My name tag at the ten-year reunion said NICK SULLIVAN.

Underneath, in smaller letters, someone had printed my yearbook superlative from senior year.

Most Likely to Change Your Oil.

The whole table of name tags had them. Most Likely to Be Famous. Most Likely to Run for President. Best Smile. Mine was the only one that had been a joke.

I stood in the lobby of the Fairway Country Club in Overland Park, Kansas, in a plain navy suit, holding that name tag in my hand.

Then I heard a voice I hadn't heard in ten years.

“No way. NO WAY. Grease Monkey!”

Chad Whitmore came across the lobby with his arms wide open. Still big. Still loud. A little softer around the middle. A gold watch on his wrist.

Behind him came Brooke, his wife, who'd been his girlfriend all through high school. Same blonde hair. Same smile that never quite reached her eyes.

“Brooke, look who it is!” Chad slapped my back so hard it hurt. “Nicky Sullivan. Still changing oil, buddy?”

“Something like that,” I said.

He laughed and laughed.

“Hey, my Range Rover's making a funny noise,” he said, loud enough for half the lobby to hear. “Maybe you could take a look later? I'll give you a nice tip.”