My sister’s new boyfriend shook my hand like he was trying to crack a walnut.
He held on a second too long and squeezed a little too hard. While he did it, he looked me up and down, from my flannel shirt to my work boots and back up again, the way you’d look at a used car you had no intention of buying.
“And you must be the little brother,” he said.
Not Zach. Not “Nice to meet you.” The little brother.
His smile was about sixty percent teeth and zero percent warmth.
“Paige has told me all about you, buddy.”
Buddy. He called me buddy. Before the night was over he would call me buddy at least fifteen times, and every time it landed the way you’d talk to a golden retriever that had just learned to shake.
“I’m Graham,” he added. “Not Gray. Not G. Graham.”
He told me that within the first thirty seconds of meeting me. Looking back, it should have been my first clue that this Thanksgiving was going to be a special kind of awful.
He had walked into my parents’ house wearing a navy sport coat with a pocket square. Everybody else was in jeans and sweaters. My dad was in a Washington Commanders sweatshirt with a hole in the elbow. Graham came in holding a bottle of wine up like a trophy and went straight to my mother.
“Mrs. Hollis, a Willamette Valley Pinot Noir. 2018 vintage. Quite lovely on the palate.”
My mom, bless her heart, took the bottle, looked at it, and said, “Oh, that’s nice, honey. We’ve got Bud Light in the cooler if you want something cold.”
I almost choked on my water.
My girlfriend Karen elbowed me in the ribs. I coughed into my fist and pretended it was the dry air.
Graham didn’t laugh. He just smiled that thin smile and moved on around the room, shaking hands like a politician working a rope line. He called my brother Evan “counselor,” and Evan looked mildly amused. He complimented Evan’s wife Meredith on her earrings in so much detail it sounded like he’d studied jewelry appraisal. He crouched down and asked my niece and nephew where they went to school, then lost interest before they finished answering.
Then he came back around to me, as if he’d saved me for last on purpose.
“So, buddy. Paige tells me you’re in computers.”
“Something like that,” I said.
“Good for you.” He patted my shoulder twice. “Somebody’s got to do it.”
I didn’t say anything back. I smiled, nodded, and took a sip of my water.
The whole time, something was scratching at the back of my brain. Something about his face, his voice, and the way he carried himself, with an arrogance so polished it felt rehearsed.
I knew this guy.
I didn’t know him from Paige’s Instagram or from some party. I knew him from somewhere specific, and I couldn’t place it.
Not yet.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
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