A mom dragging her twin girls behind her on the sidewalk huffs at Addie’s bluntness, while I’m so used to her now, I don’t even flinch.
I slide into the front seat, leaning over to quickly hug her. “You’re the one who insisted on driving me across town like it’s the first day of school. EvenIknow no one drives to work in the city.”
“Rich people use drivers.”
“Keyword:rich people.”
She side-eyes me. “Like you couldn’t afford it now?”
I ignore that, eyeing her outfit, which is hanging on by a thread. “Is this the same tie-dye sweatshirt you used to wear at camp?”
“You know it. It’s wild how I still fit in it. Looks good, right?”
“Looks like you pulled it out of a dumpster.”
“It’s nostalgic.”
“It smells.”
“Like sweet, sweet memories.”
We both laugh. “Don’t you ever change, Adelaide Sinclair.” I change the music to the country station, where Luke Bryan belts his new top hit.
She snickers. “You’ve changed enough for the both of us.”
That makes me pause, twisting my body in her direction. “What does that mean?”
She points to me but quickly puts her hands safely back on the wheel. “You’re still my sweet, thoughtful Southern girl underneath. But to everyone else? You’re headstrong. A little hard. Have a tiny mean streak. And where the hell did your accent go?”
“I have an accent,” I say, adding a little extra drawl.
“Maybe to a New Yorker. But I’ve known you for fifteen years. I used to make you repeat sentences because it sounded like you had marbles in your mouth when you got excited. Now? You’re crystal clear.”
A flutter of frustration rises, but I push it down.
She’s not wrong.
Architecture is a male-dominated field. Women work five times harder to claim their space, and I knew one day, when I made it to New York, it would be tough enough. Walking into a conference room with a thick, negatively stereotyped accent would do me no favors, and I’ve been trying to tone it down.
“All I’m saying is start today as yourself. You didn’t get the job for who you’re trying to hide behind. You got it because of your brains and talent.”
Addie pumps up the music as the city flies by, weaving through downtown traffic, headed to SoHo. I’m thankful she doesn’t press on about it, because I have no comeback.
I take in every detail as we go.
The dog walkers, the shop owners opening for the day, the men in crisp, tailored suits, and the women in high heels expertly dodging foot traffic like they’ve trained for it.
There’s a man, setting up a speaker on the corner, a bedazzled microphone in hand.
This is my life now.
I did it. I made it to the New York grind.
Crazy. Chaotic. And absolutely charming.
“Here it is.”
My first glance at M-Squared is ruined by another text.
