Executive Presence

 By: Tom Dilworth

My rotation with Steve started like the others. All nerves and no idea what to expect. I stood outside, heart racing, November biting through my coat, like I’d already failed at something. I rang the bell. The lock clicked. I passed through the door, feeling for the school ID badge I’d forgotten before. Not that day. 

He welcomed me like he didn’t expect much. I didn’t either. His rotation was a fluke. Someone got sick, and my other rotation fell through. Steve was somebody – his legend as an alumnus worried me. Pharmacy school had hollowed me out. I just wanted to make it through in one piece. 

***

The pharmacy distribution center was a secluded place. Somewhere no patients ever came. A large warehouse where they received shipments of meds, repackaged them, and sent them off across a health-system. No one talked much. No one needed to. Everything moved like it should. 

Steve directed the center for years. Through the pandemic and countless drug shortages, he said. Not bragging, but not humble – he had a casual, assertive demeanor. I listened, more interested than I expected. 

“We bent the rules at times, extending beyond use dates – cutting red tape.” He grinned. 

I knew Steve was like me. Sometimes you know. You get a feeling, and I felt it with him. A strange sense of recognition, like walking into a story I already knew. His hands were sandpaper rough – unlike the hands I shook at other pharmacies. He was tall and wiry with a narrow face. I didn’t expect his grip, trying to make up ground after my fingers collapsed in his. That stuck with me. 

***

 “Where you from?” I asked Steve early on. A bold move that surprised me. School had pruned my speech to a kind of muted, deferential speak. 

He studied me. “Why you askin’?” 

I knew it. “I went to H–. Grew up by the park.”

He paused, looking into my eyes. He knew it too. “D–.” 

I held his gaze, inviting him to share more, unsure if he would. 

“We lived by the bridge,” he said. “The block houses.” His speech changed – a nasal tone. Vowel shifts I didn’t hear in school. I listened, awed.

We shared more notes, slowly, testing how they’d be received. 

“Welcome,” Steve said to those entering the conference room – his professional voice. He was jovial, talking to each person who joined us. He glanced at me, as if saying, This is how you play the game. 

***

We continued like that after the meeting. His parents were drinkers too.

“After my dad left,” Steve said, “I worked to help my mom. My cousin was a handyman – but drank a lot. I did jobs with him. Then got in with some other guys. Whatta ’bout you?”

I gave him my story. Only child. Distant parents. “They said I should work, instead of college.”

He nodded, eyes drifting past me. His jaw worked silently, like he was chewing over the words. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. “Say, Sean. I could use your help with somethin’.”

“Yeah?”

That’s when he told me about the audit. 

***

Controlled substances are tightly regulated. Routine audits ensure there’s no diversion. “A ritual of accountability,” Steve said. 

The work appealed to me – gave me agency, purpose. I hadn’t felt that since my dad asked me for help. 

“Hey, Sean,” he said. Rare for him to call, and me to answer. It was the summer before junior year. By then, he and Mom had separated for good. “I could use your help – with my dad’s place. Getting it ready for sale.”

Mom wasn’t helping. They lived in different cities but never divorced. Better that way, I thought. He was trying to get sober, but it never stuck.

I agreed, helping him after work. He made money on the sale. I didn’t see much of it. But there were moments – brief connections with a man I’d only ever seen in passing. Like a dream fading before you can remember the details – just dull affection, a half-reached embrace.

One day, I called him during pharmacy school. “I’ve got this thing at school, a family reception. It’s important.” 

“Eh – not my thing, Sean.”

“I want you there. I want you to meet Megan.”

“I know. When is it?”

I gave the date, heard him rustling papers. 

“I can’t – not that day. Maybe another time. I gotta run.”

***

I became Steve’s go-to for the project, often staying late to audit narcotics. I worked on other projects by day, never questioning the work or secrecy. I no longer felt like an outsider or pretender in pharmacy. Being around Steve was like standing beside someone I’d passed a hundred times but never noticed – at once familiar and strange. My connection with him felt total. He paid attention to me like no one had before.

***

“You never stay late,” Megan said. “Who is this guy?”

She was right. But I didn’t give it another thought. “He’s from M–. Grew up in D–.”

She waited, expectant. 

I shrugged. 

“Did you know him growing up?”

“No.” I was fixing a P-trap under her sink. “He’s a couple years older.” 

She gave it up. “Thanks,” she said, bending down to kiss me. I froze – suddenly back in my parents’ house, tightening a loose doorknob while my dad grunted something at me and walked away.

“Sure thing,” I muttered. 

She gave me a sidelong smile. “Can I brush my teeth?”

“Yup – all set.” I put my tools in the foyer. We’d been together two years, but lived separately. That was on me. 

***

I noticed obvious discrepancies – oxycodone in particular, missing bottles. I found it odd how this went unnoticed. I started tracking those more closely. Patterns emerged. Saturdays, mostly. Certain names that kept popping up. But I pushed the thought aside. Surely, I was reading into it too much 

“Those deliveries arrived late,” Steve said, after a pharmacist told me to ask him about it. “I signed for it those days. Others did the intake.” 

I nodded – feeling the bond between us loosen.

“You know, I didn’t think I’d get lucky with this rotation,” he said. “But you’ve got the stuff, Sean. You work like someone who actually gives a damn.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just smiled, felt my ears go hot. It was the kind of thing I’d imagined hearing since my first day in pharmacy school.

 “This here,” he said, tapping his pen on the reports “shows we dispensed one bottle of oxy. But we always dispense two. Look at this history – two bottles every week.” He was right. “Someone just entered it wrong. Long day, probably. Who knows. I’ll update it.” 

I hesitated.

He smiled again – reassuring, warm, but it came too fast, like he’d practiced it. “It’s not a big deal,” he said. “This happens all the time. What matters is catching it before anyone else does. That’s what good pharmacists do. That’s what you’re training to be.”

I nodded, watching him make changes on the computer. It couldn’t be him, I thought. 

***

I spent a lot of time sitting in Steve’s office. When I wasn’t there, or walking around with him, I worked in a cubicle labeled “STUDENT.” 

“Need anything before I go?” I’d ask before leaving. 

“No,” he’d say. “Thanks for asking.” He seemed withdrawn at the end of the day. The creases on his face became increasingly visible. I knew he worked hard, but it looked as if he’d lost someone or something. 

One night, he said “Good work on your presentation.”

My eyes widened. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “Yes – matter of fact, how ’bout presenting at the staff meeting tomorrow?” I just stared at him. “I don’t usually ask students.”

“Okay.” I gave what I believed was a professional nod, a fake confidence, feeling uncertain and anxious, but unable to hide my joy. 

***

I rode the bus back that night, hoping to see Steve again. I left some notes for my presentation there on purpose. My body pulsed with a strange, desperate need for validation. I knew that’s what I wanted. I remember that much. His compliment earlier invigorated me, and I craved more of his approval, his recognition. The silence of the bus made everything louder – his voice, my response, a flicker of hope I didn’t know where to put.

“You’re back,” he said playfully. 

“I forgot somethin’.”

Steve smiled, more genial than before. His mood shifted – noticeably lighter. As we spoke, I glanced at his wedding ring, his kids’ photos.

“Good night,” I said, once the conversation wound down.

“Good night,” he said. “Actually –” I turned back. “I could use your help with somethin’.” 

“Yeah?" My heart raced. I felt drawn to him. Not in a carnal sense, but something about him, his presence, his mystique, pulled at me. I orbited him like a distant moon, thrilled to be called in from afar.

“Yeah,” he said, paging through my list of discrepancies. “I think we need to zoom in on these some more.”

A flash of dread struck me. Had I done something wrong? 

He sensed it. “We just need to dig a little deeper. Mind coming on Saturday to help? I never have enough time during the week.”

Is that okay? I asked myself, then let it go. The thrill of him asking me silenced any doubt.

He called me objective. His eyes glinted. Looking back, his pupils tracked me like a laser pointer – dark dots, swallowed by white. 

“Sure. How can I help?” The weight of his validation nearly tipped me over.

***

Riding the bus home, I thought of the alumni photos I saw in the school magazine – Steve among them, drink in hand, wearing a crisp university shirt. Back then, as a B/C student with no clubs, no fraternity, I couldn’t imagine that world, much less belonging to it. It felt polished, unreachable. But that night, I felt like I was beginning to brush against it – maybe even step inside.

***

That weekend, I bought a few suits from a thrift shop Megan liked.

“That looks nice,” she said, smoothing the lapel. I raised my arms. The sleeves hung over my wrists. 

“We can fix that.”

 The waist sagged too, but the rest fit okay. The others were similar – good enough, she called them.

Back at her place, she pulled out a small sewing kit. Something her mom taught her. She pinned the cuffs and marked the waist, moving with a practiced calm. 

I just watched. I had no skills like that. No sense of domestic life. I tried to picture living with her – the ease of it, the quiet. She’d asked before. Not often. But I always shrugged. “I don’t know,” I’d say and leave it like that. 

***

Steve moved through the warehouse like he owned the air. A kind of unspoken confidence. A presence. I started walking like him. Talking like him. Wishing I could wear that same assurance. My new voice felt like the suits – stiff at first, secondhand and ill-fitting. But I grew into both, so much that I forgot they weren’t mine. Even after I stopped using it, I could still hear it – like an accent I couldn’t shake.

Before long, it became work to hide it. I took my coffee like him, black. Knocked three times, softly, just like him. I felt my prestige growing – too naive to wonder what others really thought. I was investigating everyone there now. Watching their furtive glances, hearing their muted greetings, I told myself they were just nervous. That I was doing something important. That I was learning how to be someone like Steve.

***

It was a Tuesday – the day of their staff meeting. I waited in the conference room with the rest of the team. I remember that, because Steve showed up late, which was unlike him. And when he walked in, his tie was crooked, and his hands shook when he poured his coffee.

“Didn’t sleep,” he muttered, more to himself than to me, taking a seat. He smiled after, the same way he always did, like nothing was ever wrong.

But it didn’t sit right. I told myself he was just tired – long hours, heavy responsibility, the weight of leadership. Still, something in me flinched.

That night, I tried to mimic his smile in the mirror – unable to get it right.

***

I shared my findings with Steve late one evening. Oxycodone and hydrocodone topped my list, each with multiple discrepancies – hundreds of pills in total. 

Steve rubbed the back of his neck as he flipped through the reports, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. “Long day,” he sighed. But I caught the way his eyes darted to the door, like he was worried someone might walk in. “This is good,” he finally said. “Really good.”

 I sat still, unable to move, afraid to ask what had been weighing on my mind – the words caught like a knot in my throat. I finally spoke, hesitantly, softly. “Does it matter that you signed for some of these deliveries?” A deep relief followed. I’d said it aloud. 

He looked at me hard. “It could. But I’m not diverting narcotics,” he said firmly, almost shouting. “We need to find out who is.” 

I winced at the edge in his voice. 

“You did good work on this,” he said, lowering his voice. 

“Yeah?” I said, leaning toward him – wanting his praise. 

He nodded. “I’m heading out. Need a ride?”

“Sure.” I lit up. 

“Give me a minute.” He put on his coat, grabbed his bag, and ducked into the bathroom.  A few minutes later, we were in his car. 

He coasted just above the speed limit, one hand on the wheel. His eyes looked distant, like he was somewhere else entirely.

“I used to live around here,” he said. I gave him an address near mine. Not sure why – I just didn’t want him knowing where I lived. He dropped me off without waiting. 

***

Megan said I should report my findings to someone.

“Like who?”

“I dunno, Sean. One of the pharmacists there?” 

I shook my head. My gut agreed with her, but I ignored it. “It couldn’t be him.”

“Why not?”

“Because. Because I know him – and he’s not like that.”

She raised her brow. “Anyone can get addicted to pills.”

“Yeah, but…”

“But what? You should report it. What about Professor Jones? I could go with you.”

I shook my head. Jones was the one professor I trusted. I’d worked a summer in his lab, but couldn’t conceive of telling him. 

“What if you’re at risk in this?”

“Nah. I’m just a student.”

“Maybe. But you said the discrepancies were on Saturdays. And you’ve been working Saturdays.” 

We sat in silence – just for a moment. 

“How would you feel if he was diverting?”

Betrayed. Instead, I said “I dunno… surprised?” But my eyes gave it away. 

“Come here,” she said, embracing me. “You’re in a tough spot.” I could tell she was disappointed I wouldn’t report it.

***

A quiet sadness settled over me on my final day with Steve. My fatigue was absolute. I’d been working 60-hour weeks but didn’t want to leave the warehouse. I’d asked the school if I could stay for a second rotation, an email sent in confidence. Steve followed up, saying he had another student starting the next rotation. “I’m glad you want to stay,” he said, “but you should see other sites.” He took me to lunch. We walked, our chins in our collars. I didn’t want to hear it. He did what I wanted to do, I had no doubt. 

“I did two years of residency after graduation,” Steve said, referring to voluntary, postgraduate training. 

“I will too,” I said, assuring myself. Before this rotation, I mocked residencies – a waste of time and money. 

“Did you apply to any programs?” He seemed burdened by the conversation, which saddened me. I looked forward to our lunch.

“No.” The deadline had passed. “But I will – next year. After I work for a while.”

Steve nodded, but the supportive look he gave me felt hollow. I said I’d travel anywhere for a strong program, more to impress him than anything else. He watched my words, my questions about residency, drift away, mixing with the scents of meat and spice. Like he’d heard it before.  

He drank coffee and barely ate – offering me an untouched taco. I declined. It felt awkward, too personal. Though part of me wished I’d felt comfortable enough to say yes. His offer reassured me. 

He segued to his evaluation. His “opportunities for improvement” – seldom mentioned during our eight weeks together – grated my nerves. I wanted to cry. I remember him shifting his weight – or was that me? Did I disappoint him? 

He praised my work ethic, then offered recommendations on communication and attention to detail. Said I needed to develop confidence. Poise. My presence – like it meant something. Like it could be taught. Like it could be earned. Like I hadn’t already tried. 

“Executive presence,” he called it. 

 I wiped at the salsa stain on my used suit and wondered if anyone ever noticed I was faking it the whole time.

I mimicked him, and he said I needed work. I tried to stay composed, my upper body rigid beneath the surface, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d cut me. I flexed every muscle below my waist into a tight, single contortion – steeling myself against his words – until it became too much. I worried my legs might jolt and upset the table. 

I unclenched and thanked him for his feedback, doing my best to smile, but the corners of my mouth barely moved. 

***

I found no purpose in my next rotation. My phone rang during my second week there. The lead tech from the distribution center – asking if I could stop by that afternoon. 

“Is this about the audit?”

“Yes,” she said. 

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No. We just have some questions.”

***

They buzzed me in through the door. Inside, a group of suits sat around the conference table. Someone from the board of pharmacy, the DEA, Professor Jones, Steve’s boss, the police, and a lawyer. They asked me questions. I answered. I barely remember what. Names. Dates. Bottles. It felt like someone else was speaking with my voice.

“Where is Steve?” I asked.

“What?” his boss said.

“He’s under investigation,” the lawyer said. They’d said that already. “Do you understand? He doctored your audit, trying to frame one of the techs.”

I nodded, struggling to believe it. 

“We suspected diversion here for a while,” the DEA rep said. 

“We asked Steve to do an audit, not suspecting it was him,” his boss said. “He shouldn’t have asked you to help.” He looked at Jones, who nodded. 

A plain-clothed policeman stood along the wall. “Look,” he said, “just tell us what you know. What’d Steve ask you to do? What’d you find in your audit? You’re not in trouble.” Someone said that earlier too. I wasn’t trying to protect myself, but I wanted to help Steve. I started crying. I unloaded it all in that room. Everything I knew, or thought I knew. All the instincts I ignored. My words, theirs, they careened up, washing over me like cold rain – sluicing down my head, covering my body. I stiffened, like a wire pulled taut, trying to keep it together under the weight of the conversation. 

“How’d you figure it out?” I asked shakily. 

“We found pills in his car,” the policeman said, “and his house.”

“We think he’s done this before,” someone said. 

Eventually, they left. Jones tried talking to me, but I just sat there, like he didn’t exist.

“You know how to reach me – if you want to talk.” He patted my shoulder. 

I heard their voices in the hallway, distant and grim. “How sad.” “Steve used him.” “How many times did he...?”

“Stay as long as you need,” the lead tech said. 

I sat alone at the conference table. The table where I learned Steve and I both came from M–. A quiet ache filled my eyes. My ears hummed – like the world exhaling into my skull. The noise was part seashell and part television static. Insistent, like everything around me died off or moved on, trying to tell me something as they left. Steve used me. Used me up completely. Looking back, I don’t recognize that guy at the table. It’s like watching someone else. Not someone I used to know – someone I never met. 

***

I wandered home, unsure of myself, or which version of myself to be. How had I been so blind? How had I given him that much power over me, my future, my sense of self-worth? I felt small. All the times I tried to be him, to sound like him, dress like him. What was I really chasing? Approval? Identity? And now, it was gone. Slipping through my fingers, like sand I couldn’t hold. 

I swiped through my contacts. Who to call? I had no idea. So, I walked. I walked until I reached Megan’s apartment, my fingers rigid, my face windswept and chilled. But my core burned with a mix of emotions I couldn’t process. Everything felt diffuse and unending. The next rung of the ladder didn’t exist – or I couldn’t see it. I tried to steady my breath. I reached into a void and rang the buzzer. 

***

I lay in Megan’s lap, her hand gently, reluctantly rubbing my neck. Lying there, I felt directionless. But, more so, empty. I’d lost who I used to be. Steve’s manipulation – I fell into it, immersed myself in it, emulating him. And for what? 

Darkness settled in. Our images reflected on the window. Her touch grew gentler, familiar. The world around me was moving on, but I felt frozen beneath the weight of what I learned about others and myself – under the lies I told myself, wondering if I’d ever find my way back to who I was. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. 

“For what?”

I opened up to her, in a way I never did before. What happened that afternoon and how betrayed I felt. How’d I’d idolized Steve, sought his validation, and lost touch with myself. And in that moment, I knew – I had to figure out how to become myself again. I doubted I’d be the same person I was. 

Megan listened. “I’m glad you helped expose him.” 

I nodded. By then we were sitting up, facing each other. “My whole life I’ve tried to be someone I’m not. To impress people.”

Megan’s eyes softened. “I’ve been there, feeling like you’re chasing someone else’s shadow. It’s easy to lose yourself, and it’s harder to find your way back than you think.”

I looked up, locking eyes with her steady gaze.

“You’re not alone in this,” she added. “And you don’t have to be the person you thought you had to be.”

I stood up, considering what to do next. “I think I should go.”

“Sean, stop. You’ve had a day. Why don’t you spend the night?”

“No. As much as I want to, I need to think.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going for a walk.” I kissed her and headed for the door.

“You’ll find your way back,” she said over my shoulder, “to who you are.” 

I doubted her as I left the building. The cold night buzzed around me, and I zipped my jacket up to my chin. I started walking. I didn’t know what came next. But it wouldn’t be someone else’s walk, someone else’s words, someone else’s presence.

Tom Dilworth works as a pharmacist and writes fiction in the margins of the day. His stories explore the challenges and triumphs of human connection.  His work has appeared in the Raven’s Perch, ArLiJo, and The Bryant Literary Review.