Jason Bennett had one hand on the steering wheel and the other tugging loose the knot of his tie, the same deep blue tie I had bought him two Christmases earlier because he said every man in sales needed one tie that made him look “decisive.” He was still flushed from the promotion dinner, still smelling like steakhouse smoke, expensive cologne, bourbon, and victory. The glow from the dashboard cut across his jaw, making him look sharper than he was, like a man in an advertisement for ambition.
We were driving north through Atlanta, past the blurred white and red lights of the freeway, while our four-year-old daughter Ellie slept in the back seat with her head tilted against the car seat and one small hand curled around the stuffed rabbit she refused to go anywhere without. The city rolled by in gold signs and glass towers and late-night brake lights. Somewhere behind us, at the steakhouse where Jason’s new regional sales director title had been toasted over ribeyes and old-fashioneds, people were still telling him he deserved it.
He believed them.
He believed them so completely that by the time we pulled onto I-75, he had already started rewriting our life.