<div class="floatright">(https://i.imgur.com/LUiBrTe.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Nate Phelps (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=281599.msg13853665#msg13853665)<br/><strong>Wearing:</strong>Dark casual slacks, crisp white collared shirt, blue checked blazer (pictured)[/url]<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Hilton Lobby, then Ballroom<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Chrissa/Baylee, Open<br/><br/><br/>Hitting the off-ramp, Nate allowed himself to take a quick glance at the dashboard clock and cursed lightly under his breath when it reported back to him that it was already 4:40 PM. While he wasn’t necessarily in a hurry to get to his reunion, the task-master that lived deep in his soul wasn’t inclined to appreciate the concept of ‘fashionably late’, especially not when there was an open bar to be had.<br/><br/>That aside, he just hadn’t been able to motivate himself off the couch to make the two-hour drive back to his hometown. He’d left it mostly in the rearview when he’d gone off to college on a Division II baseball scholarship, and his parents moving south after his sophomore year only furthered to sever most of the ties between Nate Phelps and the Westwood community. Truthfully, this reunion was going to be like meeting a number of people for the first time. Unlike many of his classmates, he’d never really taken to social media, even as he was a part of the generation that had embraced it most aggressively.<br/><br/>If anything, he was surprised, and perhaps a bit annoyed, that Juliet had found an email address for him. Obviously, being en route meant that he’d warmed to the idea enough. The fact that he was six months into a separation that seemed clearly headed towards divorce was almost certainly a catalyst for that.<br/><br/>As he steered his late model BMW into the valet loop, Nate punched at the radio, killing the sound just as Bruce launched into the chorus of Glory Days.<em>That’s enough irony for today, thanks</em>, his inner monologue prompted. Freeing the keyfob and pocketing his keys, Nate moved to grab a black canvas duffle and a garment bag from the trunk and slip into the lobby.<br/><br/>“Room 730, sir, here you go.” The clerk handed him a pair of key cards and he turned back towards the elevators just as two women who looked to be about his age embraced in a rather loud and demonstrative fashion. He thought he recognized them, but, social anxiety won out and he left the brunette and strawberry blonde to do whatever it was they were at and headed to his room.<br/><br/>****************************<br/><br/>In his room, he made quick work of stowing his things-he’d traveled pretty lightly, and made his way back to the elevators. Slipping his iPhone back out of his inner jacket pocket, he made the time as 4:55-just the end of social hour.<br/><br/>Leaving off at the floor where the ballroom was, Nate sucked in a long, lingering breath. His therapist, who he’d started visiting after the separation, suggested deep breathing as a path to managing his anxiety. Approaching the open double doors, he saw many of his classmates already mingling, and an unmanned registration table with a smattering of name tags still dotting the space.<br/><br/>