Page 65 of On His Mind

“You didn’t want to go home?”

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t do anything at all.

“To Maine?” I add.

“I told you there’s nothing there for me.”

“I’m sure you have family. Somebody who wants to see you.”

“I don’t,” he says.

I open my mouth to take it back, but I already said it.

The man who was counting the till comes over and says, “I’m going to lock up in a minute. You kids have to get going.”

Percy stands, putting his chair up.

“I can drive you home,” I offer, lifting my chair.

He grabs it from me easily and puts it up. He doesn’t say anything as he takes the tub to finish whatever he was doing. I look at the front door that is now locked, and then I follow Percy to the back. We walk out the back entrance. The guy tells us to have a good night, and then he’s gone.

“I’m walking home,” Percy says to me quietly.

“Percy,” I say. “I can take you home.”

He looks me dead in the eye and says, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

He does. He walks me to my car, opens the driver’s door for me, and says, “Have a good night, Penelope.” Then he closes it gently and walks off.

I sit in my car for a moment and watch him in my mirror. My mind is running a hundred miles per second.No is nois what I land on. I start my car and drive home. I don’t sleep.

On Monday, I walk into Whitmore at one o’clock exactly, and I resign. I’ve been thinking about this moment since I started. This isn’t about Percy; this is about me. I’ve done it a thousand ways in my head, and I’ve planned my escape. Three weeks ago, in the middle of studying for finals, I sent an email to a firm forty-five minutes north of here and a smaller one thirty minutes south. I have offers from both.

Oliver reads my letter standing up, in his glass office, with the door open. He sets it down and looks at me.

“May I ask why?”

“I want to be somewhere I chose.”

He looks at me. I watch him decide not to ask the second question.

“You know I’d have had you leading a project by twenty-two.”

“I know.”

“And you understand how this will look. To your mother. To Richard.” He isn’t threatening me. That’s what makes it unbearable. He says it gently, a man laying out facts for a person he believes is making a mistake.

“I’ve handed everything off. Ashfield’s done. The Chicago elevations are done. The memos are in the folder.”

In the folder, I have the completed Ashfield sheets, the Chicago east elevation with all markups incorporated, a two-page memo on the outstanding zoning items with every source documented, and clean handoff notes. Everything is finished. I have not left a single thread for anyone to trip on.

He opens it. Reads a page. Flips to the next. Then he closes it and rests both hands on it. He looks at me with something I can only call fondness, and it is so much worse than anger would have been.

“This is very well done,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“The door’s open.” He comes around the desk. He doesn’t come too close. “I mean that. A year from now. Two.” He pauses. “Chicago will still be there. So will I.”