Chapter 22
Ross
After three weeks of searching for the perfect job, I finally landed an interview at the small boutique I’d been eyeing. It felt like such a good fit that I started immediately.
Now, I sit at a drafting table surrounded by exposed brick.
Sunlight cuts across the plans for a new community center, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
It’s a world away from the glass towers of my former life.
No panoramic city views here, just the street-level reality of the neighborhood I’m designing for.
The office is lively. Colleagues move between tables, swapping rolls of trace paper and light banter. It lacks the heavy suffocation of the corporate world.
I run my pencil over the elevation: wide entryways, durable materials, spaces designed for heavy use rather than magazine spreads.
I brush a stray eraser shaving off the page, leaving a smear of gray graphite along the side of my hand.
It’s a tangible mark of labor, a sign that I’m actually building something.
“Almost six,” Sarah calls from the table across from mine. She spins a pen between her fingers, offering a grin. “Planning on moving in, or do you eventually go home?”
I smile, grateful for the teasing. It’s light, lacking the competitive edge I’m used to.
“I’m leaving,” I say, closing the sketchbook. “Tonight, I actually have plans.”
I slide the drawings into my portfolio. No conference calls. No crisis management. I pack up, feeling the weight of the day in a good way, a tiredness earned, not suffered.
As I finish gathering my things, my phone buzzes in my pocket, its persistent vibration cutting through the comfortable sounds of the office. I pull it out, my heart skipping as Margot’s name lights up the screen.
She’s offering a dinner invitation.
“Hey, you okay over there?” another colleague nudges, noting my sudden pause.
“You look like you’ve won the lottery.”
“Better,” I reply, swiping to unlock my phone, my heart racing as I read the text, her words wrapped in warmth and familiarity.
The anticipation of reconnecting fills me with cautious hope. We’ve had coffee a few times since the gallery, but this text is different. “Can I bring anything?” I type quickly, my fingers gliding over the keyboard as I give in to that familiar longing.
After a moment, her reply comes through: “Just yourself.”
A rush of lightness fills my chest as I let the words sink in. I smile at the screen, absorbing the reassurance that this connection isn’t completely severed. I’ll be there.
“Goodbye, everyone,” I announce, lifting a hand as I head for the door.
“See you tomorrow!” a voice calls from behind me, laughter trailing after me like a soft wave. Their support tugs at my heartstrings, a reminder that maybe, just maybe, I’m on the right path.
As I step outside, I walk to my car, the breeze stirring anticipation. Today, everything has shifted, and I can finally imagine a tomorrow where the walls of fear begin to crumble.
For the first time in a long time, I realize that the best part of this journey might be the connections that bring us together, waiting at Margot’s dinner table.
I stand on the doorstep of the house we once shared, the familiar outline bringing a flood of memories rushing back.
Clutching a bottle of wine and a portfolio of humble sketches under my arm, I feel the ghost of our past lingering in the air, a reminder of everything I’ve worked to leave behind and everything I hope to rebuild.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I swallow back the rush of emotion and take a steadying breath before knocking.
After what feels like an eternity, the door swings open. Margot stands there, her expression guarded but not entirely cold. It’s as if she’s caught between hope and reluctance, just like I am. Her hair cascades over her shoulders.
“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, matching the warmth I feel deep inside. I lift the bottle slightly, an offering rather than a symbol of anything more complex. “I brought this.”
“Hi,” she replies, stepping back slightly to let me in. “Thanks.”
As I step across the threshold, nostalgia crashes over me, waves pulling me deeper into a sea of memories, good, bad, all wrapped in the history we’ve built. The dining table is set simply.
I glance at her, noting the shift in her demeanor, that tiny softening. “The table looks nice,” I remark, trying to keep the conversation afloat. The casual setting contrasts sharply with the extravagant meals we used to host, something I can’t help but appreciate.
“Thanks,” she says again, a touch of surprise in her voice. “I wasn’t sure if I should go all out.” There’s a hint of vulnerability in her tone, and I want to reach across the table and reassure her.
“What matters is the company,” I say, taking a seat while she moves to pour wine into two glasses.
“So, how’s work?” she prompts, crossing her arms against the table.
I take a breath, allowing my thoughts to gather.
“It’s been a shift,” I admit, feeling lighter talking about it.
“I’m focused on affordable housing now, and it feels…
purposeful. Every project I work on is a step toward creating something people genuinely need.
” I feel a swell of pride as the words flow, each one a testament to the change that has defined me in recent months.
“Sounds like you like it.”
“I do,” I say, savoring the excitement that hums beneath my words. “It’s liberating to embrace the practical side of things.”
“Practical?” She arches an eyebrow, a glimmer of teasing dancing in her eyes. “Did you learn that from Elias?”
I chuckle, nodding in acknowledgment. “He’s been teaching me more than I could have imagined, fixing leaks, building things, even learning how to use the tools. You wouldn’t believe the calluses on my hands.”
Her laughter rings. “I’d love to see those calluses,” she teases.
“I’ll show you,” I promise, the tone deepening with sincerity. “I think you’d be surprised. I’m a lot less polished now.”
“I’m curious to see what that means,” she replies, her tone playful.
“I guess I’m discovering who I am beyond the suit and tie, beyond the reputation I built. I’m not that man anymore.”
I see the way she nods slowly, absorbing my words as we dig deeper into conversation. “And who is that man?” she asks, leaning forward as if each question ties us closer.
“There’s more to me than numbers,” I reply thoughtfully. “I want to be someone who builds lives, not just structures. I want to help create homes.”
“And you want to be present while doing it,” she adds, her tone encouraging, wrapped in understanding.
“Yes,” I say, feeling a weight lift as the acknowledgment settles. “More than ever, I’ve realized how fleeting all of this can be. I’m trying to reclaim the meaning in it all.”
“And here I thought you’d only wanted to be a big shot,” she teases gently, and I smile, the easy exchange sending a flicker of warmth through the space between us.
“Turns out that’s not all it was cracked up to be,” I say, holding her gaze, my pulse quickening. Maybe someday, but I’d rather have my own firm to do so.
As we start clearing the dinner plates, there’s a shift in our energy. It feels natural, the way our hands brush against each other as we pass dishes back and forth.
“So,” I say, trying to bring lightness back to our conversation, “how have you been finding your art classes?”
She grins. “They’ve been challenging and exhilarating. I’ve learned that creating something feels deeply fulfilling, more than I’d ever anticipated.”
Her passion flows freely, and it stirs something within me. “You’ve always had that spark in you,” I say encouragingly. “What about more exhibitions? Have you thought about it?”
“I have,” she replies, the glow of pride coloring her cheeks. “It feels daunting, but I think it might be time to share what I’ve created with the world. I’m not sure how to go about it.”
“Whatever you decide, I’m proud of you. You saw how the community reacted to your last one. You deserve to showcase your talent.”
As we finish tidying, she casually mentions the bathroom sink has been leaking.
“I can take a look at it,” I offer, my voice steady, wanting to avoid grand gestures but knowing I can help in this small way.
“Are you sure?” she asks, a hint of surprise flickering across her face.
“Absolutely.” The truth is, I want to be involved in every way possible, even if it’s just fixing a leak in our home. “Let me run to the car. I have a tool bag in the car.”
“Okay.”
After heading to the bathroom, I kneel before the sink. When I pull open the cabinet doors, the smell of damp wood and bleach hits me. I lay out the tools I borrowed from Elias, metal clinking against the tile.
The plumbing is a mess. It’s a tangle of corroded traps and haphazard lines—nothing like the clean, logical blueprints I used to draw. Rust flakes off as I run a hand over the trap. I take a breath, feeling the cramp in my shoulder.
I locate the leak. Water beads at a joint.
“Come on,” I mutter, fitting the wrench around the nut.
The metal is slick and stubborn. I wipe sweat from my brow with my forearm, leaving a streak of grease behind. This isn’t theoretical. It isn’t a draft on a screen. It’s cold, wet, and frustrating.
Movement catches my eye. I glance over to find Margot leaning against the doorframe. She watches me, eyes narrowed but not unkind. I’m lying on her floor, shirt ruined in a puddle, wrestling with a pipe. I offer a tight smile and turn back to the work.
She doesn’t speak. She stays there, a quiet presence in the doorway while I put my weight into the wrench.
“You know,” I say, my voice echoing in the small cabinet, “I never really grasped the difference between designing and building until now. Fixing a sink is a world apart from drawing blueprints.”
“It must be satisfying,” she says, her voice soft. “Seeing the result immediately.”
“Exactly.” I grit my teeth and give the wrench another hard twist. “There’s value in being hands-on. In making something work.”
The nut screeches, metal against metal, then finally gives. I tighten the new seal, knuckles grazing the rough wood of the cabinet.
One last check. I turn the shut-off valve. Silence. The dripping has stopped.
I sit up, wiping my hands on a rag, and turn on the faucet. Water flows smooth and contained. No leaks.
“Got it,” I say, the tension in my chest uncoiling.
Margot steps closer as I gather the tools. Her smile is genuine.
“Thank you,” she says. “You made it feel like a home again.”
The words land heavy and sweet. I look up at her. “I’m here, Margot. I’m committed.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment. “Would you like to stay for another glass of wine?”
I nod, standing to brush the dust from my knees. “I’d like that very much.”