Decision is final.
I stare at the new sentence.
Sam first. Team second.
I should delete it. Retype it. Put the team first, bury her name in the middle where it belongs in a professional text about professional decisions.
I hover over the send button.
I hit Send before I can change it back.
The reply doesn't come immediately this time. I watch the screen, waiting for the three dots that mean Marc is typing.
Nothing.
I set the phone face-down on the desk and walk back to the window.
This is about the project.
The work we built together.
The partnership that functions because we both show up.
Site visit this afternoon. Sam's bringing lunch.
I need to tell her about the compromise idea.
I walk over to the bag and check the contents. Camera body, two lenses, extra battery, memory cards. Everything I need.
Her opinion matters now.
Somewhere in the last few weeks, her opinion started mattering more than my own instinct to protect myself.
More than my pattern of saying yes to the next gig and leaving before anyone expects me to build something that lasts.
I sling the bag over my shoulder and grab my keys.
Fifty-five thousand dollars.
Three weeks.
Gone with one email.
I lock the door behind me. The deadbolt slides into place.
I don’t have another gig lined up.
I don’t have a backup plan.
All I have is a construction site and a woman who doesn’t know what I just gave up.
I head for the stairs.
Chapter twenty-four
Sam
"So," I say, wiping a smudge of grease off my thumb with a napkin. "You had an idea about the gallery submission?"
