It’s 6:30 p.m., and everyone has gone home.
Something tightens in my throat. It’s not impressive. It’s not prestigious. But it’s what I want. It’s the line where work ends and life begins.
My portfolio sits heavy on the passenger seat. Inside are glossy renders of skyscrapers. I flip to the back, to the pencil sketches of a cabin I never had time to build.
I rip a page out of my notebook and write clearly:
I have ten years of high-rise experience and a portfolio full of skyscrapers. I’m looking to trade prestige for a punch clock. I will give you exceptional work between 9 and 5, but at 5:01, I’m gone. If you value output over overtime, call me.
Then, I slip the note inside the front cover of my portfolio, walk to the door, and slide the whole thing through the mail slot. It lands with a heavy thud on the lobby floor.
Here’s to hoping they appreciate my initiative.
Back in my car, I sit for a moment. Then I text Margot:
Rejected another one. They wanted my weekends.
I hesitate, then type: I’m saving those for you. Even if you don’t want them yet.
Sure of my message, I hit send. Up until now, I never allowed myself to be vulnerable. This is no longer the case.
The radio plays a song she used to sing in the shower as I pull away. My bank account is stagnant. My reputation in the city is shattered. But for the first time in five years, I’m free.
Chapter 22
Ross
After three weeks of searching for the perfect job, I finally landed an interview at the small boutique I’d been eyeing. It felt like such a good fit that I started immediately.
Now, I sit at a drafting table surrounded by exposed brick. Sunlight cuts across the plans for a new community center, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It’s a world away from the glass towers of my former life. No panoramic city views here, just the street-level reality of the neighborhood I’m designing for.
The office is lively. Colleagues move between tables, swapping rolls of trace paper and light banter. It lacks the heavy suffocation of the corporate world.
I run my pencil over the elevation: wide entryways, durable materials, spaces designed for heavy use rather than magazine spreads. I brush a stray eraser shaving off the page, leaving a smear of gray graphite along the side of my hand. It’s a tangible mark of labor, a sign that I’m actually building something.
“Almost six,” Sarah calls from the table across from mine. She spins a pen between her fingers, offering a grin. “Planning on moving in, or do you eventually go home?”
I smile, grateful for the teasing. It’s light, lacking the competitive edge I’m used to.
“I’m leaving,” I say, closing the sketchbook. “Tonight, I actually have plans.”
I slide the drawings into my portfolio. No conference calls. No crisis management. I pack up, feeling the weight of the day in a good way, a tiredness earned, not suffered.
As I finish gathering my things, my phone buzzes in my pocket, its persistent vibration cutting through the comfortable sounds of the office. I pull it out, my heart skipping as Margot’s name lights up the screen.
She’s offering a dinner invitation.
“Hey, you okay over there?” another colleague nudges, noting my sudden pause.
“You look like you’ve won the lottery.”
“Better,” I reply, swiping to unlock my phone, my heart racing as I read the text, her words wrapped in warmth and familiarity.
The anticipation of reconnecting fills me with cautious hope. We’ve had coffee a few times since the gallery, but this text is different. “Can I bring anything?” I type quickly, my fingers gliding over the keyboard as I give in to that familiar longing.
After a moment, her reply comes through: “Just yourself.”
A rush of lightness fills my chest as I let the words sink in. I smile at the screen, absorbing the reassurance that this connection isn’t completely severed. I’ll be there.
