Chapter 4 FIRST MEETING

The afternoon had been mild, the breeze light and unhurried, with the sun hanging lazily in the sky like a golden coin suspended in blue glass. It was one of those middle-of-August days where the air felt neither too hot nor too cool, a perfect kind of in-between where the world seems to hold its breath. Shadows stretched long across the streets of Pherros, painting the pavement in stripes of gold and gray. The town, tucked between two larger cities, was quieter than usual-most of the traffic had died down, leaving only the occasional passerby strolling beneath the rustling trees.

A few stray clouds drifted across the horizon like forgotten thoughts.

Jake stepped out of the office building, the glass doors swinging shut behind him with a soft click. He ran a hand through his hair, already anticipating the familiar burn of whiskey at the back of his throat. His fingers had just curled around the door handle of his car when his phone buzzed to life in his pocket, the screen flashing his father's name. He exhaled through his nose but answered anyway.

"Jake!" His father's voice crackled through the receiver, urgent but not panicked. "I need you to do something for me."

Jake leaned against the car, already bracing himself. "What's up, Dad?"

"I've got a client interested in a partnership," Mr. Kirby began, his voice shifting into that no-nonsense business tone Jake knew all too well. "I can't meet him-things are... complicated here with your stepmother. So, I need you to go in my place."

Jake let out a long breath, his gaze drifting toward the Bull Bar on the corner. "Dad, I'm heading out for a drink. You know how it is. I don't need another thing to think about right now."

"I understand, son, but this is important. We can't miss this opportunity. You're the one there. The manager won't cut it. I need you to seal the deal."

There was a pause, and Jake could almost hear the unspoken plea beneath his father's words.

"I'm not asking you, Jake. I'm telling you. You're there, so you go."

Jake rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips. His father had a way of making refusal impossible. "Fine. Just... tell me who the client is, and I'll do what I can."

After a brief exchange of details, Jake hung up, shoving the phone back into his pocket with a grumble. He wasn't sure if he was more annoyed at his father or at the fact that his usual escape had just been postponed.

He dialed the number his father had sent, and after a few rings, a smooth, professional voice answered.

"Mr. Rowland speaking."

"Mr. Rowland, this is Jake Kirby."

"Ah, Mr. Kirby," Rowland replied, his tone polished. "My boss has asked you to choose a meeting spot. He doesn't like formal settings... prefers something more relaxed."

Jake's eyes flicked back to the Bull Bar. "How about the Bull Bar? It's quiet enough and close by."

Another pause. Then, "That will work. Mr. Sullivan will be expecting you."

---

The Bull Bar hadn't changed since the night before-same worn wooden floors, same faint scent of spilled beer and tobacco lingering in the air like an old friend. The place was a sanctuary in its own right, a dimly lit refuge where time moved slower and troubles could be drowned in amber liquid.

Jake nodded at the bartender, who jerked his chin toward the back.

"Private room," the bartender said. "Down the hall."

Jake made his way past the usual crowd-locals hunched over cards, laughter bubbling up between sips of beer-and into a narrow hallway. At the end, a door stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

The room was small but comfortable, with a round wooden table at its center and a single window letting in the fading afternoon light. At the far end, a middle-aged man in a gray suit sat behind a laptop, typing with brisk efficiency. Beside him, another man-late forties, dressed in a plain button-up and dark jeans-leaned back in his chair, a glass of what looked like juice in front of him.

Jake cleared his throat.

Both men looked up. The businessman barely acknowledged him, but the other man set his glass down with a soft clink and stood, extending his hand.

"Mr. Kirby, I presume?" His voice was warm, smooth as aged whiskey.

Jake shook his hand. "Yes, that's me. Mr. Sullivan?"

"Indeed." Sullivan gestured to the empty chair across from him. "Please, sit. Don't mind Mr. Rowland-he's always busy."

Jake took his seat, sliding the folder his father had prepared onto the table. "My father couldn't make it, but I'm here to discuss how we can help manage your farm into the dream property you want."

Sullivan nodded, his sharp eyes studying Jake with quiet interest. "I'm listening."

Jake launched into the presentation, detailing the services his father's company offered-land management, crop optimization, livestock care. He spoke of past successes, of clients who had seen their profits double under their guidance. Sullivan listened intently, occasionally interjecting with questions about logistics or profit margins.

To Jake's surprise, the conversation flowed easily. The whiskey-induced fog in his mind lifted slightly, replaced by the familiar rhythm of business talk. By the time he finished, Sullivan was nodding, a satisfied gleam in his eye.

"This is excellent, Mr. Kirby," Sullivan said, flipping through the documents. "I'm impressed. I'll have Mr. Rowland send the signed contract back in a week. This looks promising."

Relief washed over Jake. He hadn't realized how much he'd needed this small victory. "Thank you, Mr. Sullivan. I appreciate your time."

As Jake rose to leave, Sullivan called after him.

"Jake Kirby."

Jake turned. "Yes, sir?"

Sullivan smiled, a knowing glint in his eye. "I knew who you were the moment you walked in. I've watched your series."

Jake blinked. "You've... watched my shows?"

"Indeed," Sullivan said, chuckling. "My son introduced me to Becoming a Perfect Man. It was... enlightening. I learned a great deal about life, business, and family from it."

Jake's throat tightened. He hadn't expected this-not here, not now. "You never mentioned it during the meeting."

"Business is business," Sullivan said with a wink. "But I'll be honest-I was impressed when I realized who I was dealing with. A writer? In business? You're good."

"Thank you," Jake managed, his voice rough. "That means a lot."

Sullivan studied him for a long moment, then leaned forward slightly. "You know, I had a friend once-a man who was down on his luck, bankrupt, no hope left. He was about to throw it all away when he saw a movie playing in a shop window. There was a scene where an actor broke down, talking about life's struggles. My friend said that's when everything changed for him."

Jake raised an eyebrow. "Motivated by a movie?"

Sullivan nodded. "Sounds strange, doesn't it? But in that moment, someone told the actor, 'Life isn't made for enjoyment. After sweet comes sour, and after sour comes sweet.' Those words saved my friend's life in a way."

Jake frowned. "I don't know... seems like a stretch."

"You wouldn't understand unless you've been there," Sullivan said quietly. "I tell you this because I see something in you, Jake. You're going through a rough patch. Maybe you just need to hear that there's more to life than the pain you're feeling right now."

Jake swallowed hard, the words hitting closer to home than he cared to admit.

"Art can motivate," Sullivan continued. "But the real key is... you have to want to change. To take action. Otherwise, it's all just words."

Jake nodded slowly. "I get it. Thanks for the advice, Mr. Sullivan."

Sullivan smiled. "No problem. I'll see you around."

---

Jake stepped out of the Bull Bar, the evening air cool against his skin. For the first time in months, he didn't stop for a drink. He didn't text Devin or Luke. Instead, he stood there, staring at the darkening sky, Sullivan's words echoing in his mind.

After sour comes sweet.

Maybe, just maybe, there was truth in that.

He got into his car and drove home, the weight on his chest feeling just a little lighter.