by Ginger Scott
“I don’t know how long you’re going to go on believing that he meant any of that,” she half mumbles. This is the Jessie I expected—the one that would be on his side no matter what.
I’ve never been an aggressive girl, but something in me clicks when she speaks, and I push her off balance, knocking her to the ground.
“He said he would have chosen the shop, Jessie! He had a choice—me or the shop! And he chose that goddamned garage!” I yell at the top of my lungs, my jaw clenched, and my teeth tight together.
Jessie finally stands back to her feet and brushes the dirt from the back of her jeans, a faint laugh coming out by the end.
“What?” I shoot back, folding my arms and stomping my feet like a child—my version of a tantrum.
Jessie shakes her head and looks down. “Come with me,” she says, walking along the sidewalk to her car.
I follow along, my arms still folded the entire way. When I get to her car, I refuse to get in at first, but Jessie just sits in the car and honks, repeatedly, with the engine running, until I give in from embarrassment.
“That was really fucking mean,” I say, looking out my window.
“Yeah, well…you’re being a child,” she says.
And I actually “hmmmph” in response.
I know where we’re going the moment we get on the highway, and I think seriously about flicking the lock and rolling out of the car. We’re going to the shop—and I never want to see that place again. It’s now my number two, right beneath Louisville.
“Jessie, you know I don’t want to go there. Please…just stop, turn around, and take me home,” I say, my throat starting to close up with panic, and the beating of my heart filling my stomach.
“It’s different now. You need to see it. I think…no, I know you’ll understand when you do,” she says, and I roll my eyes at her, pretending not to believe her, pretending not to care about Cody or his stupid dreams. But I do care—I care because I know what it means to have something material tied up with your best memories, and I hate that he’s lost it.
Nothing would have prepared me for what I see when we exit the highway, however. If I hadn’t memorized the way—every turn and street that led to Jake’s old garage—I never would have been able to find this corner. There’s a Dumpster filled with brick, wood, and glass. The ground is nearly leveled, chunks of concrete all that’s left along the land—the foundation barely a sketch of what stood there less than seven days ago.
“It’s…gone,” I breathe, my stomach sinking as we open our doors, and I get out to walk the property. “Oh…Jessie.”
She was right. I understand. And I’m heartbroken.
There’s a sign posted on the ground for the development firm, along with a phone number to call for details on the new plan. I look at Jessie, knowing she sees it, too.
“Yeah, I already called it. It’s just a recording advertising the new condos coming next year,” she says, kicking a chunk of concrete loose on the ground into the metal of the bin. I pick one up in my hand and throw it at the metal next, wanting to punish the debris left behind, I guess.
I keep walking to the remains that are piled, ready to be hauled away. It looks like scraps from a building site—nothing even recognizable. I lift myself up, so I can look into the bin, and I reach forward when I notice the green trim of one of the windows. It’s the one from the office, and seeing it fills my eyes with tears.
Without even realizing it, I begin pulling at it frantically, trying to dislodge it from the boards and shards that are cutting into the paint.
“Help me, Jessie! Help me get this out!” I say, desperate to see it, to see if it’s survived.
Jessie doesn’t question, she only stands next to me, propped up on a carton, and helps me pull, until we have the window on the ground in front of us. For some reason, seeing it whole sends a bolt of adrenaline through my body. I leap up again, looking for more remnants—things I can save.
We clear out dozens of bricks, and both of our hands are bleeding by the time we reach the bottom of the bin. But I’m glad we powered through, never quitting until we saw everything left inside. The neon needs some repair, but the name is whole—Jake’s the sign reads.
Jessie calls Gabe without even asking, and he joins us early with his truck. We get the pieces—two whole windows and the sign—into the back of his truck and take them to my storage room. We tuck them in the back, safe, and out of the way, and then move my few furnishings into the truck in their place.
By the time we have everything moved in, the only place open to eat is the deli, so we end up there again. I didn’t taste my soup earlier, and I can barely stomach it now, so I end up getting the rest to go and carry it up to my new apartment.
“You sure you’re okay staying here tonight, by yourself?” Jessie asks, lingering at my doorway.
“I’m good,” I say, holding on at the frame, and kicking my toe against her boot.
“She’s just upset you’re leaving and is gonna miss you, that’s all,” Gabe says, wrapping his arm around Jessie and pulling her in for a hug.
“Yeah, so what,” Jessie says, trying to keep up her tough persona.
“So…what are you going to do with those windows…and the sign?” she asks.
“I’m not sure, but I just feel like I need to do something. He needs something,” I say, my focus fading and looking away from my two friends.
“What he needs is you,” Gabe says, just barely audible, but enough that I hear it when they walk away.
I lock the door behind them and slide down to the floor to sit with my feet facing my empty kitchen. I have very few belongings, and my small apartment looks more like the home of a squatter than an actual renter.
The lighting is dim from my one small lamp, but it’s enough for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll pick up another lamp or two and maybe a table from the Goodwill down the road. I take a fast shower, thanks to the cold water, and unbox the old quilt and bed sheets to dress the mattress that’s directly on the floor.
My body is exhausted, but my mind doesn’t seem to be able to slow. There’s no view from my window, only the bare branches of the giant tree that’s covering it. So without anything else to distract me, I pull out my sketchbook and spread my drawings around me in bed.
The more I move the renderings around, the more the story starts to make sense—old row homes with front steps, front porches, and gardens mixed along with specialty shops and businesses of a by-gone era. It’s my Louisville—the one I grew up in—only the way Mac always painted it in my mind. He talked about his plans, the things he was going to do to his house, and how it would inspire others to do the same.
Mac never got a chance, but maybe I could. Not his home—not his neighborhood—but another one. The adrenaline is instant, and I begin sketching manically. I pull my art box up on the bed and rip and tear at the pages of my book, at least twice heading out to my trunk to pull out the larger pages for drawing. The sun is rising before I know it, and I am surrounded by dozens of drawings—each part of the puzzle that is my own version of perfect.
I’m not due in for my internship until this afternoon, but I’m too excited to wait. Exhaustion was hours ago, and now I’m moving on powerful fumes. I’m racing on potential—on hope. I pull everything together into my portfolio book and dress quickly in the best outfit I have clean. I have to sell this idea—it could change everything.
The front desk girl looks at me with a confused expression as I rush by, but I don’t stop to talk or explain. I just keep walking—quickly—all the way to my mentor’s office. His name is Jeff, and he’s the one who liked my original drawings. He’s always been supportive of my work, but we haven’t really had many one-on-ones. He was ready to sell my original sketches to senior management a few weeks ago, at least as worthy enough for me to keep on as the intern, so I’m hoping what I have in my bag is just enough to win him over completely today. The door is closed, but I can tell through the open blinds on his office wind
ow that he’s alone, so I take a deep breath and knock.
“Come on in,” Jeff says, his head buried in piles of paper on his desk as I enter.
“Hey, Jeff…I’m a little early today. I hope you don’t mind?” I say, clearing my throat as I speak, trying to dispel my nerves.
“Charlotte, hey! Yeah, no problem. Just give me a sec to clear out my desk, and we’ll see what’s on tap today,” he starts, but I keep moving toward his desk until I’m sitting right in front of him.
“Okay, that’s fine…but before I get to work, I…uh…” I say, fidgeting with the snap on the top of my portfolio case. My fingers are trembling, I’m so nervous, and Jeff can tell. He closes the folder on a set of plans he was about to review and pushes them out of the way to give me his complete attention.
“Oh, are you done with the renderings I saw before? I’d love to see them,” he says, clearing more space for me, his voice encouraging.
I swallow hard and pull in one last deep breath, shutting my eyes for a quick, second-long inner pep talk. Showtime.
“Yes, though…I made some changes. I really like…no…I love how it all came out. I hope you do, too,” I say, standing tall with my best posture and meeting his eyes.
“All right, then. Well…let’s give it a look,” he says, his face a little wary, but curious.
The first drawing I lay before him is the series of row homes—each a version of the originals I drew based on Mac’s. Jeff scratches at his chin, covering his mouth, but he doesn’t say a word. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or scowling, so I slide the picture over and pull out three more—each a different perspective of the same set.
The more drawings I line up on his desk, the more he’s scratching at his chin, but he’s slowly starting to nod. He hasn’t said a word, minus the, “Ah,” that escapes his lips when I pull out the first of my series of storefronts. I hit him first with the cafes with awnings and patio dining. Next are the studio spaces, with large windows showing artists working on their craft. Then there’s the grocer, barber, and office space—the neighborhood is almost complete. There’s only one drawing left.
Jeff is sliding them around, looking more closely at each, when I pull the final piece from my portfolio. I’m holding my breath as the green windows reveal themselves first. I even sketched a few classic cars up on the blocks in the auto bays—everything is almost an exact replica, only better. It’s the way Jake’s shop always looked in Cody’s mind—I know it in my heart. And just as I hoped, when Jeff pulls this final drawing to the center, holding it in his hands, and lifting it up in the light, his smile starts to spread.
“And this,” he starts, turning away from me and walking to the window to look at it more closely. “This one…it’s the heart, isn’t it?” Jeff says, not realizing exactly how right he is.
I nod yes and sit softly on the edge of the chair. I tuck my hands under my knees, forcing myself to leave my drawings out there, exposed. Every urge, every instinct, has always been to tuck them away, hide them from all eyes but mine. But they need to be seen, and they need to be loved. They are my way of breaking free, my way of being honest about everything I want, and everything I have ever cared about.
“Charlotte…” Jeff starts, finally putting the drawing down on the stack of about 20 that fill his desk. “This? This is extraordinary. I didn’t know you had all of this inside of you—it’s beautiful, and it feels so real, like a place I want to be.”
I’m blinking at him, my mouth twitching, afraid to smile, and nervous for the but that’s about to come out of his mouth.
“You have a gift. Architecture is an art, but very few are truly artists—just going through the motions with the things they build. You made home,” he says, his eyes willing me to smile, to breathe, and relax. And I do.
“Thank you,” I say, my eyes stinging a little with tears. “I was hoping you would like them. They’re pretty personal.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” he says, holding a tissue across his desk. I take it and dab at my eyes, giggling a little as my nerves finally escape me. “So, you ready?” he says, standing and sliding my drawings back in order, tucking them into my folder.
“Ready? Oh, yeah…for today. Sure, what do you need me to get started on,” I say, letting the air flap my lips as I let out my last exhale, suddenly feeling like I belong here.
“Oh, ha…no, I meant are you ready to show these to the project team?” he says, and I fall right back into my chair, my pulse beating loudly in my ears. Holy shit!
Jeff continues to laugh as he slides my repacked portfolio back to me and drinks the last drops from his coffee mug before turning to pull his jacket from the hanger on the wall behind him. “Come on, it’ll be a cakewalk. I’ll be there the whole time. Just pull them out—one at a time—like you did for me,” he says, patting me on the back as he passes and holds the door open for me to follow.
My gulp is loud, and I start coughing uncontrollably until we reach the midpoint of the office, and I step away for a few seconds to drown myself in the water from the drinking fountain. I hadn’t thought my plan through this far—I was only going to win over Jeff.
I catch up to him and follow him to another office, with a senior partner whom I’ve never officially met. I fight against my nerves and present everything to him, just as Jeff suggested I do. And he reacts exactly the same.
We move on to another office, and another after that, until a few hours have passed, and I find myself waiting between Jeff and a woman I now know is Donna on a sofa outside the vice president of the firm’s door. We walk him through the same presentation, and then leave him and a few of the partners alone to discuss.
My legs are bouncing uncontrollably. The office door finally cracks open, and I hear the gravelly voice of Thomas Bryant, the Bryant in Bryant and Michaels Design.
“Ms. Hudson? Mind coming on in to chat with us for a bit?” he asks, his voice gentle and kind, but somehow still intimidating as hell.
I smile faintly and manage to find my feet and follow my two handlers into a massive office with leather chairs and a huge stone coffee table. For the next two hours, I listen and answer questions about my concept, and by the end I realize what’s happening—they are actually taking my drawings seriously, as in going to sell them to a development company, and make everything I spent hours putting on paper come to life.
And Cody’s garage—the neon sign spelling Jake’s—is what they talk about the most. The heart, as Jeff called it.
My heart.
Chapter 21: Twelve O’One
“Charlie, come on, pleeeeaaaase! You have to let me tell him!” Jessie pleads with me over the sink. We’re washing dishes after one of Gabe’s amazing meals. They’ve had me over for dinner every night for the last three weeks, and I update them with the latest on my project.
“Not yet, but soon. I promise, Jess. Soon…it’s got to be ready,” I say, smiling, and patting her on the shoulder with my soapy hand. She blows the bubbles off at me and grimaces.
“Fine, whatever!” She drops her spoons and forks into the hot water and leaves me to finish. I don’t mind, though—it’s the least I could do for the many nights of company they’ve given me. Jessie and Gabe have become my family, even spending most of the day at home with me over Christmas, just so I didn’t have to be alone.
My concept drawings earned me a part-time position at Bryant and Michaels until I graduate in the spring, and then I’m guaranteed a full-time position. Thankfully, I also squeaked by with a C in calculus, so I don’t have to worry about losing credits either. The position is a little better than entry level—a lot of grunt design work, and long hours to start—but it’s doing exactly what I’ve always dreamed of doing. And frankly, the hours have been welcome company lately.
They sold my concept quickly to a group of builders that they had already been working with to retrofit an old space in one of Cleveland’s oldest neighborhoods. We still have to present everything to the city council, but I’ve been to
ld the right people love the idea. They’re going to call it The Square, giving it a high-end feel they can sell. The spaces will all be down-to-earth, with a focus on trades and artists—the kinds of businesses people appreciate…and miss.
I’ve practically lived at the office, working with the drafting team on 3-D renderings and models for hours at a time. I’ve learned so much, and every day I spend there makes my decision to stay here feel more right. I let Jessie come up during lunch one day, so she could get a sneak preview of everything, and ever since then, she’s been after me to show Cody.
I plan to. But I think I’ve been putting it off because I don’t want Cody to come back to me just because of some drawings or some big gesture I made—even though he’s really the reason I ever tried at all. I want him to want me, over everything. And I know it’s selfish as hell, but I’ve already tried being in love for someone else’s sake, and I lost a piece of myself going down that road. I won’t do it again.
“You pissed her off, you know?” Gabe says, bringing in the last of the plates from tonight’s feast.
“Yeah, but she’ll get over it,” I say, smirking at him.
“Yeah, she will…” Gabe says, leaning on the counter and folding his arms, watching me finish. “So tomorrow’s New Year’s. I don’t suppose we could talk you into coming over for our party?”
“Nope,” I say, not even looking his direction. I’ve gotten fast in this response, and it’s the easiest way to deal with this question. Cody will be here. They haven’t said so either way, but somehow I know he will. They throw this party every year, and all of their friends in the area from the pits and the tour come.
“Yeah, I kinda thought you’d say that…again,” Gabe nudges my shoulder, teasing me. “But…you change your mind? You’re always welcome—anytime. You know that, right?”