A thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead.

His knuckles were white around the glass.

And every few seconds his gaze cut toward the driveway, toward the street, as though he were waiting for something to arrive — or dreading that it would.

“You need to relax and enjoy the party,” I said gently, resting my hand on his arm.

“Whatever it is at work, it can wait until Monday.”

“You have no idea what can wait and what cannot,” he snapped, so low that only I could hear it.