CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Luke knocked at exactly seven—three raps, pause, one rap. His signature knock this summer.
“It’s open,” Meg called from the floor of Sam’s studio—her studio now—where she sat surrounded by boxes that had just arrived from San Francisco.
“Brought reinforcements.” He held up a six-pack of beer and a bag from the Thai place. “Figured you hadn’t eaten.”
“You figured right.” She accepted a beer gratefully. “Tyler and Stella are having father-daughter movie night. Something about him introducing her to ‘classic’ films.”
“Let me guess—Point Break?”
“The original. He’s very specific about that.” Meg gestured at the boxes. “My old life arrived from San Francisco today. Been staring at it for two hours.”
“Want help or want company while you avoid it longer?”
“Both?” She took a long pull of beer. “I had my assistant pack up some things. Seemed important at the time. Now...”
“In case Stella decided to go back?” Luke settled beside her on the floor. “But she’s not. Not after today.”
“No.” Meg smiled, remembering Stella’s fierce declaration to her mother. “She’s definitely not.”
“So maybe it’s time to unpack?”
Meg looked at the boxes, each one labeled in her precise handwriting. OFFICE. AWARDS. PHOTOS. KITCHEN - GOOD STUFF. Like artifacts from another life.
“Okay.” She reached for the nearest box. “But if I find something embarrassing, you have to pretend you didn’t see it.”
“Deal.”
The first box was safe—office supplies, her favorite ergonomic keyboard, the expensive desk lamp she’d justified as a promotion gift to herself. Luke helped her set up a workspace in the corner, not commenting on how high-end everything was.
The second box was harder. “Oh,” she said softly, pulling out a framed photo. “My team.”
Luke looked over her shoulder at the image—Meg centered among twelve people, all raising champagne glasses in what was clearly an expensive restaurant. “Closing dinner for the Marriott campaign. We landed a twenty-million-dollar contract that night.”
“Twenty million?” Luke whistled low. “Meg, that’s...”
“Yeah.” She set the photo aside carefully. “It was a big deal.”
The next frame made her laugh despite herself. “Company awards dinner. They made me give a speech about ‘innovative leadership in the digital age.’” She was wearing a designer dress she’d bought specifically for the event, holding a crystal trophy for “Marketing Innovation of the Year.”
“You look...” Luke paused, studying the photo. “Different.”
“That’s Corporate Meg. Power blazer, statement necklace, shoes that cost more than some people’s rent.” She traced the frame. “I was really good at being her.”
“Do you miss it?”
The question hung between them as she pulled out more pieces of her San Francisco life. The Tiffany desk clock her team gave her when she made VP. Client gifts—bottles of wine worth more than Tyler’s monthly grocery budget. A leather portfolio embossed with her initials.
“Sometimes,” she admitted, opening the portfolio to find her business cards. Margaret Walsh, Vice President of Strategic Marketing. “I miss feeling like I was building something important. Leading a team. The adrenaline of a big pitch.”
“But?”
“But I don’t miss the sixteen-hour days. The Sunday night anxiety. Canceling vacations because a client hadan emergency that wasn’t actually an emergency.” She found another photo—her corner office with its view of the Bay. “I definitely don’t miss being too busy to visit Margo. Too important to come home.”
Luke was quiet, letting her work through it. The AWARDS box yielded more evidence of her success—plaques, certificates, a “Top 40 Under 40” magazine feature where she looked polished and professional and exhausted.
“God, look at me.” She held up the magazine. “I thought those bags under my eyes made me look dedicated. Devoted to the job.”
