Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Tom
"Ican't make the call." The words come out fast the second Sam answers her phone. "You decide. Option A or Option B."
Silence on the other end of the line. The heavy, wait-and-see kind of silence.
"Tom."
"Option A is safe," I say, staring at the two tablets spread across my desk. "It's clean, technically flawless. Exactly what the Board expects. Option B shows the neighborhood character, the human scale. But—"
"Come to the office."
I stop pacing. "What?"
"I'll book a conference room. We can look at them together."
"Sam, I just need you to tell me which direction to go."
"Come to the office." There's a surprising, steady warmth in her voice. "We'll work through it."
I lean back against my desk, rubbing a hand over my face. "Your week is insane. I know you're playing catch-up from the hard drive crash. I don't want to—"
"Tom." Firm now. The project manager is back. "Shut up and come to the office."
Three months ago, this wouldn't have been a conversation.
I would have picked Option B, sent the files, and moved on.
I've made a thousand creative calls on my own.
But the second presentation is still playing on a loop in my head.
The Developer's jaw tightening. Sam stepping in, taking the hit for my lack of communication.
We bounced back during last Thursday's check-in, but we still have a grueling series of weekly Board updates to survive before the final Capital Investment meeting next month.
If I choose wrong this time, she pays again. It isn't just my job anymore.
"Just when I need you to take control, you aren’t going to. Are you?" I ask.
"We're partners," she says, her voice dropping, going softer. "Partners work together. I'll even spring for lunch."
The cursor blinks on Screen Left.
"Okay," I say, grabbing my bag. "I'm on my way."
***
The conference room has three glass walls. I spread both tablets across the table, pulling up the decks side by side. Through the barriers, Sam's firm moves—people between desks, someone gesturing at blueprints, a woman on her phone.
Sam closes the door. The sound dampens but doesn't disappear.
"Show me what you've got."
I tap Screen Left. "Option A. Standard documentation. Wide shots, infrastructure access, commercial viability. Clean, neutral, safe."
She leans over the table, eyes tracking the images. I watch her face for judgment, disapproval, the tightening around her mouth that means she's three steps ahead.
Nothing.
"And Option B?"
I swipe to Screen Right. "This focuses on existing community assets. Human scale. I shot it during our walk, you'll recognize the locations."
Her hand reaches out, fingers hovering above the screen. The fountain we found, tucked between buildings where afternoon light makes the water look like glass.
"This is beautiful, Tom."
My chest tightens. "But is it what the Board wants?"
She straightens, arms crossing. "Walk me through it. Start where you got stuck."
I pull up the images and start walking her through the sequence.
What the Board sees first.
What they see next.
Where the story turns.
Every few seconds I glance at her face, waiting for the interruption.
She just listens.
Someone walks past the glass wall and slows.
I lose my place.
"Sorry. Where was I?"
"The story flow for Option B." Sam glances at the glass. "Don't worry about them."
"Kind of hard not to when we're in a fishbowl."
Another person passes. A woman, younger, carrying binders. She doesn't pretend not to look.
Sam's mouth curves. "You know what they're seeing, right?"
"Us making a decision that could tank both our reputations?"
"They're seeing us work together." She gestures at the table, the tablets, the spread of notes. "A dozen people have walked by. You look like my partner."
I look at the screens. She's right. It's us, side by side.
"So what do you think?"
"I think you're not asking the right question."
I wait.
She leans against the table, hip pressing the edge. "If this decision was yours alone," she says, "which one would you choose?"
"Option B. Hands down."
"Why?"
"Option A shows what the Board thinks they want. Option B shows what's actually there."
Sam reaches across and closes her laptop. The click is decisive. "Then it's Option B."
"What about the Developer?"
"Your photography could sell ice to an ice fisherman." She says it like she's commenting on weather. Now we build the best presentation we can and let them argue with us.”
I stare at her. "That's it?"
"That's it."
Sam pulls her chair closer and reopens the laptop.
“Let’s practice what we’re going to say over the slides,” she says. “Tomorrow’s weekly update is where we start steering them. By the time the Capital Investment meeting happens, they should already be leaning our way.”
She taps a few keys and pulls up the deck.
“First image, the wide shot of the waterfront. What’s your voice-over?”
I glance at my notes. “The Harbor District represents a unique intersection of historical preservation and modern commercial potential.”
Her eyebrow lifts.
“You’re putting the Board to sleep in the first ten seconds.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It sounds like a textbook. Try again. Talk to me like I’m a person who cares about money and doesn’t have time for jargon.”
I close the notes and look at the image again—old brick catching late afternoon light, cobblestones running down to the water.
“This neighborhood has been here for over a century,” I say. “The bones are solid. The location’s prime. And the community’s already invested.”
She nods slowly. “Better. But what’s the payoff? Why should I care that the community’s invested?”
“Because it means less resistance to development,” I say. “Lower risk.”
“Now you’re talking.” She types quickly. “Next image.”
I swipe to the residential street—row houses, narrow sidewalks, trees planted in little squares of dirt.
“This is the residential core,” I say. “People already live here. That means built-in demand for retail and services.”
Sam leans back slightly. “So a developer doesn’t have to create a neighborhood.”
“Exactly. It’s already here.”
She smiles. “There you go.”
We move through the next few slides the same way. She pushes, I adjust. The explanations get sharper each time.
Finally, she pulls up the last image, the fountain.
“Closing slide,” she says. “What are you saying here?”
I study the photo. Water catching light, worn stone edges, people sitting along the rim.
“This is what’s already here,” I say. “The Board isn’t funding a construction project. They’re investing in a place people already love.”
Sam closes the laptop.
“That’s your closing line,” she says. “Don’t change a word.”
I lean back in the chair. My throat’s dry.
“How long have we been at this?”
She checks her phone. “Hour and a half.”
It felt like twenty minutes.
She stands and stretches. “I’m starving. Let’s get lunch.”
***
The deli is chaos.
Bodies packed at the counter, voices shouting over the noise from the kitchen, pastrami and mustard thick in the air. Every table is taken.
Sam scans the room.
“There.”
She points to a tiny corner booth half-hidden behind construction workers waiting for orders.
We squeeze through the crowd. The booth is barely big enough for two people, the table shoved against the wall. The only way to sit is the same side.
I slide in first. Sam follows, her shoulder pressing mine as she settles.
“This is cozy,” I say.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She unwraps her sandwich. I take a bite of mine—pastrami, rye, mustard.
Sam’s eyes drift toward the counter while she chews.
“See how everyone’s stuck at the register?” she says, nodding toward the front. “If they moved the pickup window forward a few feet, the line wouldn’t block the door.”
“You’re redesigning the deli.”
“I’m just noticing.”
“You’re noticing in a very specific, solution-oriented way.”
She smiles faintly and takes another bite.
A small smear of mustard catches on her upper lip.
My hand moves before I think about it. I grab a napkin and reach across, wiping it away. My thumb lingers for a fraction of a second against her skin.
She goes completely still.
“You look so earnest when you redesign things,” I say quietly.
Her eyes widen. Then she laughs. “Even with mustard on my face?”
“Especially then.”
She shakes her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
The noise of the deli washes around us—plates clattering, orders shouted, someone laughing near the door.
A minute later Sam finishes her sandwich and wipes her hands.
Her attention drifts back to the counter. The line’s gotten worse.
She stands.
“Where are you going?”
“Hold on.”
She crosses the room and says something to the guy behind the register. He looks skeptical at first. She gestures toward the pickup window, tracing an invisible line in the air.
He follows her gesture. Stops. Nods.
Sam returns to the booth.
“Did you just—”
“He’s going to try it tomorrow,” she says. “See if it helps.”
I stare at her.
“You can’t help yourself.”
“What?”
“You see a problem. You fix it.”
She shrugs. “It was bothering me.”
The deli crowd shifts again. Someone leaves. Someone else grabs the empty table.
Three months ago, I would’ve made the call alone, sent the files, invoiced, and started looking for the next job.
Halfway to the next city by now.
Sam’s watching me.
“Why are you smiling?” she asks.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
The overhead lights catch the edge of her hair.
“About how I’m not looking for what’s next anymore,” I say.
She goes still.
“Is that good or bad?”
I take another bite of the sandwich.
“I don’t know yet.”
She nods and just sits there, shoulder pressed against mine while the deli keeps moving around us.
The booth is too small. The crowd is too loud.
I should feel trapped.
I don’t.