The Trouble With Brent Woods
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 7
The revolving doors of the agency building felt heavier than Brent remembered. He wondered if it was just his own imagination, a psychological thing.
Meanwhile, Midtown roared outside—taxis idling, people rushing everywhere. Inside the lobby, the air held a curated stillness. Polished marble. Clean glass. The faint scent of citrus cleaner. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, suddenly aware of every step he took across the floor.
A few heads turned. Brent had expected that.
Some faces softened in recognition. Others flickered with curiosity—the subtle double take of people who had seen a headline before seeing him.
He kept walking.
The elevator ride to his floor felt longer than it used to. Screens reflected his face back at him: composed, tired, but steady. When the doors slid open, the familiar hum of keyboards and muted conversation washed over him.
Luke was the first to notice.
He looked up from his desk, froze, then broke into a quiet smile that reached his eyes. “Well, look who’s back.”
Brent let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Apparently they decided I’m employable again.”
Luke stood, offering a handshake that turned into a brief, awkward hug. “It’s good to see you, man.”
“It’s good to be seen,” Brent said.
They walked toward Brent’s office together. The glass walls felt less like a stage now, more like a workspace. A few coworkers waved. One or two avoided eye contact, unsure what to say. He didn’t take it personally.
“You look different,” Luke observed.
“Different good?”
“Different calm,” Luke said. “Like you stopped running a marathon no one else knew about.”
Brent laughed softly. “Queens has that effect.”
Luke raised a brow. “Still spending time there?”
“Yeah,” Brent admitted. “I ... found perspective.”
Luke nodded, as if confirming a theory he’d already held.
“So,” Brent added, “thank you. For not giving up on me.”
Luke shrugged. “That’s what friends do.”
The morning passed in a blur of emails and cautious greetings. He sat through a meeting where his supervisor outlined the agency’s strategy moving forward, her tone measured but supportive. Brent listened more than he spoke, noticing details he might’ve ignored before—the tension in voices, the way ideas hesitated before landing.
By early afternoon, he needed air. He took the elevator down to the lobby, intending to grab coffee before the next meeting.
That’s when he saw her.
Maggie stood near the reception desk, a stack of folders balanced against her hip, speaking with the security guard. She wore a simple blouse and dark slacks, hair pulled back, expression focused in a way he’d never witnessed in Jackson Heights. Efficient. Professional. Entirely at home in the building he’d once moved through like a ghost.
She turned—and froze.
For a moment, they simply stared.
“You’re back,” she said.
“I am,” he replied.
She gestured vaguely toward him. “You look ... different here.”
“Occupational costume change,” he said lightly.
She studied him, seeing something she hadn’t before. Not arrogance. Not nightlife residue. Just a man standing upright in his own world.
“You fit here,” she said quietly.
“I always did,” he replied. “I just didn’t notice anyone else who did.”
Her eyes flickered, surprised by the admission.
A colleague approached her with a question, and Maggie shifted seamlessly into work mode—answering, clarifying, handing off documents with quick precision. Brent watched, struck by how naturally she commanded respect.
“You’re good at this,” he said when they were alone again.
She shrugged. “Someone has to keep things moving.”
“Guess I missed that while I was rushing to meetings,” he admitted.
Maggie tilted her head. “You probably didn’t look up much.”
“Working on that.”
She smiled faintly—small, but real.
“So,” she said, lowering her voice, “I heard you were cleared.”
“Yeah. Annette pulled it together.”
“I never said it out loud,” Maggie replied, “but ... I’m glad.”
“Thank you,” he said.
A moment passed. It felt different here, in this shared space neither of them had fully seen before. The sharp edges between them had softened, replaced by curiosity.
“Queens still treating you well?” she asked.
“It changed me,” he said. “Or maybe it just showed me who I was without the noise.”
She nodded slowly.
“Well,” she said, shifting the folders in her arms, “welcome back, Brent Woods.”
“Good to see you, Magdalena Vallejo,” he replied.
Her eyes widened slightly at the full name, then she laughed under her breath.
“Don’t get formal on me now.”
“No promises.”
She turned to leave, then paused.
“You know,” she added, glancing back, “you’re less ... intimidating when you’re not surrounded by glass walls.”
He grinned. “And you’re less terrifying when you’re not calling me a party boy.”
She shook her head, smiling despite herself, and walked toward the elevators.
Brent watched her go, realizing that returning to work hadn’t just brought him back to his career. It had brought him back to her—under entirely new light.
The office felt quieter in the late afternoon, the way it always did once deadlines had been chased into submission. Brent stood outside Mara Chen’s glass-walled office for a moment before knocking lightly.
She glanced up, already smiling. “Come in.”
Her desk was immaculate, a contrast to the controlled chaos he remembered from before his leave. She gestured toward the chair across from her. “So. Now that the dust has settled—how are you feeling about being back?”
Brent considered the question longer than he might have a month ago. “Grateful,” he said finally. “And ... cautious.”
Mara nodded, folding her hands. “I’ve already noticed a change in you. Less reactive. More deliberate.”
“I’m trying to be,” he admitted. “The break forced me to slow down. Made me realize how much of my career was built on momentum instead of intention.”
“That’s not unusual,” she said. “But it’s rare for someone to recognize it before burning out completely.”
He exhaled slowly. “I don’t think I want to chase every headline anymore. The late nights, the constant grind—it used to feel like proof that I mattered. Clarifying the past few weeks made me question whether that’s actually the life I want.”
Mara tilted her head. “You’re thinking about changing direction?”
“Not abandoning everything,” he said quickly. “Just ... reshaping it. More mentorship, maybe. Projects that last longer than a news cycle.”
She watched him carefully, measuring the sincerity behind his words. “That sounds like growth, Brent. Not retreat.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
“Well,” she said, tapping a note into her tablet, “let’s start exploring options that align with that. You’ve earned the right to evolve.”
The conversation left him lighter. As he stepped back into the open office, Luke waved him over from the break area, two coffees already waiting.
“I figured you’d need this after an HR talk,” Luke said.
Brent took the cup, grateful for the warmth. “It wasn’t bad. Actually ... it was good.”
They settled at a small table near the window, sunlight streaking across the floor.
“So what’s the verdict?” Luke asked.
“I’m thinking of slowing down,” Brent said. “Choosing projects instead of letting them choose me.”
Luke leaned back, eyebrows raised. “You? The guy who once volunteered for three overlapping deadlines?”
“Former guy,” Brent corrected with a small smile. “Turns out, being forced off the treadmill showed me I didn’t actually miss running.”
Luke studied him for a moment, then nodded approvingly. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that. You were brilliant before—but you were also exhausted all the time.”
“I thought exhaustion meant success,” Brent admitted.
“And now?”
“Now I think balance might be the real flex.”
Luke laughed quietly. “Welcome to adulthood, man.”
They talked about small things after that—upcoming projects, office rumors—but Brent felt a steady calm under the conversation. He wasn’t trying to prove anything. Not to Luke, not to anyone.
Later, as Brent packed up his bag near the end of the day, his phone buzzed. Sophia’s name lit up the screen. He stepped into a quieter hallway before answering.
“Hey,” he said.
“So, the rumors are true,” Sophia teased through the speaker. “You’re officially back among the living.”
“Barely survived,” he replied, leaning against the wall.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” she said, her tone softening. “It’s been strange not hearing your daily chaos updates.”
“It’s been strange not having any chaos to report,” he admitted.
She paused. “You sound ... different. Calmer.”
“I think I finally listened to myself,” he said. “Instead of reacting to whatever makes the loudest noise.”
Sophia hummed thoughtfully. “You used to treat life like a highlight reel. Always chasing the next big moment.”
“And missing the smaller ones,” he added. “The ones that actually stick.”
“Well, look at you,” she laughed gently. “All introspective.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he said, though he was smiling.
They spoke for a few more minutes—about her new routine, about how strange it felt that his world had slowed down while everyone else’s kept spinning. Before hanging up, she said quietly, “I’m proud of you, you know. Growth looks good on you.”
The call ended, leaving a soft echo of her words in the silence. Brent slipped his phone into his pocket and headed toward the elevators, feeling steadier than he had all day.
That evening, his apartment felt different—not emptier, but calmer. He set his phone face down on the table and opened a window, letting cool air drift in. The city buzzed below, distant and manageable.
He sat on the couch, shoes off, letting the silence settle around him.
The conversations replayed in fragments: Mara’s quiet encouragement, Luke’s easy honesty, Sophia’s perceptive humor. Each interaction felt like a mirror reflecting a version of himself he hadn’t known existed.
For years, he’d defined himself by motion—by the next event, the next deal, the next after-hours gathering. Without that noise, he’d expected to feel hollow.
Instead, he felt present.
He thought briefly of Jackson Heights—the warm lights of Mr. Pollard’s, the conversations that didn’t revolve around status or spectacle. Even the memory of Maggie surfaced only as a passing thought, a reminder of how differently people could see him when he wasn’t performing.
Brent leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Maybe success wasn’t about reclaiming the old “fun Brent” everyone remembered. Maybe it was about discovering the quieter version who didn’t need constant validation to feel alive.
Outside, a car horn sounded, then faded.
He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, letting the day settle into him.
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