“Did you go somewhere?” Patrick asked her. “You didn’t mention anything . . . I thought you were staying in town.”
“That’s because I don’t need you to approve my weekend plans, Patrick,” she said. “I don’t have to tell you where I’m going, or what I’m doing, or who I’m with.”
“But it would be good if you tell me, so I don’t wait around at a property and get stuck in a fucking elevator,” I replied.
“Jesus Christ, Sam, I’m sorry! I lost track of things, okay? I’m sorry.” She slammed her coffee cup down and crossed her arms over her chest. “I went away with some friends, and I forgot about the appointment at Comm Ave., and—”
“The only person you spend time with who isn’t presently accounted for in this room is my wife,” Matt said. “And she was with me, on the Cape.”
I turned to Matt. “Do you ever get tired of saying it with that sanctimonious tone? ‘My wife’?”
He shot me a smug grin. “Never.”
“But you’re okay, yeah?” Riley asked. He pointed to the yellowing bruise on my face. “Is this from the elevator or blacking out in Cambridge?”
“Elevator,” I said.
Waking up in Tiel’s apartment left its marks, but they weren’t bruises.
“Why didn’t you call one of us?” Andy asked, angling her pen at Riley, Patrick, and Matt.
I lifted a shoulder and mumbled a response into my coffee cup.
“All right,” Patrick murmured. “Let’s get back on track here. Sam’s alive. Shannon can’t manage her appointments. Moving on.”
We reviewed the active projects, as well as the ones we were considering. I didn’t mention the Commonwealth property; I wasn’t convinced I wanted to see the inside of that building ever again.
“Sam . . .” Shannon held up her hand while she paged through her notebook. “I can’t go with you to the ASNE event in November.”
The Architectural Society of New England’s annual banquet didn’t matter to me, and if Shannon hadn’t insisted that I attend and personally collect my awards each year, I wouldn’t go. But she claimed it was great networking—even though none of those people agreed with our approach to preservation—and she made a point of attending, and befriending everyone in the room.
“And where will you be?” I asked.
She continued turning the pages, stopping occasionally to rearrange the sticky notes and mark reminders on her daily checklists, and murmured, “It’s personal. If you need me to find someone to go and hold your hand, I will, but don’t pout over it.”
I snapped my laptop shut and stood, sending the chair careening into the brick wall behind me. “You’re being a dick, Shannon,” I called as I stormed down the stairs.
They’d talk; they always did. Either it was my outbursts or my obsessive tendencies or my whoring, but regardless of the topic, they’d hide the sharp objects and nominate someone to check on me.
Back in the comfort of my office, I set out my projects for the day. After an hour of hectic, unfocused work, I was prepared to storm into Shannon’s office and put my issues on the table.
I was halfway down the stairs when my phone chimed. I’d snapped a picture of Tiel reclining on the grass this past weekend, and seeing it on my screen had me stopping mid-step.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” she said. “There’s an AC/DC cover band performing tonight. They’re acoustic, and I think there’s a banjo involved, but I hear good things. You should come with me.”
I laughed and hustled down the stairs, bypassing Shannon’s floor and heading outside, onto Derne Street. “Should I?”
“Yes, you should. You need more banjo in your life. In fact, the shortage of banjo in your life is a rather dire situation.”
I hiked to the top of the street and watched the Beacon Hill traffic. I didn’t have a creative reason to decline the invitation, and I was struggling to concoct one. I was comfortable being the guy with the booked calendar, but it dawned on me that Tiel didn’t give a damn about any of my bullshit posturing.
“All right, Sunshine, but I need to put my head down and get some shit done.”
“Wise decision. I’ll text you the address,” she said.
I jogged down the street and up to my office, closed the door, and dug into my projects with newfound urgency. Hours passed without my notice as I plowed through designs, emails, client calls, and some scheduling conversations with my preferred contractors.
