Tom-Time

Tom Burgess stretched out on his couch, one arm draped over the backrest, a bottle of beer sweating lightly in his hand. The game murmured on the television, crowd noise rising and falling like weather. He wasn't watching closely. He didn't need to. Saturdays were for letting things run in the background.

This was Tom-time.

The apartment was quiet, clean in a way that suggested control rather than effort. Nothing out of place. Nothing forgotten. Later he'd shower, change, meet Melissa for dinner. She liked brunch places and small plates and cocktails with herbs floating in them. He liked that she liked those things. It meant he didn't have to think.

For now, though, he was relaxed.

Satisfied.

He took a sip of beer and let his thoughts drift, inevitably, back to Roy Robinson.

It was strange how long Roy had lingered in his life.

They had grown up in the same nothing town outside the city, gone to the same schools, sat in the same classrooms for years without ever really speaking. Tom could still picture it easily. High school hallways. Lockers slamming. Roy moving through the margins like an afterthought. Short, heavy, head down. A boy who seemed to apologize for existing.

Tom had been generous, really.

He had never joined in when the other guys mocked Roy. Never shoved him, never tripped him, never said the things that would have been so easy to say. He'd told himself it was because he was better than that. ****. More mature. Saintly, even.

Looking back, he recognized the feeling for what it had been: indulgence.

Roy hadn't mattered enough to bother with.

College had been more of the same. Same degree. Same lectures. Same grind. Tom had excelled socially. Networking came naturally to him. Professors remembered his name. Women laughed at his jokes. Doors opened.

And yet, somehow, Roy kept showing up.

Not socially. Never that. But academically. Professionally. Always there. Always present. Always... competent.

That was when it started to irritate him.

Because out in the real world, after graduation, patterns were supposed to assert themselves. The talented rose. The impressive advanced. Men like Tom moved forward because it was logical that they would.

Instead, Roy did.

Quietly. Persistently.

He didn't charm people. He didn't impress them. All of that would be beyond the ability for a loser like Roy Robinson. He just showed up, did the work, didn't complain. HR loved him. Executives trusted him. He was "solid." "Reliable." Words Tom despised.

Tom scoffed softly and took another drink.

Reliable was what you called a bridge, or an appliance. Not a man.

And yet Roy kept edging ahead. Not dramatically. Never enough to draw attention. Just enough to be irritating. A promotion here. A project there. A nod of approval that Tom knew should have been his.

That was when Roy stopped being invisible.

That was when Tom started to hate him.

The unfairness of it gnawed at him. He was taller. Better looking. Smarter in every way that mattered. He knew how to talk to people. He knew how to lead. He had presence.

Roy had none of that.

So why him?

The answer, eventually, had become obvious.

Systems rewarded obedience. Institutions favored men who didn't threaten them. Roy's smallness, his eagerness to please, his lack of ambition masquerading as humility—those things made people comfortable.

Tom smiled to himself.

Fine.

If the system wanted Roy, the system could have him.

Just not for long.

The plan had come together cleanly. Elegantly. A few planted suggestions. A couple of well-timed emails. A paper trail that looked damning if you didn't look too closely. It didn't need to be airtight. It just needed to be uncomfortable.

Enough pressure, and Roy would fold. Guys like that were built to cave.

And on his way out, humiliated and **** to preserve what little reputation he had, Roy would do the sensible thing. The grateful thing. He would recommend Tom as his replacement.

Tom would step into the role he had always deserved.

Roy would vanish.

Everyone would win.

Well, everyone who mattered.

The crowd on the television roared as someone scored. Tom glanced up, smiled faintly, then reached for his phone. No new messages. Good. Everything was proceeding exactly as planned.

He leaned back, utterly at ease.

Poor Roy probably thought his life was falling apart.

Tom took another drink.

Roy had no idea how merciful Tom was being.

If anything, Tom thought, watching the game unfold without really seeing it, this was simply the universe correcting a long-standing mistake.