Page 84 of The Exit Strategy

Her head snaps up from the design. “What does that mean?”

It means the math worked out and then the project didn’t. “It means I solved the engineering issue and then moved on to other things.”

A small sound of frustration leaves her throat, and it knocks me sideways.

She moves from the first book to the second, then the third, asking questions the way she used to, before outside forces ruined all hope of what could be.

The next one she selects is from my first year here. Mydesigns are arguably…darker in this one. All my designs were, until I started working on The Haven.

That’s when I was a man who’d traded his career for his family and spent a lot of time drawing things he didn’t intend to show anyone.

I stop watching and stare at the ceiling.

If she wanted to know who I became when I left home, she’ll find him in that book. And because I’m not sure she’ll like who she finds, I turn away from her and focus on the blueprints for the community garden.

I lose track of time as we sit in companionable silence. Well, until her small gasp draws me back to her.

There are so many emotions flickering in her gaze as she stares at something in the sketchbook she’s holding. She doesn’t turn pages, and she doesn’t look up. She just sits with whatever she’s found on the page.

It only takes me two steps to see where she’s landed.

It’s a sketch of a porch. The crude, first renderings of what eventually became the porch on her dream house design. But it’s what sits on the porch that’s caught her attention, her pointer finger hovering just above it—a figure.

Her hair is loose. Down past her shoulders, the way it falls when she thinks no one is looking. The figure sits on the top step with her knees pulled to her chest, her chin resting on them, turned slightly toward the lantern light. The posture isn’t specific—it could be anyone, but we both know it’s not.

I don’t breathe as she studies it for a long time. Far longer than she’s looked at anything else. Her thumb is at the edge of the page, ready to move on but unable to do so.

I very carefully study the wall above her head.

“I didn’t know you still sketched people.” Her voice issoft, controlled, pitched to portray indifference, but fails in execution.

“I don’t. I never really did.”

I only ever drew her. Before. During. And after. I’ve only ever been able to draw her.

Slowly, like releasing us both from suffocating bonds, she turns the page, and I exhale a breath that burns like acid.

She studies my designs for another ten minutes. Then she stands and carefully replaces the book.

“Nolan will be here in a couple of days,” she says with her back to me.

“Yes.”

The boys. Nolan, Fen, Hudson. My best friends. Her family. The people who know us both well enough to see the truths and through the lies swirling around us. They’ll be in this house for four days, and I still have no idea how to proceed.

“I should go.”

I nod because if I open my mouth, I’ll beg her to stay.

She’s at the door when she looks over her shoulder. “About the gala…”

I swallow hard.

“I can be your friend if you need one, Cole. If I had to walk into Callahan Analytics right now, I don’t know if I could do it—even if I had you at my side. I guess what I’m saying is, just because it’s important to Nana Mae doesn’t mean it’s right for you.”

And just because you’re meant for me, it doesn’t mean I’m right for you.

What I say is, “Would you go? If you were me?”