2. Jo
— ? —
Jo
Seven Years Later
The woman in the mirror looks like she has her shit together.
Navy blazer, crisp white blouse, hair tamed into something resembling professional.
Someone who belongs at a prestigious architecture firm stares back at me.
Someone who earned her place through talent and hard work.
Someone who definitely didn’t spend twenty minutes this morning fishing her kid’s shoe out of the refrigerator.
My head tilts. The reflection tilts back.
Fake it till you make it, Holland.
“Mom.”
Rory is perched on a barstool at the kitchen counter when I turn, cereal bowl in front of him, milk dripping down his chin in a way that would be disgusting if he weren’t so goddamn cute.
He’s got his father’s dark hair and my eyes, and sometimes looking at him reopens a wound that never healed right, still tender in certain light, still aching when pressed too hard.
But he’s mine. He’s mine, and that’s the only part that matters.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Are you scared?”
My eyes find their reflection again. First day at the new job.
New city. New start. Seven years of scraping and surviving and building something from nothing, and now this: Anderson Architecture.
One of the most prestigious firms in the country.
A position earned on the strength of my portfolio alone, not connections, not nepotism, just work.
Terror is coursing through every vein.
“A little,” comes out instead. “But it’s a good kind of scared.”
Rory considers this, chewing thoughtfully. Six years old, almost seven, as he reminds me constantly, and already smarter than most adults. “Like when I started kindergarten?”
“Exactly like that.”
“I cried at kindergarten.”
“I know, baby.”
“Like, a lot.”
“I remember.”
He nods solemnly. “You can cry if you want. I won’t tell anyone.”
God, this kid.
The room shrinks to just us as my lips press against the top of his head, breathing him in.
Maple syrup and the lavender shampoo from last week, the one he picked because it smelled like Aunt Grace’s garden.
My heart does that thing it always does, that painful clench of love so big it threatens to crack me open.
“I’ll try to hold it together,” I manage.
“Okay. But if you do cry, I have tissues in my backpack. The ones with the dinosaurs.”
“You’re a very prepared young man.”
“I know.”
The front door bangs open and Grace sweeps in, a hurricane in human form, keys jangling, coffee in hand, already talking before she’s fully inside.
“Sorry I’m late! Traffic was a nightmare, there was this guy in a Tesla who clearly thought stop signs were optional, I almost committed a felony...
” She stops, takes one look at me, and her whole face softens into something that makes my throat tight. “Big day, mama bear.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be nice to me. If you’re nice to me, I’ll cry, and then I’ll ruin my makeup, and then I’ll have to start over, and then I’ll definitely be late...”
“Jo.” She crosses to me and presses the coffee into my hands. “Breathe.”
The breath comes. It helps. A little.
“You’re going to be amazing,” she says, quiet now, just for me. “You know that, right? You worked your ass off for this. You deserve this.”
Believing her would be nice. Some days the belief is there. Other days that twenty-year-old girl on the bathroom floor is still too close to the surface, three pregnancy tests lined up in a row, a verdict, the whole world crumbling.
“What if they hate me?”
“Then they’re idiots and you find a new job.”
“What if I’m not good enough?”
“You are.”
“What if...”
“Jo.” Her hands grab my shoulders, forcing eye contact. “You survived Matthias. You finished your degree with a newborn. You moved back to the States with nothing and built a whole life for yourself and Rory. You are a badass, and anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve you.”
The burning behind my eyes is impossible to ignore. A hard blink pushes it back. “I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“I really do.”
Rory appears between us, wriggling his way into the hug. “Group hug! Group hug!”
We squeeze him until he squeals, and for a moment, just a moment, everything feels okay. My son. My best friend. A chance at something new.
Maybe that’s enough.
The lobby of Anderson Architecture is all glass and steel, aggressively modern in a way that makes my nicest blazer nothing but a costume.
A massive sculpture dominates the center of the space, something abstract, all sharp angles and gleaming chrome, and the price tag probably exceeded my entire education.
The clock on the wall confirms the worst: late.
Not disastrously late, but late enough that speed-walking through the lobby in heels that are already forming blisters has become necessary, portfolio clutched to my chest, apology speech running on repeat.
So sorry, Mr. Anderson, my son decided his shoe belonged in the refrigerator and I still don’t understand the logic but here I am, please don’t fire me on my first day...
A corner appears.
A chest appears faster.
The impact bounces me backward so hard the floor seems inevitable, but hands catch my elbows before gravity wins. Strong fingers, sure grip, steadying instead of letting me fall.
“Whoa...”
Looking up reveals a face that doesn’t know how to smile. Sharp jaw. Dark eyes. The kind of bone structure that belongs on magazine covers, not in office buildings. Tall. God, he’s tall, and the expression directed down at me is completely unreadable.
“Are you alright, Miss Holland?”
A blink. “How do you know my name?”
“I make it a point to know everyone who works for me.” His voice is low, measured, with a hint of gravel underneath. The grip on my elbows releases but the distance between us doesn’t grow, and suddenly the closeness is very, very noticeable. “I’m Nicholas Anderson.”
Oh.
Oh no.
My boss. The actual owner of the company. The man whose good opinion matters more than anyone’s, and the first impression involved body-checking him in the lobby like this is a hockey rink.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Anderson. I didn’t. I wasn’t looking where I was. God, this is not how I wanted to make a first impression.” The babbling won’t stop. It has a mind of its own. “Please, just Jo is fine. Miss Holland makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”
“Nick.” One corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. “And you’re not in trouble. Yet.”
“Yet?”
“First day nerves?”
“Something like that.” My grip on the portfolio adjusts, aiming for competent and professional and not like someone who routinely excavates children’s footwear from kitchen appliances. “I was looking for the conference room. I think I got turned around.”
“You were going the wrong way.” A nod toward a hallway on the left. “It’s down there.”
“Of course it is.”
He doesn’t laugh, but his eyes change. A flash of warmth, there and then buried back under all that frost. “I’ll walk you.”
“You don’t have to...”
“I know.”
He walks me anyway, and the looks from everyone we pass make it clear this is unusual. People step aside for him. People stare. He moves through the building with the ease of a man who owns it, which, technically, is literally true, and keeping up requires two steps for every one of his.
“The firm was founded five years ago,” he says, not looking over. “By me and my brother. He handles client relations. I handle operations.”
“Your brother?”
“You’ll meet him inside.”
Something about the delivery makes unease prickle along my spine, but analyzing it becomes impossible because the conference room is already here. Glass walls, long table, a dozen faces turned toward us expectantly.
Nick pauses, studying my face with an intensity that should feel invasive but somehow doesn’t. “You’re pale. Do you need some water before we go in?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” The words come out steadier than expected. “Just nerves.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he opens the door anyway.
The best I’m a competent professional smile plasters itself across my face, and the conference room swallows me whole.
And then the world stops.
At the head of the table. Perfectly pressed suit. That same easy smile from seven years ago, the one that used to make my heart race, now directed at a room full of colleagues, the smile of a man who owns everything in it.
Matthias Anderson.
Anderson.
The name I never connected because Anderson is common, because there are a thousand Andersons in the world, because meeting his family never happened, because knowing what world he came from never happened. Because young and stupid and in love meant trusting everything he said.
Because he never told me anything.
The blood drains from my face. The room tilts. Seven years collapse into nothing, and suddenly being twenty years old again is happening, standing in a doorway watching everything fall apart, listening to him laugh while another woman rides him on our couch.
He looks exactly the same. A little older. A little sharper around the edges. A wedding ring on his finger that isn’t mine.
And his eyes find mine, and the look on his face...
Like garbage. Like something he stepped in. Like I’m nothing.
“Joanna.” Nick’s voice comes from far away, from underwater, from the bottom of something I’m drowning in. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Speaking is impossible. Breathing is impossible. A ringing fills my ears and my hands are shaking and throwing up right here, in front of everyone, on the first day seems inevitable...
Get it together, Holland. You didn’t survive him just to fall apart now.
“I’m fine.” The words sound like someone else is saying them. “Sorry. First day jitters.”
Nick doesn’t look convinced, but pushing doesn’t happen either. He guides me to an empty seat, as far from Matthias as physically possible, and whether he notices, whether anyone notices, remains unclear, and begins the introductions.
“Everyone, this is Joanna Holland. She’ll be joining us as a junior architect on the Hargrove project. Jo, this is the team.”