"What if we made a plan?" I say slowly. "For how we handle travel?"
"Like... rules?"
I shake my head. "No. More like... I don't know, guidelines? I don't want to manage you." I pause, trying to find the words. "Jobs that are two weeks or less—you take them. No question.Anything longer, we talk about it first. Figure out timing, logistics, whether it makes sense."
He's staring at me. "You'd be okay with that?"
"I don't know if I'd be okay with it," I admit. "But I think it's realistic. You can't turn down every job that requires travel. And I can't panic every time you get on a plane."
"And if it's a longer job? Like a month?"
I hadn't thought that far. I'm making this up as I go.
"Then maybe I come with you. Sometimes. If the timing works and I can take time off."
He blinks. "You'd travel with me?"
"Not every time. But sometimes. If it makes sense."
He's quiet for a long moment, just looking at me.
"That's... yeah. I can work with that." He pauses, rubs the back of his neck. "I knew we'd have to talk about this eventually. Just didn't know what you'd say. But this? Yeah. This works. This is a relief."
I laugh, and it comes out shakier than I intended. "Don't sound so shocked."
My stomach knots even as I say it; this is the opposite of a Sam-approved, fully controlled plan. I meet his eyes. "I'm not calm. But I'm not scared either. I trust you. And I trust us. That's different."
He takes my hand under the table where no one walking past can see. His thumb brushes across my knuckles once before he lets go.
"For this one—the South America job—I'm saying no."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. But for future jobs? Let's use your plan. We'll figure it out together."
I squeeze his hand.
My eyes drift to Tom's camera case resting against the wall, next to my neat stack of blueprints. The case is battered, scuffedalong the corners. There are airline tags still looped around the handle—faded paper rectangles with barcodes and three-letter airport codes I don't recognize.
I don't want to ask him to cut those tags off. I just want to trust that he'll keep texting me when he lands. That when he takes the bag, he'll come back.
I squeeze Tom's hand again. "Okay. Deal."
We go back to eating. Tom picks up his fork, twirls pad thai. "Two more weeks."
I pull the blueprints back toward me.
"Okay," I say. "Let's make sure they can't say no."
Chapter forty-two
Sam
Four months of work comes down to a single vote at nine o'clock this morning.
I watch the red numbers tick down above the elevator doors, trying to pull air past the knot of anxiety sitting under my ribs. A simple Go/No-Go decision. That’s all it is. A decision that determines if everything I’ve done since September actually matters, or if it was a colossal waste of time.
My phone buzzes against my palm in rapid succession.
