25. A Picture’s Worth A Thousand Words

25

A PICTURE'S WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

PATRICK

A MEMORY

I park my car outside Carver & Associates Architecture firm, take a few deep breaths, and then pull down the overhead mirror to check my teeth for leftover spinach from lunch and my hair for flyaways. The person staring back at me is listless. Beaten down already.

There's no chance, if I didn't get any of the last three jobs, that I'm going to get this one at one of the most cutthroat medium-sized architectural design firms in New Jersey.

"Treat this as a learning experience," I tell myself.

In the back seat, there is an itchy-looking Christmas sweater that Quinn picked out for me from an online shop. Since settling into our apartment, Quinn has asked if we can send out joint Christmas cards. He loved those glossy mailers as a kid. I thought they were a little outdated, but what the heck. If it'll make him happy.

Every fiber of my being wishes I felt as cheery as the red-and-green knit sweater suggests I am. After this, I'll drive over to the Christmas tree farm, throw it on, and pretend I'm not barreling toward professional ruin.

The firm is inside one of those cookie-cutter, modern, glass-and-steel buildings with open offices. I check in at the main desk and wait my turn in the sleek black chair, until ten minutes later, a tall dark-skinned man comes over to greet me.

He extends a hand. "Patrick? My name is Jason. You're interviewing to fill my previous position. Follow me."

He leads me down a long, imposing corridor. Heads turn up in my direction. "Any tips?"

"Don't be shy, make strong eye contact, and be prepared to say you're a team player at least five times. He loves that." Jason speaks to me like he's a confidant. I appreciate that. Most other places I've been to over the last several months, the exchanges with current employees have been fast and formal.

"I'm a team player. Got it." I smile my thanks his way. "Wait, he ?"

Jason doesn't answer before he thrusts me through a door. In the room is Calvin Carver, the head of the operation, and no one else. The air-conditioning is on blast even though it's November. I shiver. Vacillating from cold to clammy then back again.

What is he doing here? At no point in my job hunt have I had any face-to-face time with the senior principal. I'm newly nauseated.

We exchange greetings and pleasantries before he says, "I'm going to cut to the chase. I'm impressed with you."

I blink to give myself time. Make sure I heard him correctly. "Thank you, sir."

"Drop the sir. Call me Mr. Carver." He leans back in his chair, and it creaks. He's got my portfolio spread out across his desk. The draft on top is a special one I've been working on for Quinn. On nights I can't sleep, I sneak out to the kitchen and sketch up our dream home. The apartment is nice for now. But I want a place for Quinn and me to stake forever in. "I've heard nothing but glowing things about you from my colleagues, and I can see why." He waves the sketch.

Pride grows in my belly. "I hope this interview proves that I live up to the hype."

And it must, because twenty minutes later, Mr. Carver offers me the firmest handshake I've ever had in my life and, much to my disbelief, the job.

By the time I find Quinn at the Christmas tree farm where we're taking our photos, I'm a pi?ata ready to burst. I race toward him, lift him off the ground, and spin him in a circle. My excitement is too big for my six-foot-one frame.

"I got it," I say into his hair. "I got it." The relief washes over me.

He leans back, eyes wide and smile wider. "Wow! Congrats, Pat!"

I kiss him before he can say anything else. It's a long-lasting kiss that makes the world melt away.

Until someone taps my shoulder.

"Sorry to intrude on this heartwarming scene, but I have to get home to walk my dog within the hour so if we could get this party started…" I turn to find a medium-height woman with curly, dark hair wearing black glasses, a matching knit hat, and an oversized hoodie that says OAKWOOD ELEMENTARY SCHOOL. A bulky camera is hanging from a thick strap that's slung around her neck.

"Patrick, this is Veronica. Veronica is a teacher at the school I'm student teaching at, and frankly, my saving grace." I give her an overly familiar hug even though I just met her because it's that time of year and I'm in such a good mood.

It's early in the holiday season, not even Thanksgiving yet, so the place is mostly empty. We go in search of the perfect spot with the best lighting to take our picture.

For the next hour, as we pose, it feels like a stone has been craned off my chest. I don't need to worry how I'm going to pay my part of the rent for the apartment I convinced Quinn to go in on with me.

Our home can be happy again.

That night, Quinn pops open a bottle of champagne he had hidden in the back of the fridge. The gesture is sweet. The bubbly is tart.

Quinn retires to the couch with his full glass to scroll through card templates on his laptop, while I sit at the kitchen table and feverishly draft again. I return to the bones of the house Calvin Carver complimented. I set out to create a magical place just for us. To grow and love and simply be.

"Come here," Quinn says from his perch on the couch. "How does it look?"

He's dropped the best photo into a template with a snowy forest scene and Santa's sleigh up in the sky in silhouette. "It looks great," I say. I lean my elbows on the back of the couch. I get a whiff of Quinn's coconut-scented shampoo. "We look really happy."

He peers back at me. "I am really happy."

I wrap my arms around his shoulders, kiss the crown of his head, and watch as he sends our first-ever Christmas cards off to the printer.