Trip, Wren, and I spent the Monday after Labor Day in Atlanta, packing boxes and loading a rental truck. The next day we drove to his parents’ house in Franklin, where we added even more to our fledgling household. Then we ignored the advice of age and experience (Trip’s father and stepmother) and drove to Knoxville. We probably should have listened, but we were young and eager.

We arrived after dark and spent the next five hours unloading the truck. Trip and I did most of the grunt work, while Wren sorted and stacked boxes inside. We moved the last piece of furniture—a small couch to a third-floor bedroom—in the wee hours of the morning.

We were exhausted and glad it was over, but the house was ours. We were home.

I woke up after only a few hours. I tried to go back to sleep but finally threw back the covers and swung my feet to the floor. I went to the window and opened the curtains. Streetlights glowed on parked cars, their windows opaque from dew. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.

I decided to go for a run, partly to work out the soreness from the move, but also to explore the neighborhood. The streets were laid out in a grid, so it was almost impossible to get lost. I spent a blissful hour jogging through Fort Sanders as the world slowly came to life.

When I returned to the house, I came to a halt at the front porch. I watched in silent amusement as a hundred-pound bundle of energy, Christy, paced back and forth in high dudgeon. She jabbed the doorbell. Then she pounded on the door. She seemed like she’d been at it for a few minutes.

She wore plaid flannel pajamas that were a couple of sizes too large, which made her look like a kid playing dress-up. Her slippers didn’t help. They were fluffy white bunnies, complete with cotton-ball tails. She balled her fists and stomped a foot.

The result was less than earth-shattering, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

She rounded on me. She didn’t recognize me at first, but then her eyes widened.

“Mornin’,” I said with exaggerated southern politeness.

“Good morning.” She looked me up and down. “What happened to you?”

I blinked.

“Did you lose weight?”

I felt self-conscious all of a sudden. “A little, yeah.”

“A lot.” Her irritation returned. “Where have you been?”

My shirt was tied around my waist. I was breathing heavily and my bare skin steamed in the cool air. Those should’ve been her first clues. My shorts and running shoes should’ve doubled the clue factor. I looked down at myself, if only to make sure I saw the same thing she did.

“Don’t you ever wear clothes?” she snapped. “And I don’t mean where have you been. I mean all of you. Where have you been?”

“Nice to see you too.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Okay, I give up,” I said at last. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’ve been here for days! Waiting. Where were you?”

The front door opened before I could answer. Wren, clad in a blue terrycloth bathrobe, stared out blearily.

Christy turned. “Where have you been?”

“Wha’?”

I caught Wren’s eye. “She means, ‘Good morning. Nice to see you. May I come in?’”

Wren mumbled something and stepped aside.

I followed them into the house and headed upstairs. “Shower,” I said over my shoulder. “Back in a bit.”

“Clothes!” Christy called after me.

I stuck my head over the railing. “What about ’em?”

As it turned out, Christy had good reason to be annoyed. Wren had forgotten to tell her about the change in plans. So Christy arrived in Knoxville to find the house locked and empty. She’d called Wren’s parents and left several messages, but never heard back. And she didn’t know Trip’s number or mine. So she’d been waiting five days, with no idea where we were.

Wren apologized profusely, but Christy was still in the mood to fume.

“What did you do?” I asked when she finally paused to breathe.

“I called Sayuri. I’ve been staying with her.”

“Friend of yours?”

She looked at Wren in exasperation. “Is he serious?”

“Probably,” Wren said. She yawned. “Do we have any Coke?”

Christy ignored her and said to me, “Sayuri lives next door. She used to own the house.”

“Ah. That explains your pajamas. They’re fitting, by the way. Very… Victorian.”

She thought I was making fun of her.

I was, but in a friendly way. I gestured at the house around us. “It’s Victorian too.”

“Is it?” She waved a hand. “It’s just a house.”

“That’s a bit like saying Michelangelo was ‘just an artist.’”

Her five-foot-nothing glare wasn’t very intimidating.

I smiled. “Down, girl. The house isn’t the Sistine Chapel, but it isn’t ‘just a house’ either. It’s a work of art.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Sure it is. You just have to know how to look. There’s beauty in everything.”

Since I was the only one who was awake, showered, and dressed (in clothes and everything, as requested), I offered to make a grocery run.

“We need Coke,” Wren said with another yawn. “And coffee and filters too.” She nudged a cardboard box with her toe. “I’ll find the coffee maker. I hope.”

I nodded and glanced at Christy. “Anything you want, m’lady?”

She tried to decide if I was making fun of her again. “Apples,” she said at last. “Grapes. Maybe a melon.”

“Cantaloupe or watermelon?”

“Cantaloupe. Or honeydew. Whichever is fresher.”

“Anything else?”

“Carrots. Celery. Radishes.”

“In other words, the usual bunny food?”

She turned to Wren. “Has he been like this all summer?”

“Worse,” I said. “And the word you’re looking for is ‘unrepentant.’”

“I was thinking ‘annoying.’”

“That too,” I agreed cheerfully.

We met Sayuri after breakfast. She was a tiny Japanese woman, neither young nor old. I guessed that she was in her early fifties. She had black hair, dark eyes, and a plain face. She spoke with a pronounced accent, but was easy enough to understand if I paid attention. She was unfailingly polite, although she studied Trip and me without seeming to look at us. We were being evaluated, judgment deferred.

Trip must have felt it too, because he didn’t object when I suggested we move Christy’s things to our house. We had to make several trips to haul over four large suitcases, three small ones, a half-dozen dress bags, several large boxes, and more. It must’ve cost a fortune to ship from California.

When we finished we took an impromptu tour around the front of Sayuri’s house. It was also Victorian, smaller than ours, without all the ornamentation and extra rooms. It was built as a workaday house for a wealthy family, a home instead of a statement.

The inside was well-kept and tidy, with a mixture of Japanese and western decorations. We sat at the dining room table and made small talk until Wren brought up the subject of the other renovations.

Sayuri owned two more houses in the neighborhood, one across the street and one a block away. She didn’t entirely trust her current contractor (I couldn’t blame her, especially after her experience with the first guy), but she had no way to know if she was getting the runaround. Trip and I promised to check things out. She nodded and smiled, agreement without confidence.

Christy said something in Japanese and then nodded at us. Sayuri asked something that sounded suspiciously like, “But they’re so young. How can they possibly know what they’re doing?” She smiled when she said it, but her dark eyes didn’t echo the sentiment. Christy answered respectfully.

I watched their conversation and slowly reevaluated Sayuri. She reminded me of Susan, especially the way her mind worked. I didn’t understand a word she said, although I didn’t really need to. Her manner was restrained, and her voice never rose above polite conversation, but her questions were quick and direct. Her meaning was clear too: she wanted value for her money and wanted to make sure that Trip and I could protect her interests.

Much to my surprise, Christy argued in our favor. She spoke Japanese, although her looks and gestures came through loud and clear. Trip and I knew what we were doing, she explained. Trust us, she said. She folded her hands in front of her and lowered her eyes in deference to the older woman.

Sayuri thought for a moment and then smiled. Once again, I had the feeling of deferred judgment. She clearly liked Christy, but Trip and I would have to earn her trust. Fair enough, I thought. Trip could dig into the contractor’s estimates and expenses, line by line if necessary. And I could do the same for the houses themselves.

Sayuri said to us, in English, that she’d be very grateful if we would advise her on the renovations. We said we’d be happy to, of course. We exchanged a few more pleasantries and then said goodbye.

“I hope we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew,” Trip said. He gestured to our house as we approached. “This place isn’t even close to what I’d call a good job.”

Wren started to object.

“He’s right,” I said. “You probably don’t see it, but we do. It’s little things. Lots of ’em. Rough edges, cut corners, half-assed work.”

“I don’t even know how some of it passed inspection,” Trip said.

“Nonsense,” Wren said. “It’s fine.”

“Fine to live in,” I agreed. “But the work isn’t something I’d brag about.” Wren started to say something else, but I stopped her again. “Most of the things I’ve noticed are cosmetic. Trip and I can fix them. But it’ll be a problem if we find anything structural.”

“Or any serious code violations.”

“Exactly.”

“And these other two houses might also be a mess—”

“Our house isn’t a mess,” Wren objected. “We had it inspected before we bought it.”

“Okay, maybe not ‘a mess,’” I said to placate her. “But it certainly isn’t up to Hughes-Whitman standards.”

“Whitman-Hughes,” Trip corrected absently.

I grinned. It was a friendly argument we’d had many times.

“But he’s right,” Trip went on. “These other houses might take up a lot of our time, especially if we find problems.” He turned to Christy. “How do you think Sayuri will take that? Does she want to hear the truth, especially if her contractor isn’t… um… up to our standards?”

“Absolutely.”

“Have to be careful, though,” he mused aloud. “We don’t want the job ourselves.”

I perked up. “Why not? I mean, I’d like to see the houses first, but they might be fun projects.”

“No way. Maybe if we could work on ’em full time, but not with school and everything else.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Still, I imagined what we could do with an old Victorian. Most of them had fine bones, even if they’d seen better days. We could make them beautiful again.

We spent the rest of the day unpacking boxes and arranging furniture. Wren and Christy concentrated on the kitchen and dining room. Trip and I worked our way through the living room, octagonal front room, and the little main-floor bedroom.

The next day Trip and Wren worked in the master bedroom, while Christy and I did the same in our separate ones. I heard her struggling to move furniture, so I offered to help. Then I hung around to unpack an entire box of purses and store them on the top shelf in the closet.

“I know what to get you for Christmas,” I teased. “A stepladder.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious. Why do you want these up here? You won’t be able to get ’em down yourself.”

“I don’t need them very often.”

“Then why’d you bring them?”

“In case I do need them.”

“Yeah, but…” I made a quick guess, “Thirty?”

“Most go with formal outfits or cocktail dresses.”

“How many formal events do you plan to attend?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll need the right outfit.” She opened another large box.

“Holy crap! Are those all shoes?”

“Of course. That box too.”

“What do you need all those for?”

“They match different outfits. Some match purses. Some are just pretty. I haven’t found an outfit for them yet.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course. Why?” She looked up. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t believe you have all these shoes and purses.” I pointed at the pile of dress bags on the bed. “And those. Same with them?”

“Same what?”

“Formal dresses, cocktail dresses, dresses you haven’t found shoes and a purse for yet?”

She smiled but was clearly nonplussed. “Yes.”

“And you shipped all this stuff from home? From California?”

“How else was I supposed to get it here?”

“Why?”

“Why what? I can’t wear them if they aren’t here.”

“Why do you even need all this?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Clearly.”

She knew she was being insulted. She bristled like a Chihuahua snapping at a Doberman. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind.”

“No, tell me. What don’t I understand? And what’s it to you anyway?”

“Whoa! Sorry I asked. You can have whatever you want. It’s your stuff.”

She continued to look belligerent until I gestured innocuously at the shoe boxes.

“You want me to put those in the top of the closet too?”

She wasn’t ready to back down but couldn’t find a reason to argue. “Yes,” she said eventually. “Please.”

I stacked shoe boxes on the shelf below the purses. I silently counted—twenty-one—but knew better than to make a comment.

The mood between us slowly defrosted.

I helped her hang dress bags—six of them, with several dresses in each—which filled half the closet. Once again, I kept my comments to myself.

I collapsed the empty cardboard boxes while she unpacked her everyday shoes and lined them along the bottom of the closet. She just kept adding more, from sneakers to loafers to docksides. She even had a couple of pairs of knee-high boots. She had six pairs of jellies alone, almost every color of the rainbow. The girl liked shoes. What could I say?

I managed to compose my expression by the time she finished.

“Thanks for helping.”

“My pleasure.”

“And thanks for letting me have the room with the bigger closet.”

“It was luck,” I said, “but I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I just wish it were bigger.”

I swallowed a laugh.

“What?”

“I don’t hear that very often.”

“Hear wha—? Oh!” Her tan cheeks turned rosy.

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

“Very funny.”

I shrugged, unabashed.

“Speaking of which,” she said after a moment, “how’s Gracie?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“You ‘guess’?”

“Well, yeah. ‘I guess.’ I haven’t talked to her in a while. A couple of months.”

“A couple of months? Some boyfriend you are!”

“What? Why should—? Hold on… Gracie and I broke up. Didn’t Wren tell you?”

“I told her n— Um… I mean, no, she didn’t.”

“It was a while ago. Before the summer. But after you left, I guess.”

“What happened?”

“Long story. We weren’t ‘compatible,’ I guess you’d say.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” She didn’t sound very sorry at all. She must’ve heard it too, because she immediately said, “So I guess you had fun this summer.”

Something about her tone made me frown. “How d’you mean?”

“Nothing. Just that you could date a lot of different girls.”

I heard the euphemism and felt the heat rise in my cheeks. “Is that what you think I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“That I sleep around?”

“You mean you don’t?”

I clamped down on my temper. Then I took a deep breath and let it out slowly through my nose.

Christy practically dared me to say something snide.

“I’d better get back to work,” I said instead. “In my own room.”

I didn’t speak to her the next day. I wasn’t rude about it, but she was persona non grata around me. She had a huge argument with Wren too. Trip and I stayed clear of both of them, which suited me fine.

The following morning I returned from my run to find Christy waiting on the porch. I couldn’t ignore her without being a jerk, so I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. She shifted nervously as I waited.

“I talked to Wren yesterday,” she said at last.

“I heard.” The neighbors probably had too.

“She told me about the summer.”

“What about it?”

“About trying to set you up with her friends.”

I felt a stab of irritation with Wren too, not only for the matchmaking, but also for discussing my private life.

Christy fidgeted with the hem of her pajama top. “She said you didn’t date anyone at all.”

That word again! “And?”

“And I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t ready to forgive her just yet. “What for?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you sorry for?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Are you sorry you called me a man-whore, or just sorry you were wrong?”

“I—!” Her eyes fell. “Both, I guess.”

My anger flared anew, and I bounded up the stairs. “What gives you the right to judge me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know anything about me!”

“I know. You’re right. I—”

“And why do you care who I ‘date’?” I made it sound like pious doublespeak, which it was. “It’s my business, not yours. Don’t apply your goody two shoes Catholic schoolgirl morals to me!”

I stormed inside and slammed the door for good measure.

I replayed the whole thing in my head while I stood under the shower. When I finally calmed down, long after the hot water ran out, I felt a mixture of frustration and guilt. Christy had no right to judge me by her standards. And I had no right to yell at her when she was only trying to apologize. Worse, I had no idea why I’d gotten so upset.

I dressed and went to find her. She was sitting at the kitchen table, poking halfheartedly at a slice of cantaloupe.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“It’s all right. You were right. I shouldn’t have judged you.”

“Yeah, I guess there’s enough blame to go around.”

She nodded glumly.

Wren entered the kitchen in her blue bathrobe. She yawned. “What was all the shouting and slamming about?”

“No clue,” I lied smoothly. “Must’ve been the neighbors.”

“Or crazy people,” Christy added.

“Definitely,” I agreed. “Crazy people.”

We shared a hesitant grin.

Wren filled Mr. Coffee and started him gurgling for Trip. “Well, I hope they’re gone now.”

“Me too.”

She grabbed a Coke and shuffled out of the kitchen.

Christy and I were silent. The tension had ebbed between us, but it wasn’t completely gone.

“Want some cereal?”

“Yes, please.”

I set out two bowls.

She went to the refrigerator. She passed me the carton of milk and then poured two glasses of orange juice.

I opened the pantry. “Grape Nuts or Froot Loops?”

“Whichever you want.”

My hand wavered between them.

“On second thought, Froot Loops.”

I chuckled.

“What?”

“I’d just decided the same thing.”

“Oh. Good.”

We sat across from each other and ate in silence.

“I never realized…,” I said at last.

“What?”

“That bunnies eat Froot Loops.”

“They do.” She smiled into her bowl. “But only on special occasions.”

By Monday we had the house more or less unpacked. Most of our matching furniture, courtesy of Wren’s mother, went in the main living room.

Trip had set up his expensive McIntosh stereo in the octagon room, along with a vintage console TV that took more than a minute to warm up. We filled the room with odds-and-ends furniture that didn’t fit anywhere else.

Christy and I claimed the two small bedrooms on the third floor. Their windows faced south, so they offered plenty of afternoon light. They’d originally been servants’ rooms, but we wanted to use them as studios.

She arranged a couch and a couple of beanbags in hers. They were castoffs from the Nixon-era decor that Trip’s stepmother had inherited when she married his father. She also added a small desk that had been mine when I was much younger.

My studio boasted a pair of mismatched cloth easy chairs and a large bookcase. I used an old writing desk in place of a drafting table I didn’t own yet, along with an ugly Naugahyde barstool that would do the job of a drafting stool until I found a proper one.

Christy didn’t have much to do in her studio, so she helped me unpack.

“I didn’t know you liked art so much,” she said as she arranged books on the bottom shelf.

“What do you think architecture is? It’s functional art. The best of it, at least.”

“I know. But I guess I never think of it that way. Art is sculpture and paintings.”

“Art is lots of things. I mean, most of the best Renaissance artists were also architects. Michelangelo, Raphael, da Vinci. Heck, Brunelleschi is the guy who discovered linear perspective.”

“Who?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She shook her head.

I rummaged for a book and sat next to her on the floor. “He was the world’s worst loser.”

“Huh?”

“He lost a competition to Ghiberti—”

“I know him! The Gates of Paradise, right?”

“Right. Well, after Brunelleschi lost, he threw a huge temper tantrum.”

“Sounds like someone I know.” She said it with a grin but flinched when she saw my reaction. “Me! I was talking about me!”

“Oh. Okay. Sorry. Well, anyway, Brunelleschi went on to build the dome of the Florence Cathedral.” I paged through the book until I found what I was looking for. “See? He used a catenary arch, like the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, along with chains that acted like barrel hoops…”

Trip and I spent half a day going over details for Sayuri’s houses. She was surprisingly organized. She had all the original contractor’s estimates and invoices, as well as everything from the new contractor, including bid documents, specifications, construction drawings, and more. Trip pored over the paperwork, while I studied the drawings.

I thought I’d be disappointed, but I was wrong. The drawings were professional and thorough. Trip grunted a few times but didn’t find any problems either.

“What’s the verdict?” I said at last.

He straightened his stack of papers. “I think,” he said slowly, “that you and I should be working for this guy.” He nodded toward the drawings. “You find any red flags?”

“Nope. I couldn’t do better myself. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever done as well.”

We gave the news to Sayuri but warned her that the houses themselves might not reflect what we found in the planning.

She smiled a secret little smile. “I check a few times,” she said. “Work looks good.”

“Let’s hope so,” Trip said. “We’ll take a look and let you know.”

We crossed the street to the first house. We found the site foreman and told him that the owner had asked us to take a look around. He answered our questions, albeit grudgingly. He didn’t say so aloud, but his attitude made it plain that he thought we were snot-nosed college kids sent to second-guess him. He was right, in a way, but he didn’t know the whole of it.

“Listen,” Trip said about halfway through, “we aren’t here to make your life difficult. The owner asked us to look out for her interests. All right? So give us a break.”

“Her first contractor really screwed her over,” I explained.

“First contractor?” the foreman said. “Who? We started this job.”

“On that house.” Trip pointed to ours.

“Oh. Okay. Well, that’s different. Who was it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Trip told him.

The foreman rubbed his jaw. “Yeah, that guy. I don’t like to speak ill, but…”

“We’ve seen his work,” I said. “We’ll probably be fixing things for the next couple of months.”

“Who? You?”

“Yes, us,” Trip said. “I’m a general contractor, and he’s an architect.”

It was a white lie, but I didn’t correct him.

The foreman laughed before he realized Trip was serious.

“Don’t let my age fool you,” Trip said. “I’ve been doing it for years. Him too.”

“Where? In Knoxville?”

“No. Franklin, outside Nashville. And Atlanta this year.”

The foreman looked dubious but decided to humor us.

We finished our tour of the house and didn’t find anything wrong. Trip asked most of the questions, while I kept my eyes open and poked around in the background.

The foreman walked with us to the second house. “Haven’t done much here,” he explained. “Won’t start demo for another six weeks.”

“Not till you get closer to done with the first house,” Trip agreed. “I read the bid documents.”

The man looked surprised. Again.

“Listen,” Trip said in exasperation, “I can look into these houses like a building inspector, or you can just believe me when I say I know what I’m doing.”

“Whatever. I just work here.”

“Yeah. And we’ve kept you too long. Thanks for your time.”

“No problem,” he said insincerely.

Trip was in a surly mood as we walked back to report to Sayuri.

“I don’t like the foreman,” he explained to her, “but I didn’t see anything wrong.”

“Neither did I. Like Trip said, the foreman was a bit of a jerk, but the work is good.”

“That is all I ask,” Sayuri said.

“We’ll check on progress every week, if that’s all right with you,” Trip said. “And I can review any invoices before you pay them.”

“That would be fine.”

“Otherwise,” he finished with a shrug, “I don’t know what else to tell you. The crew is doing a good job. And I’ll be honest, they’re doing it for cheaper than I could do in Atlanta.”

“That is also good to know. Christy said you have a wealth of experience for your years.”

“She’s right about that.” Trip warmed to the compliment. “We’ll definitely make sure you’re getting your money’s worth.”

“I already am,” Sayuri said with a smile.

Classes started on Thursday. Trip and I didn’t have a single one together. He wasn’t disenchanted with architecture, but he knew he’d never love it like I did. So he’d decided to avoid the intense competition of Professor Joska’s class, not to mention the long hours. He was taking an extra business class instead.

I felt a little lost when I entered the design classroom and took a seat in the first row. I also dreaded seeing Gracie. I didn’t have anything against her, but was pretty sure she didn’t feel the same about me. Part of me hoped that we might be friends again, but another part told me to let it go. Besides, the things I didn’t like about her had only grown in my memory.

I was talking to someone else when she entered. She sat at the other end of the row and pointedly ignored me. I halfway expected the air to freeze between us.

Freddie DeFeo saved me from brooding about it. He dropped his bag on the floor next to mine and gave me the full paisan treatment, including a back-slapping hug straight out of The Godfather.

Professor Joska arrived and started class with his usual brusqueness. He gave us the third-year version of his speech and then handed out copies of the syllabus and schedule. I skimmed them and groaned at the last page. We had a quarter project to design a building, from proposal to final drawings, as though we had a real client at a real architecture firm. It was a third of our grade and in addition to our normal coursework.

Joska seemed to read my mind. “Your lives will only get busier from this point forward. Fourth- and fifth-year students have almost double the workload.” He unscrewed the cap of a fountain pen. “I will sign withdrawal slips if anyone wants.”

No one did. Most of us had understood what we were getting into when we signed up for his class. I was a bit surprised that Freddie was there, but the others were familiar faces, the best and most competitive third-year students, including yours truly.

Wren made a special dinner for the end of our first week of classes. It had only been two days, but we still felt the need to celebrate. We polished off several bottles of wine and lingered over our empty plates.

“You think you have it bad?” Wren said, after Trip complained (again) about his course load. “Christy and I are seniors. So all our courses are 4000 level.”

“Two of mine are technically graduate classes,” Christy said.

“Yeah, okay,” Trip agreed, “but Architecture is a five-year program. So it’s even tougher than a regular degree.”

“Says who?” Wren shot back.

Christy sipped her wine and nodded.

“I’m taking six classes,” Wren continued, “plus a senior seminar in mass media.”

“And I found out today,” Christy added, “that Siobhan wants me to exhibit at a major show in November. November! That’s, like, barely two months away.”

Trip refilled her glass. “Drink up.”

“I’m going to need it,” she muttered, and took a long sip.

“So,” I asked her, “do you have a piece in mind?”

“For what?”

“For your exhibition?”

She shook her head. “I have a bunch of ideas, but…” She shrugged. “I’ll think of something.”

“What about you?” Wren asked me. “You’ve been unusually quiet tonight.”

“Deadlines as far as the eye can see. Crushing workload. Be surprised if I have time to breathe.”

She snorted and opened another bottle.

“How’s Joska?” Trip asked with a heartless grin.

“Are you kidding? He’s half the deadlines himself. We have a huge project for his class. A design proposal, case study, full set of drawings, a model, the works.”

“Professor Liang is pretty laid-back,” Trip said. Then he frowned. “Management class will more than make up for it, though.”

“Told you it wouldn’t be easy,” Wren said.

“You were right. I’m playing catch-up, ’cause I’m not a Business or Finance major.”

“Yeah, but you have real-world experience,” I said.

“This is different.”

“How?”

“You know what it takes to build a house, right?”

“More or less.”

“Nothing like design class, is it?”

I snorted.

“It’s theory versus real world,” he continued, mostly for the girls’ benefit. “They teach you how to design buildings, but it’s totally different on the job site.”

“Most construction guys think architects are idiots,” I told them.

Wren arched an eyebrow. “Are they?”

I glared and held out my glass for a refill.

“Most of them, yes,” Trip admitted. “At least when it comes to practical construction.”

Christy glanced at me to see if I agreed or not.

“Sadly, he’s right,” I said. “Most people in class couldn’t design a workable building if their lives depended on it. You should see some of the projects from fifth-year students.” I shook my head in mock disappointment. “Beautiful buildings, but completely impractical.” I gestured at Christy with my wineglass. “Remember the dome? By Brunelleschi?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“That’s what you get from an architect who’s also a builder. Beautiful and feasible.”

Trip raised his glass. “Amen, brother.”

The wine and conversation continued to flow until very late. We were all drunk by the time we went to bed.

Unfortunately, I was still too keyed up to sleep. I thought about jerking off, if only to pass the time, but decided against even that. Then I heard a strain of familiar music from across the hall. It was Trip’s make-out tape.

A small part of me was annoyed that they hadn’t asked me to join them, but that was completely irrational. Wren was Trip’s girlfriend, not mine. I didn’t have any claim on her. Besides, Wren didn’t want two boyfriends. She wanted Trip, with some fun on the side.

I was the fun on the side.

Sometimes.

I closed my eyes and tried to will myself to sleep, but couldn’t help listening to the faint, rhythmic sounds from across the hall. The house was old, with lots of night noises, but not so many that I couldn’t imagine what was going on.

I finally pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and went upstairs. I was standing in the foyer, still trying to decide what to do, when I heard a creak on the stairs behind me.

“You too?” Christy said.

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

We glanced toward the master bedroom.

“They weren’t exactly loud…,” she said.

“But it was kinda obvious.”

“Yeah. So, um… you wanna hang out?”

“Sure.” I made an expansive gesture toward our little studios. “My place or yours?”

“Mine,” she said after a moment.

“Good call. Those beanbags are comfy.”

She kicked off her bunny slippers and curled up on the smaller bag, an ugly orange thing with a suspicious stain on the underside. The other bag wasn’t much better, a brown blob that had been patched several times.

We chatted for a few minutes, mostly small talk. Then she dropped a bombshell.

“How come you aren’t… you know?” She glanced again toward the master bedroom.

My eyes widened. Did she know about Wren and Trip and me? How could she? She wasn’t the type to understand swinging, much less condone it. So I couldn’t imagine why Wren would’ve told her. I took a deep breath and said neutrally, “How come I’m not what?”

“You know… with someone? Like, a girlfriend.”

“I dunno,” I said with disguised relief. “I guess ’cause I don’t have one.”

“Why not?”

My face grew still. I didn’t need another lecture about how I was a male slut.

“Oh, gosh— Sorry! I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then how do you mean it?”

“I was just making conversation.”

I doubted it, but decided to answer anyway. “I don’t really want a girlfriend. Not right now, at least.”

“Oh. But… why not?”

“That’s harder to answer.” I shrugged. “I guess I want to find myself first.”

“Find yourself?”

“I need to be happy on my own before I can be happy with someone else.”

“I think I understand.”

“Do you?”

She nodded. “So… are you? Happy, I mean.”

“I think so.”

“I can tell.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You’re… different… from when I saw you last.”

“I had a lot to think about over the summer.”

“Wren said you turned into a philosopher.”

“Ah. What do you think?”

“Me? I dunno. I think you’re different. That’s for sure.”

“Different-good or different-bad?”

She cocked her head to the side. “Too soon to tell.”

“Fair enough.”

We fell silent.

She thought of something and smiled. “You remind me of someone.”

“Oh? Who?”

“Nobu.”

My eyebrows shot up. “The Japanese monk?”

“You remember?”

“Of course.”

She smiled again. “He used to tell me there’s beauty in everything.”

“Ah.”

“And he was always very calm. Like you are.”

“It’s an illusion.”

“What is?”

“Me. Being calm. I have to work at it. All the time.”

“I think he did too,” she said.

I let her enjoy the memory.

“I’d better go,” she said all of a sudden. “I need to get some sleep.”

“Oh. Okay. G’night.”

She left before I could say anything else.

I listened to her pad down the stairs. Then I realized that she’d left her slippers. I thought about taking them down to her, but decided to leave them where they were.

I went next door to my own studio and turned on the desk light. I pulled a book at random from the shelf and sank into the nearest easy chair. I read for a while but didn’t really see the words. I was thinking about Christy and what she’d said. After a while I closed my eyes, just to rest them for a few minutes.

I woke up the next morning in the same chair. I was a bit stiff, but not so much that a good run wouldn’t take care of it. I went to rub my eyes and realized that someone had covered me with a blanket during the night. My book had slipped off my lap and now lay on the floor, closed, but with a scrap of paper to mark my place.

My eyes fell on a drawing in the other chair. I picked it up and looked at it. It was a quick sketch in pencil, the kind of thing I made in my own sketchbook when I wanted to remember a design.

Christy had drawn me as I’d slept in the chair, covered with the blanket that still lay across my lap. My hand rested on the book I’d been reading. The scene was still and very serene.

You looked so peaceful, she’d written across the bottom.

I smiled.

She must have come upstairs during the night.

For her slippers, I decided.

Life settled into a routine in the new house. Class and studying took up most of our time, but Trip and I started working out together at the Sports Bubble. Wren and Christy found an aerobics class at the same time, so we went together.

Separately, I kept up my morning runs, mostly to have some time to myself. I also made time for judo twice a week with my friend Glen. The girls went to the swimming pool about as often, while Trip joined an intramural football team with a couple of guys from his management class.

Wren made dinner most nights, although the rest of us promised to take an occasional turn to give her a break. Christy was a decent cook, but Trip and I were pretty bad. I steeled myself for Wren’s criticism, but she always found something to compliment (except once, when I carbonized dinner because I’d been sketching ideas for my design project; we ordered pizza that night).

Christy still hadn’t decided what to do for her exhibition. She was starting to panic, so I brought it up one evening as we lingered over wine after dinner.

“How should I know?” she snapped. “You think of something.”

“Okay,” I said, unruffled, “how about a modern take on a classic? You know, like you did with Michelangelo’s David. You could do a Discobolus or Doryphoros. Or maybe something like the Farnese Hercules.”

“Now you’re just showing off.”

“About what?” Wren said.

“How much he knows about art.”

“I like art,” I said. “Yours especially.” I was trying to cheer her up, but she wasn’t having it. “Why don’t you do something like The Dying Gaul?”

“More like The Dying Paul,” she muttered.

“Sure, I’ll pose for you. It’ll be fun. I miss doing it for Siobhan’s class.”

“You just like getting naked in front of a bunch of women,” Wren teased.

“There were some guys in those classes.”

She snorted.

“I can’t do anything like that,” Christy said gloomily.

“Sure you can,” Wren said. “We’ve all seen your work.”

“And you’d better get started soon,” Trip added. Wren glared at him, but he ignored her. “November is right around the corner. When’s the show?”

“The twenty-second,” I said.

Christy’s head came up. “How do you know?”

“Well, it’s all over the A&A building. And, um… Siobhan sort of talked to me. A few days ago.”

Christy blinked in surprise. “What did she say?”

“She… uh… said that you might need a little inspiration.” She’d actually said that Christy was depressed and suffering from a creative block, and could I help?

Wren met my eyes and understood immediately, although she didn’t say so aloud. “What’s this dying guy look like?” she asked instead.

“The Dying Gaul,” I corrected. “He’s a warrior sitting on the ground, dying. Duh. I know that doesn’t do it justice, but…”

“It’s very emotional,” Christy said. “He’s been stabbed, and he knows he’s dying. You can see his pain.”

“Sounds depressing,” Trip said.

Wren shot him another glare.

“It isn’t,” Christy said. “He’s brave and very dignified. He’s a warrior.” She looked at me. “Do you really think I can do it?”

“You can do anything you set your mind to.”

“And you’d pose for me?”

“Absolutely. As long as you don’t mind if I read or study to pass the time.”

She shook her head.

“Then it’s a deal.”

“I don’t want to do an exact copy,” she said.

I smiled to myself and watched her creative wheels start turning.

“I want to do something new and original, but inspired by the classic.”

“That’s the spirit!” Wren said.

“I know just the thing,” I said. “Let me run upstairs and get a book. It’s perfect. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?”

“Huh?”

“Trust me.”

And so I began posing for Christy. We worked in the afternoons, when the light in her studio was best. The Gaul himself was nude in the classical sculpture, but I wore a pair of running shorts. The pose wasn’t very comfortable, but I could manage for a couple of hours at a time.

Christy focused completely once she started on a project. She was all artist, consumed by her creation. We talked before and after each session, but never during. Consequently, I had a lot of free time on my hands.

Mostly I worked on my own project, albeit in my head. My original idea had been to design a museum. I’d written the proposal and Joska had approved it, but I hadn’t been particularly inspired by any of my design sketches. Then Christy unknowingly gave me an idea.

She liked to work in her beanbag chair. She lay half-curled as she sketched me from different angles. One day I was simply staring into space when my eyes started tracing the lines of her body, from thighs to hips to waist. She was a tiny girl, but not skinny. She had all the right proportions, and I was thinking about how she was basically a regular-sized woman, only smaller.

Then I imagined a woman like her, but larger, the size of a building. Could I design one like the curve of a woman’s body? I didn’t want a lot of support structure to mar the lines, so the roof would have to be cantilevered from the rear. That would let me design the façade as a glass curtain wall. I didn’t want the building to be sexual or even obvious; I simply wanted it to suggest a woman’s curves.

The challenge was exciting: how to design a workable building in the shape of a woman. I made several sketches, first of Christy as I remembered her, then of the building itself. Since the entire project was simply made up, I decided that my site would be the face of a low hill.

The cantilevered roof—the visible part, at least—would be supported by a long pier that was actually the back wall of the museum itself. The rear half of the roof would slant into the hill and be covered by earth. That let me add landscape elements, which would make the building blend into its surroundings. The interior would be natural materials and woods that mimicked skin tones. It was all very Frank Lloyd Wright.

I was talking about it to Trip one day when the girls returned from the pool. They came into the dining room to find out what we were talking about. I laid out my design sketches and explained a couple of creative leaps. Trip liked the idea. So did Wren.

Christy leafed through the sketches in my book. She was an incredibly talented artist, especially where people were concerned, so I wanted her opinion. She nodded several times, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. She turned another page and reached the early drawings, the sketches of her.

“You gave me the idea,” I said enthusiastically. “You were curled up in your beanbag, drawing me, while I was drawing you in my head.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Trip said.

“This is me?” Christy said. She traced a finger over the sketch and then looked at the larger drawing of the building itself.

“It is. Do you like it?”

She was silent for a long time.

I found myself holding my breath again.

She looked up, her expression unreadable. “Do you think I’m going to sleep with you now?” she said. “Just because you drew me?”

I was so shocked that I didn’t know what to say. Then I felt a flush of anger. “Is that what you think this is about?”

“Well, isn’t it?”

I suddenly felt disconnected, like a wall had sprung up around my emotions.

I gathered my drawings and closed them in my sketchbook. I looked at Christy but couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wasn’t spiteful. I stared at her for a moment. Then I turned and left.

“Wow,” Wren said to her, “you really don’t understand him at all.”

I spent the next day brooding, and I avoided the house when I knew Christy would be there.

Screw her, I thought viciously. If that’s what she thinks about me…

I was so full of pent-up frustration that I challenged Glen at judo practice. He was bigger, stronger, and a better fighter, but he couldn’t compete with cold fury. He knew I was upset, but he never said a thing, even when I slammed him a lot harder than I should’ve, especially in a friendly match.

I left before the sensei could kick me out. I heard Glen talking to them as I stormed off, telling them that he was fine, that I just needed to work some things out. I felt guilty, especially as the adrenaline wore off and I thought about what I’d done.

I went home, but only because I knew that the girls would be at the pool and Trip would be at football practice. I took a long shower and let the cold water run over me until I felt the anger wash away. Why did I let Christy get to me like that?

The phone rang as I was sitting on my bed.

“Hello?”

“Paul? Hey, it’s Mark!”

I drew a blank. “Mark who?”

“Leah’s Mark, ya doofus. I’ve been trying to reach you for days!” He laughed. “Doesn’t anyone answer the phone there?”

“Sorry. We don’t have an answering machine.”

“Hey, no problem. I understand. So let me get to the reason I called. I wanna have a small party for Leah’s birthday.”

I felt a fresh wave of guilt, but for a completely different reason: I’d forgotten.

“I know it’s last-minute,” he said, “but she’s feeling kind of ignored.”

“Ignored?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s getting ready for Kara’s wedding next week. They still…”

I wanted to kick myself. I’d forgotten about the wedding too, and I’d known for a month. Kara had even asked me to be an usher.

“…so things’re a bit crazy over there,” Mark was saying when I tuned back in. “No one’s said a thing about Leah’s birthday. Anyway, I’m hoping you and Trip and Wren can come to Atlanta this weekend.”

“Trip and Wren can’t,” I said immediately. “They’ll be in Savannah.”

“Oh. Can they do it another time?”

“No. Wren’s cousin is getting married. It’s… um… a bit of an emergency, if you know what I mean.”

He laughed. “Shotgun wedding?”

“Not entirely. They were planning to get married anyway. They had to change the date is all.”

“Ah. Gotcha. So that leaves you. Are you going too?”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“Great! I mean… well, you know. Sorry. But now you can come to Atlanta.”

My first instinct was to decline, even though it was Leah. I was in a foul mood and didn’t want to be around people, much less people I actually liked.

Mark heard the hesitation in my silence. “Leah would love to see you.”

“I know, but—”

“Look, man,” he said reasonably, “come to Atlanta. Have fun with us.”

“I’m afraid I’ll ruin things for Leah.”

“Not possible. Come on down.”

“I really appreciate it, Mark, but I’m lousy company right now.”

“What’s the matter? Never mind. This is exactly what you need.”

I sighed.

“Listen, man, get away from whatever’s bothering you.”

“I don’t think that’ll work,” I said. The problem wasn’t Christy; it was me.

“All right,” Mark said, still reasonable, “then if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for Leah.”

“C’mon, Mark, that isn’t fair.”

“Of course not.”

“You aren’t going to stop until I say yes, are you?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“And if I’m still in a foul mood this weekend?”

“Then we gave it our best shot.”

I let the silence drag out.

“Look,” he said at last, quieter and less like a sales pitch, “I don’t know what you’re upset about, but nothing’s ever as bad as it seems.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Yeah, but I know how it is, man.” He waited and then went on, “Come to Atlanta. It’s a small party, just the four of us.”

“I dunno, Mark.”

“Leah would love to see you. So would I. Even Erin said she misses you.”

“Erin?”

“Your sister?” he teased. “About 5’4”, blonde, kinda looks like you, only prettier.”

I laughed in spite of myself.

“Whaddya say, man. Will you come?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be there.”

I wanted to avoid Christy until I left for Atlanta, but living in the same house made it almost impossible. I was working in my studio when she came to find me. I could tell it was her. I’d heard her come up the stairs and hesitate outside my door. I closed my sketchbook and waited for her to knock, which she eventually did.

“Come in.”

“It’s Christy,” she said through the closed door.

“I know.”

“Can I still come in?”

I tried not to smile. I wasn’t an ogre. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?” She opened the door a crack and peeked around it.

“I won’t bite your head off.”

“Serve me right if you did.”

“Yeah, probably.”

She opened the door a bit further.

“So,” I said, as lightly as I could, “is this normal Christy or jump-to-conclusions Christy?”

“Um, normal… I hope.”

I nodded at the other chair. “Sit down?”

“D’you mind? Standing makes me feel like I’m in the Principal’s office.”

“You only go to the Principal’s office if you’ve done something wrong.”

She stopped halfway into the seat. “Maybe I’d better stand.”

“Sit down,” I said with a laugh.

“Thanks.”

I waited.

She fidgeted.

I looked at her expectantly.

She fidgeted some more.

I settled in for a long silence.

“I never know how to apologize…,” she said eventually.

“Maybe you should stop doing things you need to apologize for.”

She laughed, dark and humorless. “You sound like Nobu.”

I thought I sounded like Susan, which made me smile inside.

“I’m… sorry.” She took a deep breath and mustered the courage to look me in the eye. “I’m sorry I accused you of… you know.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You’re going to make me say it?”

“I’m not sure what you accused me of,” I said after a moment. “I mean, I know what you meant, but… what kind of person do you think I am?”

“A forgiving one?” she said hopefully.

“I am, but you need to understand something about me.” I tried to find a delicate way to put it. “I’m a guy, sure. And sometimes I think with the little head. But most of the time I use the big one.”

“I know.”

“In other words, I don’t think about sex all the time.”

“But I thought all guys…”

“We don’t. Then again, I’m not like all guys.”

“Tell me about it.” She digested that for a moment and then asked the question she’d been building up to. “Why did you draw me?”

“Not because I want to seduce you or anything. I did it ’cause…” I searched for the right word. “Well, because you inspired me.”

She blushed and looked at her hands. “It’s very flattering.”

“I didn’t do it to flatter you or anything like that.”

“I understand. Besides, if you had— I mean… Um…”

“No, what were you going to say?”

“Promise you won’t get upset?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Well… they weren’t very good.” My eyes must have bugged, because she hurriedly continued, “The sketches, I mean. Of me. The building was great! But the drawings of me…”

I laughed in a sudden release of tension.

“Sorry. I hope that doesn’t make you angry.”

“Not at all. I’m an architect, not an artist. And I’m definitely not as talented as you.”

“Thank you.” She lowered her eyes but then looked up. “But you are. As talented. You just can’t draw.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh my gosh! I should stop talking. Of course you can draw. You’re awesome at… um… drawing.”

“Boy, you really know how to flatter a guy.”

“I mean you’re awesome at drawing buildings and landscapes. Yours are just… amazing! But… you can’t draw people.”

“I never learned how.”

She looked at her hands and fidgeted again. “I could teach you.”

“Would you?”

That was a preview of Second Chance for Romance (Director's Cut). To read the rest purchase the book.

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