I furrow my brow, glancing at her. “What do you mean?”
“The day we met…” Her gaze darts to mine, then away. “I asked if you’d ever worked really hard on something that still hadn’t turned out the way you wanted, and you said yes. Is becoming a partner at the firm your thing?”
I watch the lane markings slide under the car, a blur of white against blacktop. I’d forgotten that question she’d asked me—and my too-honest answer—but it comes back to me now. The way she’d looked that day, so disheartened. A feeling I’ve known too well these past few years, wondering if my work would ever satisfy John.
“Yes,” I admit.
She’s quiet for a beat. “Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why is partnership so important to you?”
I falter at the question, taken aback. In truth, I’ve never stopped to ask it of myself. Partnership has always just been there, this goalpost in the distance, drawing me forward.
“It’s the next natural step in my career,” I say, but I know it’s not the whole truth.
When I look at Iris again, she’s studying me with raised brows, like she doesn’t quite believe it. I sigh, forcing myself to really think about the answer. What comes out next surprises me.
“I guess it became a goal for me after my father died.”
“Oh,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
I nod my thanks. “It was eight years ago,” I mumble, as if that explains my lack of emotion. “Heart attack.”
Iris gazes at me with her hand to her heart, eyes shining. After another beat, she says, “Tell me about him.”
“About Dad?” I let the thought sit for a moment, changing lanes to pass a semi-truck. “He was a renowned architect who created some of the most iconic buildings on the modern New York skyline.”
Iris cocks her head. “Like what?”
“Ever heard of the Stratus Tower?” Even without being an architecture student, I figure she’ll be familiar with it. A 75-story mixed-use luxury high-rise tower in Midtown, with a glass and steel facade and dramatic vertical lines most New Yorkers recognize, it’s featured in multiple architecture magazines, becoming an iconic part of the city’s skyline. “My father was the lead architect on that.”
“Wait.” Iris twists to face me squarely. “Stirling Brooks?He’syour father?”
I let out a lungful of air, nodding.
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “I never connected the name.”
Maybe that should annoy me, but it doesn’t. If anything, it’s a relief to know her view of me hasn’t been through the same lenseveryone else sees me through. The son of an architect, trying to follow in his father’s footsteps, and floundering.
I sneak a glance at her, wondering if she’ll view me differently now, but she only gives a slow shake of her head.
“No wonder you’re aiming high. I thoughtmyfather was a lot to live up to.”
“John’s done some impressive work,” I tell her, as if she doesn’t already know. “He was a close friend of my father’s for years. Been mentoring me ever since Dad died.”
Iris nods, eyes moving over my face. “What was he like as a dad?”
I slide her a questioning look, silently asking why she’s so interested, and she gives me a sheepish smile.
“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I’m being nosy. Never mind.”
But as she turns to gaze quietly out the window again, I realize how much Iwantto tell her. I want to share things with her that I’ve never shared with anyone.
“He wasn’t warm,” I murmur. “More concerned with his career above all else.” It occurs to me how much this descriptor fits myself, and I continue, wanting to explain. “He had a vision for his career, the legacy he wanted to leave. I always admired how much he fought for that. How he refused to quit. And when Mom left…” I catch myself just in time, swallowing the words.
But Iris doesn’t miss them. “Left?” she asks softly.
