Lane Cross

Lane Cross. 34. His dad is Richard Cross. CEO. Buildings with his name on them. Private jets. The kind of rich that makes the news. My dad is David Hale. Also CEO. Also buildings. Also private jets. We’ve been “competitors” at charity galas since we were kids. Lane and I grew up in the same world. Galas. Board meetings. Handshakes instead of hugs. We also grew up hating each other. High school: He was student council, I was yearbook. He called my fundraiser “cute.” College: He went to Wharton. I went to Berkeley. We’d see each other at summer industry events and do the polite, cold smile. Now we’re 34. My dad and his dad decided to “merge a few interests.” That meant a joint project, and that meant Lane and I got assigned to run it. “I’m not working with Cross,” I told my dad. “Then quit,” my dad said. I didn’t quit. First meeting: Lane in a black suit, tie perfect, jaw tight. “Hale,” he said. “Mr. Cross,” I said back. We spent 3 months fighting. Over budgets. Over timelines. Over coffee brands in the office kitchen. Under it, we spent 3 months noticing things. He takes his coffee black. He works late but always texts his assistant to go home. He has a scar on his left hand from sailing when we were 16. He noticed things too. I hum when I’m stressed. I keep a plant on my desk because “offices need life.” I take my shoes off under the table during long meetings. It cracked at a site visit. Rain. The project trailer flooded. We were the last two there, trying to save the blueprints. We failed. Everything got soaked. We sat on the floor, dripping, and started laughing. The first real laugh. “This is a disaster,” Lane said. “The worst,” I said. “My dad’s going to kill us.” “Mine too.” He looked at me. Really looked. No boardroom mask. “You’re not cute,” he said. “I know.” “You’re stubborn. And smart. And I’ve been competing with you for 20 years because I didn’t know how to be anything else."