Chapter 11 Sam
Chapter eleven
Sam
The takeout app is open before I've even kicked off my shoes.
I told myself I'd cook. There's chicken in the fridge, half a lemon, the pasta I bought on Sunday with full intentions of cooking. I look at the fridge. Then at my phone. I tap the pad thai.
It's fine. It's one night.
I set my laptop on the kitchen table and open the zoning folder.
The Board presentation tab is right there at the top of my browser — forty-five slides, connectivity section still unfinished.
I see it, and I open the zoning folder anyway.
This is still work. I promised Tom I'd look into the permit situation for Wren's listings. That's a real deadline, too.
I open the first document and force myself to start reading.
The first paragraph is a dense block of text about commercial zoning classifications in Brooklyn.
I highlight a sentence about mixed-use overlays and type a quick margin note: check CB6 variance history.
I scroll down, read the exact same paragraph again, and realize I've read it three times without absorbing a single word.
Tom's face keeps arriving instead.
It isn't the version of him I've been fighting with all week. It isn't the arrogant guy who shows up with black coffee, pushes back on my carefully curated shot list, and makes everything take longer than it needs to. It is the other version. The one from this afternoon.
The man standing in the doorway of Wren's shop, letting his sister wrap her arms around him as his whole face went somewhere else. Quiet, totally unguarded, the breezy professionalism just gone.
I close the zoning document with a heavy sigh.
My inbox pings.
The subject line reads: Wren possibilities + site session tomorrow?
I smile. He's working late, too. I open the email to find the three listings I sent Wren, followed by his unformatted, stream-of-consciousness notes.
Good bones but the budget's tight. Lease terms on this one look flexible — worth a call? Not sure about ceiling height on #2, does that matter for her equipment?
My hand automatically moves toward the keyboard.
I am three words into restructuring his messy notes into a proper comparison matrix before I force myself to stop.
He didn't ask me to organize it; he asked me to think with him.
Those are two different things. I've been treating them like the same thing for six days.
I delete the draft and start over.
I write back with zoning flags on all three, permit notes for each address, and a specific warning about the ceiling height and ventilation requirements on the second listing so Wren doesn't fall in love with a space she can't use.
I read it over before hitting send. It's perfectly correct, but it's also slightly warmer than my usual professional emails.
His reply lands in four minutes.
Quick question — does the DOB filing sequence matter for tattoo studio licensing specifically, or is it the same standard commercial process?
I sit back. He actually read the permit summary I sent instead of just skimming it.
I type back quickly, explaining that the tattoo classification triggers a secondary health department review that adds three weeks to the timeline. I drop in a final note about the fast-track filing window and hit send.
Three weeks, he writes back instantly. Of course it does. Re: Bureaucracy, A Love Story.
I laugh out loud in the empty kitchen, glancing over my shoulder like someone might have caught me.
Another email pops up a second later.
How do you know all this off the top of your head?
I stare at the question. My fingers rest on the keys.
I looked it up when Wren mentioned the shop, I type back. On the train.
Four long minutes of quiet pass. Then his reply pops up. Just two lines.
You looked it up on the train?
Sam. Thank you
The takeout arrives, but I don't bother getting a plate. I eat it standing at the counter, a fork in one hand and my phone in the other, ignoring the pad thai going lukewarm.
I spend forty-five seconds agonizing over the right GIF to send back. I skip the obvious ones, finally settling on a small, exhausted figure pushing an enormous boulder uphill. I hit send, acutely aware that I just spent more time curating a GIF than I did on any of the actual permit data.
His reply lands two minutes later: accurate. see you at 10. don't be late ??
I stare at the deadpan emoji. On him, it is somehow funnier than actual words.
I set my phone down on the counter, let go of it for exactly one second, and pick it back up. Tapping my laptop awake, I switch over to the Board presentation tab. I read two slides before clicking to the unfinished connectivity section. It stares at me. I stare back.
Conceding defeat, I close the tab entirely. I'll open it in the morning. A full day of prep tomorrow is plenty of time. I know I promised myself I'd work an hour ago, but I mean it this time.
I check my phone. His last message hasn't changed.
Telling myself I'm just checking for new work emails, I wait four minutes and check again.
Still nothing. Forcing myself to put the phone face-down on the counter, I pace into the living room, instantly pivot, and march right back to pick it up.
The zoning research doesn't require real-time updates.
I am actively waiting for his replies, and I know it.
Surrendering, I open the Boss Babes thread.
Sorry didn't respond. Was emailing Tom.
Priya
You're texting him off-hours now?
Emailing. There's a difference.
Priya
Oh that makes ALL the difference.
Huge difference.
Completely different thing.
Liv:
It's about the project, right
It's about permits.
Liv:
Sure it is.
A pause follows. It stretches long enough that I assume they've finally let me off the hook.
Nadia
Data point: you're smiling at your phone.
I freeze, looking up from the screen. My face is doing exactly what she just typed.
I refuse to dignify that with a response.
The apartment is quiet. My laptop is still open to our email chain, his last message anchored at the top.
I close the laptop, burying the Board presentation inside it. Six AM, coffee, and the connectivity section—I will fix it in the morning. After tossing the takeout container into the recycling, I turn off the kitchen light.
The phone sits on the table, its screen glowing in the dark.
I leave it there.
Face-up.
Just in case he writes again