Chapter 7 #2
“Where do you see yourself in the future?”
At this moment, he could see himself walking into traffic. “I haven’t considered it much.”
Larsson chuckled like Jensen had told a joke. “Oh, come on. A smart man like yourself must have some lofty goals. You’ve already accomplished a lot in your short career, including awards that men my age are envious of. So what’s your dream, Mr. Wilmarth?”
Jensen regarded the man across from him.
He was in his mid-forties with thinning hair and a dense but closely cropped beard.
His eyes were bright, surrounded by crow’s-feet, and paired with his rounded face and even rounder gut, Larsson was one of those people that always seemed jolly.
He reminded Jensen a lot of an uncle on his father’s side that dressed up as Santa each year for family parties.
Admittedly, he wasn’t a horrible man, and he was paying for their pricey meal.
But holy hell, Jensen wanted to leave. Whatever he said next could nicely glide them into the end of the conversation and the end of dinner, or transition them into another lengthy discussion.
There was the right answer, the one he’d given so many businessmen and -women.
The one everyone wanted to hear. But truthfully, he didn’t want to be promoted to a senior partner at his firm and continue being at the front lines of office build-outs and buildings.
He didn’t care to win any more awards or have his designs featured on the front pages of magazines.
That wasn’t why he did this, any of this.
Jensen didn’t leave the sanctuary of his home each morning to fight every other person in the city to work in his soulless office building because it might lead to a promotion.
He didn’t sit at a standard-issue desk in an open pen facing large windows showcasing the other lifeless buildings and pollution that made up downtown because there were awards to be won.
He certainly didn’t agonize over floor plans until his back ached and his hand hurt because he wanted recognition.
The hours he put in that earned him those useless awards and titles and promotions, he did because he had to.
He had to create a world he could fit into.
No one else was going to carve out space for him.
Not with his idiosyncrasies and othering needs and lack of normalcy.
It seemed like everyone around him just fit into the pristine boxes the world was made from.
From their cradle at birth to their coffin at death, everyone else just fucking fit.
And Jensen didn’t. Hadn’t since his first breath.
His preschool had been too loud and colorful.
The schoolyards were too dirty and unstructured.
College was stacked with people trying to network and determining the payout of future connections through a single impression.
Even this restaurant was too full of clinking silverware and conversations demanding to be heard over the music playing on the speakers.
Jensen had simply never fit into society or the places created to meet the needs of the average person.
But if Jensen could be in charge of the design, he could rectify that.
He could create places that felt safe and just right.
Just enough lighting. Just enough sound.
Just soft enough for him to soothe his edges that always felt raw after going out into a world that was too bright and loud and hard.
But he hadn’t been allowed to do that. Not since his first assignment.
For years, he’d been creating places that made his skin crawl, even with his attempts at injecting soul into the soulless, and went against the reason he’d studied so hard.
And suddenly, he was angry about it. A living, breathing ball of heat ignited in his chest, and he was so fucking angry.
He had dreams. He had motivations and goals, and he was accomplishing nothing that mattered to him.
Every hoop his boss had requested he jump through, he had.
Jensen had worked tirelessly on projects he didn’t care about.
He had won awards for his work, been highlighted in publications for his designs.
All of which made his firm, and his boss, look good.
He’d even flown to a different state to give a speech to hundreds of people, and for what?
His boss had never delivered on his promise to give Jensen the opportunities he wanted so badly.
He’d never once put his love of art nouveau on paper for his firm.
And yet he continued to do whatever was asked of him with nothing of consequence in return.
And for what? Why was he putting his dreams on hold?
For a vague promise he was getting a different kind of project after he suffered through this conference?
Why did everyone else get what they wanted, in a world that was made for them?
And how long was Jensen going to keep playing other people’s games?
“I want to create homes that feel magical.” Jensen was surprised when he heard his own voice.
Surprised but not regretful. Screw the right answer this time.
Maybe if he said the truth instead, Larsson would shoo him away and he’d be done with this night.
“I want to design places that have character and are inspired by nature. I want form that follows function, and where concrete is only used to lay foundations or stabilize the core. I want low ceilings and fixtures that look like flowers and beautiful motifs carved into wood. I want to make places where people stay for long periods of time, not just transitory cafés and lawns with ‘no loitering’ signs. I want to deliver a fantasy that will be used for generations regardless of trends.”
Jensen took a deep breath, ignoring how his hands shook, and looked up at Larsson. Surprisingly, a smile lit up his face, paired with an eager glint in his eye.
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Larsson pushed his plate to the side of the table.
From the briefcase sitting on one of the unused chairs, he grabbed two items. Carefully, he set down a legal-sized brown envelope on the table and, next to it, Jensen’s book.
“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Wilmarth. One I think will benefit both of us.”