Sam doesn't look at her color-coded notes. She doesn't check her perfectly optimized calendar. She just stands up and grabs her coat. "Let's go."
The presentation is still open on her screen. The site plan is still spread across the table.
Neither of us mentions it.
The professional boundary we walked in with is gone. We walk out together.
Chapter ten
Sam
Ididn't save the file or close my tabs. I just slammed my laptop shut, grabbed my bag, and followed Tom through the heavy glass doors.
Now, we’re on the sidewalk under a flat gray afternoon sky. The Board meeting is in less than two days, and I am walking toward the L train with a photographer I've known for less than a month.
My practical brain is already rewriting the night to compensate for this detour
Get to Wren's, assess the space, get back to the apartment by seven, put two solid hours into the deck, sleep by midnight.
I pull out my phone, set an immediate reminder to pull Williamsburg commercial comps, and slide the device deep into my pocket.
That is the plan. It is tight, but manageable.
Tom, however, is not fine.
He walks half a step ahead of me, his thumb scrolling and stopping as he rereads the same panicked text over and over. We don't speak on the cold walk down to the station.
The L train isn't crowded yet, so we easily find seats near the back of the car. Tom sits heavily, staring blindly at the screen in his palm. I set my bag between my feet and meticulously zip my jacket just to give my hands something to do.
There are no jokes about my color-coded schedule. The easy, professional version of him, the guy who shows up at site meetings with coffee and strong opinions, is gone.
What's left is quieter. Tighter around the jaw.
"She's going to be okay, you know," I say over the rumble of the train.
Tom finally looks up. "Yeah," he says, setting the phone face-down on his knee. "I know. It's just... Wren doesn't ask for help. So when she actually does—"
"You drop everything."
"Yeah."
The train rocks. I adjust my bag strap, keeping my voice even. "I get that. After my dad left, I was responsible for my siblings. My mom was working two jobs, so someone had to make sure homework got done, permission slips got signed, and everyone got to school."
"How old were you?"
"Fourteen."
The lights flicker as we go underground. Tom is quiet, turning his phone over once on his knee before setting it flat again. "That's a lot of weight for fourteen."
"I didn't know any different." I watch the dark tunnel wall blur past the window. "You just handle it. Because if you don't, things fall apart."
Tom doesn't answer right away. His jaw shifts slightly as he looks down at his hands. "Yeah," he says, his voice low. "I know that feeling."
I look at him. There's no performance in it. No follow-up charm, no pivot to something easier or lighter.
"You and Wren are close," I say.
Tom exhales a slow breath through his nose. "We moved around a lot growing up. Different homes, different rules. You learn not to get attached to too many people." He turns the phone over in his hand again. "Wren was the only constant."
