Chapter 8

I thought that was the end of it.

His remorse might have been real, but given who he was, and the life he had now, remorse wasn't going to keep him on his knees for long.

And he had Vivienne. He had the whole glittering life they'd built on top of what they'd done.

I was wrong.

A few nights later, the intercom buzzed.

On the camera was a polished, middle-aged man with a leather portfolio.

I opened the door.

"Ms. Harrington. I apologize for dropping in."

"My name is Calloway. I'm a liaison for the Emerging Architect Design Prize."

He handed me a business card and a thick, embossed envelope.

"Our committee has been reviewing candidates from previous cycles. We gave special consideration to entrants who had to withdraw due to extraordinary circumstances. The concept behind your preliminary submission — Homecoming — is exactly the kind of vision we want to highlight this year. We're formally inviting you to enter the final round as a special nominee. You won't have to go through qualifiers."

I didn't reach for the envelope.

Homecoming. That had been my project. The one I'd poured everything into.

A proposal about reimagining older neighborhoods — stitching memory and future into the same design.

The only people who had ever known that title were my advisor, me —

And Ethan.

He'd glanced over my shoulder once or twice while I was sketching.

"Who sent you?"

His smile didn't flicker. "Ms. Harrington, the committee—"

"It was Ethan. Wasn't it."

He hesitated. That was answer enough.

"Tell him not to bother."

I started to close the door.

"I won't be entering. What's past is past."

"Ms. Harrington—"

He braced a hand against the door and lowered his voice.

"Dr. Harrington called in a lot of favors for this nomination. He paid a real price for it."

"He's trying to make up for something. And if I can say this — the final panel includes some of the most respected architects in the country. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. You can't let your talent go to waste forever. If not for yourself — for your father. He fought so hard to get you an entry the first time. He must have wanted to see you fly."

That last line hit me where I couldn't defend.

My father, already sick, calling in every favor he had, asking strangers for mercy, just to get his dropout daughter one chance.

The last thing he ever regretted, at the end, had probably been the dream he hadn't been able to finish for me.

I didn't answer.

Calloway set the envelope down on the hall table.

"Keep it. The deadline is a week out."

"Please. Think about it. Whether or not you enter — Dr. Harrington earned you this shot. But you also earned it. Your work did."

He gave a small bow and left.

I stood there with the envelope for a long time, not moving.

Daniel came up behind me and picked it up.

"Do you want to?"

I shook my head. Then I nodded. Then I just stopped, stuck.

"I don't know. It's been so long. I'm not even sure I remember how to hold a pen the right way. And — this came from him."

"Anna." Daniel took me by the shoulders. "First. This isn't some trick. This is, maybe, the closest he'll ever get to an apology."

"More importantly — this is a chance you earned with your own work, years ago."

"And second. If you take Ethan out of the equation entirely — do you want to pick up the pencil again? Do you want to stand on that stage?"

Did I?

That night, after Leo was asleep, I pulled my old sketchbook out of the bottom of a storage box.

The pages were yellowed. The lines were still sharp.

Every stroke was me, twenty-three and completely in love with the idea of home.

Tears dripped onto the paper and blurred the graphite.

Leo padded in and leaned against my knee. He pointed at a sketch of a little garden courtyard.

"Mommy, that one's pretty. It's got flowers."

Something in my chest cracked open.