10. Izzy

CHAPTER 10

IZZY

I t's amazing how a day can turn on a dime, from cloud nine to hell in the time it takes to say "douchebag."

My day started perfect, waking up next to Spencer. He must've just woken himself, because his eyes were still squinty. He looked down at me cockeyed, all bed-warm and rumpled, and I leaned up and kissed his rough cheek.

"Morning. Sleep well?"

"Best night's sleep ever." He pulled me into his arms and we lay in the half-dark, the first gray of morning pale through the curtains. Spencer kissed my temple. "I could stay here forever."

"Don't you have practice?"

"No. I don't know. Tell 'em I'm dead."

I chuckled. "I think your coach might have a question or two about that."

We lingered in our warm nest as long as we could, but I had work and Spencer had practice, and we hauled ourselves up just before six. I rushed through my shower and dressed in a hurry, and made breakfast for both of us, bacon and eggs. Spencer rushed out right after, about to be late. I cleaned up the kitchen then sat at the table, going over my notes for today's presentation. Which, as it happened, I didn't need at all.

I got to my desk bang on eight thirty, and sat and waited for Mark and Jim to come by. I had some new mockups prepared for the clients, the better to show off the scope of our plans. If that wasn't team-playing, I didn't know what was. The douchebros had done nothing but shoot down my ideas, but here I was propping up theirs. Stern, at least, would have to see that.

I took out my mockups and spread them out on my desk. The minutes ticked by — eight forty. Eight fifty. I glanced at my watch, then my phone to be sure, and craned past our desk clump to peer through reception. The receptionist, Cherie, was sitting alone, slouched down in her seat, eyes on her e-reader. I stood and went out there, and she sat up.

"Hey, Cherie," I said. "You seen Mark or Jim yet?"

She frowned. "Didn't they tell you? They're in with the Rio group."

The blood drained from my head. "What? That's not till nine."

"No, it got moved up. They didn't call you?"

I spun on my heel, dizzy with rage. No, they hadn't called me. They hadn't said a word. I marched to the conference room vibrating with anger, only to stop with my hand on the door. If I burst in like a hurricane, all righteous fury, I'd look like a toddler having a tantrum. What I needed to do here was damage control: get in front of the clients. Show them my value. Ignore Mark and Jim and their petty sabotage.

I swung back by my desk and picked up my mockups. Slipped into the meeting. Took a seat at the back. Stern nodded at me from his place near the window. Jim's skinny lips twitched like he was hiding a smirk. Mark was walking the Rio guys through the specs for our concept. I could see from his PowerPoint he was just wrapping up.

"I don't know," said the client, when he was through. Johnson, his name was. He frowned at his notes.

"I'm sorry?" said Mark. "If you have questions, we'd be happy to?—"

Johnson held up his hand, motioning him to silence. He shuffled through his notes, then pushed them aside. "I don't know," he said again. "Isn't it a bit… blocky?"

"Blocky?" Mark smiled at him. "I think you'll find, with our concept?—"

"It looks like a shipping crate laid on its side." Johnson swiveled our model to inspect it from all angles. "Did you go down there? Check out the area? Because that whole neighborhood, it's not shipping crates. It's vibrant. It's colorful. We were expecting you'd bring us something more…"

"Less underwhelming," supplied one of his partners.

I stood up halfway, sensing my chance. I still had my notes from our brainstorming phase, all kinds of ideas Johnson would love. "I have—" I started, but Jim cut me off.

"Those are just the bones," said Jim. "The heart of the structure. We have plenty of ways to add personality, and we can do that and still stay on budget." He pulled a sketch from his portfolio, and my breath caught in my throat. I'd seen that sketch before — when I'd sketched it . When I'd presented it, Jim had shot it down.

"We had this idea for a fall of terraced gardens, with the roof garden on top, then shelves down the south side. A cascade of greenery facing the road, which, if you see here, it breaks up the concrete. Instead of the boxy look, you get something organic."

I sat frozen, ears buzzing, as he trotted out my ideas — the gardens, the atrium, the bright, glassed-in stairwells. He'd shot down the lot of them, him and Mark both, and now they were sitting here blithely taking credit.

"I like the roof garden," said Johnson. "And the atrium too. That opens things up a bit. Goes more with the street."

"With the glass in the atrium, you'll need to save energy elsewhere. At least, if you're looking for that LEED platinum rating. But we can make it work for you, no worries there." Jim turned to Mark. "Anything I'm missing?"

"Not that I can see," said Mark. He picked up a ruler and tapped on the model. "Though, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention, if you're looking for color, your commercial space is a bonus. We've left space for terraces, outdoor displays, all kinds of street life based on who you rent to. You could have a café here with tables out front, planters, a garden, all sorts of action. It'll be a good-looking building. A good-looking space."

Johnson nodded slowly, gathering his notes. "What the vendors do with their outdoor space is up to them. What I'm looking for from you guys is the space itself. And from what I'm seeing, you've got some ideas, but a lot of the best ones aren't here in your blueprints. We'll meet up next week and see where we are, and if everyone's happy, we'll take it from there."

Johnson got up. Stern did too. They went out together, Johnson's partners in tow, and the minute the door closed, I rounded on Jim.

"What the hell?"

Jim's brows shot up. "What?"

"What do you think? What was that crap with Johnson?"

He backed away from me, hands raised, still smiling. "I'm sorry, I don't quite… What crap with Johnson?"

I stared, disbelieving. Did he really not get it? Or was this some new, devious shade of gaslighting?

"You fed him all my ideas like they were yours. The cascading garden. The stairwells. The atrium. I had my sketches. I could have?—"

"Your ideas?" Jim frowned. "This is a team effort, not?—"

"You talked right over me. Cut me right off. And what the hell, moving the meeting up, and you didn't tell me?" My eyes prickled hotly, and I paused to draw breath. Mark saw his opening, and he dove right in.

"It wasn't your meeting." He stood up, hands out, talking in that slow voice reserved for angry children. There, there, kiddo. No need for a tantrum. "This was for team leads. That's me and Jim. We had no idea you even wanted to come. And as for your ideas, like Jim said, we're a team. It's not about any one person, or what they came up with. How would we even keep track of all that?"

"It's about results," added Jim. "Pleasing the client. And, hey, congratulations. Your ideas did that. Now you can work on them. Isn't that what you want?"

I stared at the douchebros. My neck had gone hot. I wanted to throttle them, or slap their fool faces. How could they not see it wasn't about the ideas? It was about getting shoved aside, trodden down, silenced. If Johnson was happy, he'd come back to the firm, but he wouldn't come back here looking for me. He'd come for his team leads. For Jim and Mark. The play-it-safe dweebs who'd have built him a shoebox.

I swallowed hard, cleared my throat, and spoke as evenly as I could manage. "If I'd been presenting, and he'd wanted boring, I'd have given you credit for your boring-ass pitch. My associate had an idea I think you might like . That's all. Is that so hard?"

"It's not professional," said Jim. "It makes us look scattered."

"Like we're doing one thing and you're doing another." Mark gestured at the model. "We need to keep it coherent, one team, one pitch."

"It's a rising tide, right? It floats all our boats."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Whatever I said to them, they wouldn't hear it. They'd just spout more platitudes. Management bullshit.

"Our brainstorm's at ten," called Jim, as I turned to go. "Maybe go get a coffee, or a herbal tea?"

I resisted the impulse to run back and kick him.

I was at my computer when Spencer got home, so absorbed in my task I didn't hear him come in. He came up behind me and set his hands on my shoulders, and I jumped up so hard I sent my chair flying. Spencer caught it adroitly before it could hit the hardwood. He set it aside and took me in his arms.

"Hey, hey, you're shaking. I scare you that bad?"

I laughed into his chest, a breathy exhale. "You kind of snuck up on me."

"I wasn't sneaking." He combed his hand through my hair. "You didn't hear me in the hallway? Stomping around? The way I was throwing my boots around, I was sure you'd have heard me."

I shook my head, still catching my breath.

"You're working too hard." He peered at my laptop. "Hey, what's all this? Don't tell me they fired you."

I chuckled again, and let go of Spencer. He dragged my chair back and I sat down. My browser was open and crammed full of tabs, a dozen job listings from a dozen cities. I closed it, but Spencer had already seen.

"Not fired," I said. "Just, y'know."

"Looking?"

"Yeah, but there's nothing." I leaned back and sighed. Spencer pulled a chair over and peered at my laptop. He browsed through the listings, taking the time to scroll through each one. His lips moved as he read, an endearing habit. I felt some of my tension draining away. Leon would be home soon, but he'd be exhausted. Maybe once he conked out, I could slip in with Spencer. One more sleepover. I surely deserved it.

"What's wrong with this one?" Spencer turned my laptop. "It says they're a small group. In need of self-starters. That should mean no, what's the word? ‘Design by committee.'" He ran his finger down the screen. "Proven experience with residential projects… remodels, redesigns… You've got that, right? Oh, and medical, dental?—"

I leaned over his shoulder. "That's in New York."

"So, even better! It's the Big Apple. I mean, what's the biggest project you could get here in Albuquerque? Condos? A rec center? A new hockey rink? Think, you could do the next Chrysler Building. St. Patrick's Cathedral."

I snorted. "A cathedral? These guys build condos."

"But cool condos, right? New York condos."

I scowled, feeling suddenly tired, out of sorts. Why was Spencer so hot for me to go to New York? Was this his way of reminding me we were only a fling? We'd agreed to no strings, and I was fine with that, really, but he didn't need to rub it in my face. It felt like some kind of preemptive rejection. Might as well go. You weren't staying for me, were you?

"I'm tired," I said.

"You want a back rub?" Spencer moved behind me, but I stood up abruptly.

"Not tonight. I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed." I realized I was snapping, but I was too tired to care. Too tired, too hurt, too done with this day. I turned my back on Spencer and marched off to bed, and lay for a long time staring at the wall.

He'd really be fine with me moving out to New York? Two thousand miles and one time zone away?

That being fine with him was not fine with me.