“You were building something,” Luke said carefully. “That matters.”
“Does it though?” She found her client gift wine collection, each bottle a memory of a deal closed, a campaign launched. “Six months ago, I would have said absolutely. Now...”
“Now?”
“Now I watch Tyler teaching Stella about f-stops and think that matters more. I see Margo showing her the proper way to layer cheese and think that’s building something too.” She held up a bottle of Château Margaux. “This wine costs three hundred dollars. We could drink it right now with pad thai.”
“Or?”
“Or I could save it for something special and realize nothing’s ever special enough because life keeps happening while you’re waiting for the perfect moment.”
Luke took the bottle, examined the label. “What would Corporate Meg do?”
“Save it. Display it. Talk about it at dinner parties but never actually open it.”
“And Beach Shack Meg?”
She took the bottle back, grabbed the corkscrew from the kitchen. “Beach Shack Meg knows that drinking stupidly expensive wine on the floor with someone who matters beats any corporate dinner.”
The cork came out with a satisfying pop. She poured it into two coffee mugs—she hadn’t unpacked the good glasses yet.
“To building different things,” Luke offered.
“To three-hundred-dollar wine in coffee mugs.” They clinked ceramic.
The wine was extraordinary, even in inappropriate vessels. They worked through more boxes—kitchen gadgets she’d never used, books about management strategies, clothes that belonged to a different climate and life.
“Oh no.” Meg pulled out a garment bag. “My interview suit.”
“The one you wore?—”
“To every major interview for ten years. My armor.” She unzipped it, touching the expensive fabric. “I wonder if it still fits.”
“Try it on.”
“Really?”
“I’m curious about Corporate Meg.”
She disappeared into the bedroom, returning in thecharcoal suit that had seen her through every major career milestone. It still fit perfectly, but it looked like a costume now.
“Very impressive,” Luke said. “You look like you could hostile-takeover something.”
“I once made a CMO cry in this suit.” She straightened the jacket. “Not my proudest moment.”
“Turn around.”
She spun slowly, modeling her former uniform. “Worth every penny of the two thousand dollars.”
“Two thousand—” Luke coughed. “For one suit?”
“Investment dressing.” She sat back down, still in the suit but cross-legged on the floor. “Except now it’s just very expensive wool taking up closet space.”
“You could wear it to the Beach Shack. Really class up the joint.”
“Joey would die. Imagine getting grilled cheese grease on this.”
They were laughing now, the weight of the evening lifting. She found her lease renewal in the last box—December 31st deadline circled in red.
