza, can you take a look at it and see what the deal is?”
She nods her head and makes a note on her tablet.
“It’s only happened a couple of times, so I’m betting it was user error instead of the program.” Inez shrugs.
I nod. “William, how close are you getting to finishing the new database?”
“I’ll maybe need a couple more weeks. I’m running into some errors where the automatic scoring sections aren’t producing the correct numbers based on the scoring criteria.”
We’ve been building a brand-new database for every research team to use no matter what subject they study. We’re hoping it can streamline the data processing part and allow our researchers to analyze the data almost immediately. It’s become a huge undertaking, and every one of our team members has had a hand in building it. I’m very proud of how far we’ve been able to take it.
“Okay, let us know if you need one of us to take a look at it. A fresh pair of eyes might help.”
“Will do.”
Eliza and Paul give us their updates, as well. Paul works with our security team for the most part, ensuring our researchers only have access to the programs they need. There are hundreds of researchers, staff, and volunteers who come and go from the building each day. All of them need access to specific datasets, programs, and other ancillary technology.
Eliza is our floater. She does a little bit of everything, and if there’s something she doesn’t know how to do, all we have to do is give her a couple of days and she’ll be proficient in it. She’s also a single mom and works a three-quarter week to be more available for her kiddo.
The rest of the morning is spent working through issues we’re having on our respective projects. Most of the time, we can work these things out over video calls, but as much as I want to deny it, being in person is just easier.
The downside to our monthly meeting is we spend the entire day on each other’s projects, and our own work gets pushed off to the side. I spend the almost hour-long drive home to Westlake going through my task list and deciding what I can get done without having to stay up until midnight to finish.
I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy. I can’t start a project without the intention of either finishing it or getting it to a stopping point that can be easily picked back up again. I’ve never been a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. Even as a kid, I wasn’t good with last-minute changes.
When I finally pull up to my house, it’s after six, and I’m starving. I walk through my garage and into my one-story, ranch-style house. The garage leads straight into my kitchen, which is open to the living room. My décor style would be classified as minimalistic or, if you’re Nolan, “boring.” Too much clutter gives me anxiety. If my environment is chaotic, my brain feels chaotic.
On the other side of the house are my bedroom and my office. A guest bedroom felt unnecessary. My entire family—except for my sister—lives in Westlake. They’re the only people I’d ever feel comfortable having stay over at my house, and there’s no reason for them to.
I slip off my shoes, and after pulling out my laptop, I tuck my computer bag and shoes into their respective cubbies.
Loosening my tie, I walk into my kitchen to find something to eat. I’m too tired to cook something, so I grab out a container of leftovers and pop it into the microwave.
As it heats, I scroll through the many notifications on my phone, which now sports a brand-new screen. Several of them are from my sibling group chat asking about when we’re having another pickup soccer match. The five of us have played soccer together since we were old enough to run on the field. When we all moved out of the house, we started getting together as often as we could to play. It was the best way we could think of to spend time together, despite our crazy schedules.
I confirm the time my siblings decided on and then scroll through the other messages. Another five are from Chase. I ignore those and click on one from an unknown number.
Unknown
Hey, Carter! This is Sam Shields. We met at O’Malley’s last Friday. I realized I still owe you a drink for the mishap with your phone. You still interested?
My stomach flops over. Holy shit. I can’t believe he texted me. How did he get my number? It doesn’t matter. The fact that he texted at all is enough.
Me
Hey! I’d still be down to get a drink. Name a time and place, and I’ll make it work.
The second I hit send, I want to take it back. That sounded so desperate. He’s going to think I don’t have a life and am lame.
You don’t have a life. And you are lame.
I groan out loud. I’m being weird for no reason. He’s doing this because he feels guilty about my phone. That’s all. We’ll go grab a drink and that’ll be the end of it. No reason to let my anxiety build over something I’m making up in my head.
The incessant beeping of the microwave finally gets to me, and I pull the glass container of leftovers out. I take my dinner over to the breakfast bar to eat.
Sam’s response comes through while I’m reading the evening headlines. A slow smile curls the side of my mouth.
Sam
