Chapter 44
Chapter forty-four
Sam
"So." Nadia sets her phone face-up on the table, notes app already open. "Standing Tom agenda item."
I'm mid-sip when she says it. The latte's still too hot, burns the roof of my mouth just slightly. I set the cup down, careful to center it on the coaster.
Priya's grinning at me from across the booth. Liv doesn't look up, but she's smiling into her cappuccino.
"How are things," Nadia continues, voice perfectly even, "now that you can't hide behind work details and actually have to talk about your feelings?"
My face heats. The flush creeps from collarbone to jaw. "Things are good."
"Good." Priya tilts her head. "Good? That's what you're giving us?"
"We went on a date," I say. "Last week."
Liv looks up. "And?"
"He planned the whole thing. Wouldn't tell me where we were going, just said to wear comfortable shoes."
Nadia's eyebrows lift. "You let him surprise you?"
"I know."
Priya leans forward, elbows on the table. "Where'd he take you?"
"Walking tour of Manhattan." I pick up my latte again, just to have something to do with my hands. "At night. To look at how buildings are lit."
The table goes quiet.
Then Priya exhales. "Girl. That's the most romantic thing—for you two, of course—I've ever heard."
Liv's laughing. Nadia's shaking her head, grinning.
I can't help it. I'm smiling too.
"So." Nadia's watching me now, the teasing edge gone from her voice. "Is he the one?"
The booth goes still.
My coffee cup is warm between my palms. I trace the edge of the lid with my thumb, once, twice.
"I..." I start, then stop. I look down at the swirling foam in my cup, my chest tight. "I think he could be."
The reaction is immediate. Priya grabs my hand across the table. Liv grins. Nadia reaches over and squeezes my shoulder.
"Samantha Morgan," Liv says, "admitting someone might be the one. I never thought I'd see the day."
I'm laughing now, trying to wave them off, but Priya's still holding my hand.
"We're still getting to know each other," I say. I press my lips together for a second, then exhale. "But yeah." A small, helpless smile tugs at my mouth. "I think he might be."
Priya leans back, arms crossed. "What does Tom think?"
"I don't know." My thumb's still tracing the coffee lid. I stare at the plastic seam, the reality of it making my heart knock against my ribs. "We haven't said it yet."
"But you feel it," Nadia says.
I meet her eyes. "Yeah. I do."
Margit appears at the edge of the booth, coffeepot in hand. She's wearing her usual apron, the one with the faded Donut logo, and she's looking at me with that knowing expression she gets when she's been eavesdropping from behind the counter.
"I heard celebrating," she says, topping off Nadia's cup. "Did you put it on the wall?"
I blink. "Not yet."
Margit reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a napkin and a Sharpie. She sets them both in front of me, deliberate. "Then what are you waiting for?"
I pick up the Sharpie.
For a second, I just stare at the blank napkin. Then I write in big block letters: GO!
Priya's watching over my shoulder. "That's it? Just 'go'?"
"Harbor District got full approval," I say. "We call it a Go/No Go decision."
Liv reaches across and taps the napkin. "Then yeah. That works."
I slide out of the booth, napkin in one hand, Sharpie in the other. The wall is behind the register, covered in years of pinned moments. Business cards, photos, torn napkin corners with dates and initials and inside jokes I'll never understand.
I pin the napkin first. The pushpin goes in smooth, right next to a Polaroid of a couple kissing in front of the Donut's window.
Then I reach into my wallet.
Tom's business card is tucked behind an expired MetroCard, edges slightly bent from being carried around for months. I pull it out, smooth the corner with my thumb.
I pin it next to the napkin.
Step back.
Margit's standing next to me now, arms folded, looking at the wall. "He's a good one, isn't he?"
"Yeah," I say. "He is."
***
The apartment is quiet when I get home. I drop my bag by the door, toe off my shoes, leave them where they land instead of lining them up on the rack.
The apartment is quiet when I get home…
My kitchen table holds the Architectural League Prize application, the one award I’ve chased since architecture school, and a stack of unopened mail.
I've been avoiding it.
I pull out the chair, sit down, open my laptop. The screen glows to life. I navigate to the Prize portal, log in, stare at the blank submission form.
I start typing.
I fill in the basics. Attach the files.
The narrative statement section sits empty at the bottom of the form.
I close my eyes for a second. Picture the Harbor District site at dusk, the way the light catches the glass facade Tom fought me on, the loading zone that became an intentional gathering point instead of a logistics problem.
I type: Good design makes people want to stay.
Leave it.
Keep going.
Forty minutes later, the form is complete. Every field filled. Every document uploaded. The cursor hovers over the blue SUBMIT button.
I press SUBMIT.
The page refreshes. A confirmation message appears: Your application has been received.
I sit back. My hands are shaking slightly. I press my palms flat against the table, let the cool surface ground me.
I pick up my phone. Text Tom.
I just did something scary.
The reply comes fast.
Good scary or bad scary?
Good scary. Tell you about it later?
Can't wait.
I set the phone down. Look at the confirmation email sitting in my inbox.
I don't open the odds spreadsheet I built last month. I don't calculate submission-to-finalist ratios or try to figure out how many applicants they'll receive this cycle.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Proud of you. Whatever you did.
I trace my thumb over his name at the top of the screen.
I think he could be, I'd told the girls this morning.
I read his text again, feeling that same helpless, quiet smile from the coffee shop pull at my mouth all over again.
See you tomorrow.
I shut the laptop, cutting off the glow of the confirmation email, and let the room go dark. Let the jury decide what they want.
The most important thing I'm building right now isn't in that application.