18. Conrad

CHAPTER 18

CONRAD

I stepped off that plane and didn't breathe for a week. Didn't have a second to come up for air. I had my two acquisitions and a whole mess of admin, and on top of that, some copyright suit. Some artist claiming the new Constel tower was his design from a movie. It seemed ridiculous on the face of it, but I'd seen the movie. I'd posted a screenshot showing the tower in question, and captioned it the city I'd build if I could build my dream city. That had been years ago, but his lawyers had found it. Now, they were calling it a statement of intent. I had to admit, his tower did look like mine. But I hadn't designed the thing, just said what I wanted, and not in such detail as to evoke his vision. My architect arriving at a similar endpoint was an unfortunate coincidence and nothing more.

"It's not going away," said Joe, leaning on my desk. "I know you don't want to hear this, but I'd think about settling."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, where a headache was forming. "No way. The guy has no case."

"He has public opinion." Joe tapped on his phone. "People are posting these side-by-side shots, little details the same. It's going viral. Can we even be positive it is just coincidence? What if that architect?—"

"Ripped off a movie? Don't you hear how that sounds?" I took a deep breath to keep from exploding, but my anger sparked anyway, hot in my belly. "She's won awards, for Pete's sake. She's world-class. She's got to rip off some artist no one's ever heard of?"

"Maybe not on purpose, but hear me out. What if you described to her, without even knowing, this building you saw on the set of a movie? Then she took that description, and maybe she'd seen it too. Maybe she filled in the details, again without knowing, and?—"

"That's absurd. I'm not going to settle."

"It wouldn't take much to make him go away."

I clenched my fists at my sides and willed myself not to yell. This was nothing, a nuisance, soon to be quashed. Nothing to get worked up over, but I was fuming. If I opened my mouth, I'd bite Joe's head off.

"Think about it," said Joe. "I'm going to head out. If you need me, you know where to find me."

I waited till the door clicked shut, then sank down at my desk. Nothing felt right this week. Nothing felt easy. My instincts felt off, dulled down to bluntness. I couldn't intuit which move to make, not with this lawsuit, not with my acquisitions. Not with anything that mattered, or anything that didn't. I'd even dithered this morning over what to have for breakfast.

I yawned into my elbow and massaged my jaw. This was thanks to my trip, was all. Getting stuck on the island. I hadn't slept much, with the storm. With Claire. What I needed was sleep, a full, deep eight hours. Once I'd had that, I'd be back to myself.

I grabbed my jacket off my coat tree and headed out of my office. Maybe before I slept, I'd reach out to Claire. See how she was doing, if she was good. She was in talks with Verity, I'd seen on socials. They'd been photographed together at some fashion event. I'd call and congratulate her. No, I'd just text. That wouldn't be weird, or overstepping. Just one friend telling another friend?—

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I scrambled it out, half-convinced it was Claire, but it was Joe's name that popped up on the screen.

"Joe. You forget something?"

"No, it's the Bachman Group. Their attorney just called. They've got another offer, and they've put ours on hold."

"What? But we bought them. We just signed the contracts." I slapped the wall, dizzy. Was I losing my mind?

"They had a twenty-four-hour grace period to back out if they wanted. Looks like they wanted, because they've backed out."

"Unbelievable. Can't we just, can't we, uh…" I couldn't remember what I'd meant to say. I'd gotten caught up in Claire again, let her clutter my mind. All week I'd been finding myself zoned out at my desk, recalling the feel of her skin against mine. The sound of her laughter. The sun in her hair. She was the reason I hadn't closed Bachman — my childish distraction. What was I, in high school?

"We don't need them," said Joe. "Their tech's not unique."

"But it is what we need right now, and… I'll handle this." I stood up straighter and shook my head to clear it. I hung up on Joe and looped back to my office, and spent the next hour lining up meetings. I set up golf for tomorrow with Bachman Sr., followed by lunch with him and his son. Then I booked in my legal team to go through our contracts, see if that grace period was set in stone. Bachman had been playing us for weeks already. Maybe my lawyers could argue he'd worn out his grace. Or dig up some problem with their other offer, some conflict of interest. Some legal hitch.

By the time I got through, my head was pounding. I dug through my desk and came up with an aspirin, swallowed it dry and grimaced at the taste. My phone chirped with a text, and I squinted to read it. This time, it was from Claire, and my heart did a backflip.

Hey, checking in to see how you're doing! Hope our unscheduled layover hasn't left you buried!

I saw she had texted me twice before that, once late last night, once three days ago.

Just heard from Verity! Thanks SO MUCH again! I owe you for this one, so collect anytime.

Heard about the lawsuit. Everything okay?

I swiped over to my photos and found one of Claire leaning over our balcony, watching the sunset. I'd taken it to capture the sun in her hair, the way it haloed her curls in pure liquid fire. But on my phone screen, the brilliance was lost. Claire could've been anyone in silhouette, her hair a dark mass washed out by the sun's flare. Our whole fling had been like that, great in the moment, but looking back on it, a messy mistake.

I read through Claire's texts again, thinking how to answer. What did she mean by "collect anytime?" Did she just mean our deal, or was she flirting? And I'd been sued before, and she'd never checked in. Three texts in a week, without a reply — that wasn't like her. She'd never been clingy.

"Damn it," I muttered. I typed a reply — All good . Deleted it. How could I have thought our friendship wouldn't change? Twelve years, she'd wanted me. I'd wanted her too. We'd both understood why it couldn't be, but then it had been, at least for a moment. Was she having trouble letting it go? If I responded, would I make it worse?

I scrolled back through my photos. I'd only taken a few. I'd snapped the moon before bed our first night, all pale and heavy in the pre-storm sky. The rest were of Claire — Claire in the market. Claire on the beach. Claire winking at me through the hole in a bagel. They could've been taken any time in our friendship, twelve years ago, six, or only a week. That was how I'd fooled myself, how normal it seemed. How easy and right it felt to fall into her arms, the person who knew me best in the world.

I jammed my phone in my pocket without answering her text. We didn't text to check in. That wasn't us. Claire would remember that when I didn't reply. It would be awkward at first, and then she'd remember, and we'd slide back into how we'd always been. Like a foot in a boot worn into its shape.

Or she won't. She'll be pissed. You're being a dick.

I fell back in my chair and gazed up at the ceiling.

"This is why I don't date," I told the stars through the skylight. My friendship with Claire had been easy. Straightforward. This was the opposite, weird and complex.

I pulled out my phone again and read through her texts, trying to pick out the subtext. Maybe there was none. Maybe it was me. Maybe Claire was just asking me how I was doing, one friend reaching out to check on another. Now I thought of it, we did do that sometimes.

I pecked out a reply again. All good. It's a pain, but I'll manage.

Was Claire sitting somewhere, watching the dots?

I backspaced what I'd written and thumbed my phone off. We needed space, pure and simple. Only that.

Space.