I give my next section exactly as scripted. Technically accurate. Professionally distant.
Every single word lands completely flat. I am pulling back to keep the lines clear, but watching Sam's shoulders tighten with every word I say makes me feel sick to my stomach.
When we finish, the Board claps politely. The Developer stands, shakes our hands, and says the work is solid but we seemed disjointed today.
"Everything okay with you two?"
"Yes," Sam says.
"Absolutely," I say at the same time.
He doesn't look convinced, but he lets it go.
***
Sam corners me by the elevators before I can make it to the stairwell.
"What was that?"
I hit the call button. "I didn't want to step on your toes."
She steps closer, invading my space the exact same way I invaded hers on Wednesday. I smell her shampoo—sharp citrus. "You weren't stepping on my toes. You were backing out of the room."
The elevator dings. The doors slide open. I step inside and turn to face her, one hand on the rubber bumper to keep it from closing.
"I'm trying to keep this professional, Sam."
Her jaw tightens. "We were being professional. But you pulled back and the work suffered."
The doors try to close. I hold them open, but I don't step back out.
"I'll see you next week," I say, and let the door go.
The doors close on her face, cutting off the furious, betrayed look in her eyes.
***
I'm home by six. My apartment is too quiet and too small and I can't sit still.
I pull my camera bag onto the kitchen table and start cleaning lenses I already cleaned on Tuesday. Microfiber cloth in small circles, the motion almost soothing. When I run out of lenses I reorganize the bag. Rearrange the dividers. Move the backup battery to the outside pocket and then move it back. The fridge hums in the corner. A car horn blares outside and fades down the street.
My laptop is open on the counter. I've been editing the dawn shoot photos all week, tweaking white balance by half a degree and then changing it back.
There's one shot I keep coming back to. Sam standing at the east corner of the site, early light hitting the side of her face. She's looking at something off-camera—probably her phone, checking the schedule—but the angle makes it look like she's watching the sunrise. Her expression is unguarded. Focused. Beautiful.
My phone buzzes on the table. I ignore it. It buzzes again thirty seconds later. Again a minute after that.
I've been dodging Wren since the Greenpoint viewing yesterday. I showed up physically to look at the space with her, but I spent the whole hour checked out, changing the subject every time she asked about the Harbor project. Since I left her there, I've been ignoring her texts. I couldn't figure out how to explain what happened without admitting we almost kissed.
I pick up the phone now. Three new texts.
How'd the presentation go?
Sent at 6:30.
Tommy. You always text back after Board meetings. What happened?
Sent at 7:15.
