He lifted a shoulder, his frown deepening. “She was close with the department chair, Dr. Batista. He picked her up for quite a few research assistantships, and she TA’d for him. Rumor had it that Batista left his wife for Andy, and then she blew him off when she moved to Boston. He spent this past semester on personal leave.”
Aggravation teased at my nerves. No way in hell that was Andy and my patience for Dave’s bullshit rumor was slim to nonexistent. No. Fucking. Way.
“That’s a heavy accusation, Dave.”
He held up his hands. “No accusation from me. There was a lot of talk, and when he dropped his courses three days before the semester resumed, there was a lot more talk. I heard he spent some time in Boston these past few months, trying to reconnect with her.”
Gossip. It was all gossip. I refused to believe she was capable of that kind of manipulation. She definitely wasn’t the kind of woman who left a man’s life in shambles.
Except for when she told that man a few passionate moments in a bathroom didn’t change anything.
I shook my head, ridding her cool, dismissive words from my mind. “That’s not the Andy Asani I know. The Andy I know is focused and talented, and she doesn’t need to sleep with anyone to get…” I swallowed, and the coffee went down like a handful of gravel. “To get ahead. Her work speaks for itself.”
“Like I said, getting graduates placed in the right firm is the priority, and it sounds like Andy’s in the right spot, and so long as she stays out of your trousers, it shouldn’t be problem for you.”
I glimpsed at my watch and estimated the amount of traffic I’d hit by leaving Ithaca at noon. The Mass Pike at rush hour on a Friday was the last place I wanted to be but I needed to talk to Andy.
Chapter Twenty
ANDY
The second floorconference room was a sad substitute for Patrick’s office, primarily due to its complete shortage of Patrick, but the small, alley-facing window was part of the problem, too. It was slightly disturbing that less than twenty-four hours away from him left me discombobulated. I didn’t sleep quite right, my Mason jar salad was a depressingly dull lunch, and I missed him—his scent, his touch, his eyes. All of him affected all of me.
Boston was experiencing its first hot day of spring, and I seriously contemplated a move to the State House courtyard to brighten my mood and soak up some sun. It seemed like the proper response to a winter dominated by permafrost snow banks and several visits from the polar vortex—never mind a solid month of April showers that looked a lot more like April monsoons.
“Well this is a dark and dreary cave,” Tom said as he strolled into the crammed room. Boxes surrounded me—everything in Patrick and Matt’s offices was packed in advance of tomorrow’s demo, and teams were busy protecting the original elements in both rooms. “Is this where you and Patrick are camping until construction is finished?”
Mmm. That sounded nice. My rugby Sex God would make this room far less dark and dreary.
“I’m in here with Matt. Riley and Patrick will be upstairs.”
“Right, right. Well, your boss told Shannon he would be back in the city around six tonight, and I need his signature on all of these.” Tom hefted color-coded files and dropped them in front of me. “If you could get them into his hands, I will owe you an afternoon coffee.”
There was no sense in reminding Tom I didn’t drink coffee or that I handed the coffees he routinely brought directly to Patrick. There was always a snarky comment from Patrick about Tom compensating for his inability to grow a beard with coffee, or Tom’s general inattentiveness to my beverage preferences. Patrick liked to claim he knew within a week how I took my tea and the minimum amount of hot salsa necessary for maximum taco enjoyment. “No worries, Tom. I need to run a few things by him tonight anyway.”
By ‘a few things,’ I did mean some sassy new panties that laced up the sides.
Tom murmured his thanks and turned to go, soundly whacking his elbow on a tower of boxes. “Freakin’ construction,” he muttered. “I still don’t understand why we’re doing this to begin with. It’s not like the firm’s getting any bigger.”
“How’s that?” I called.
Tom edged into the room, his elbow cradled in his hand. “The firm isn’t getting any bigger. It’s right there in the partnership structure.” He motioned to the blue folder on top of the stack. “Some possibility of future interns and apprentices, but five partners max. Don’t take this the wrong way, but it floored me when they offered you a spot. It’s not as if they were actively searching for associate architects. You should check that out. There’s a lot of juicy bits in there.”
I stared at the blue folder for a few minutes. There was no reason to believe Patrick was withholding information from me. He frequently mentioned the work he and Shannon were doing to adjust the organizational model. One particularly snowy weekend, we ate at least a quart of my red lentil soup while he bitched about the changes Shannon was pushing through. Trusting Patrick was a no-brainer, and digging through his paperwork felt presumptuous.
On the one hand, I knew they weren’t looking for more architects—Patrick spent plenty of time bemoaning the number of résumés clogging his inbox on any given day. I knew Tom answered every single one with a ‘thanks but no thanks but we’ll keep your résumé on file’ response. But they were also building an office for Riley, and it was no surprise he joined the firm after attending RISD. Right?
I weighed the evidence for a moment before snapping my laptop shut and shoving it in my bag along with the file. A sunny spot alongside the rose garden called to me, and I settled on the grass to read.
Hours drifted by and the sun moved across the golden dome of the State House. Stopping my hands from shaking was out of the question. When considered alongside the spectrum of awesomely bad decisions from the past few months, leaving the office to read the real story of Walsh Associates and hiding my tears behind sunglasses were the only smart ones. I never wanted to be the girl who cried at work. I wasn’t letting any one of them see my humiliation or my hurt.
Tom was right: the firm had no intention of growing. They weren’t looking for another principal architect, and they certainly weren’t looking for another partner.
Unless I wanted to spend my entire career kneeling in submission at Patrick’s side as an associate architect, there was no future for me at his firm.
*
Patrick’s office—ouroffice—was barely recognizable from my seat in his desk chair, surrounded by protective layers of cardboard and twill tarps. Without the drafting desk or conference table, it was as if I never inhabited the space.
