Page 57 of Designing Love
I need to share the news with him. In person.
I pick up my phone and book the next flight back to Pearson. I’ll arrange for someone to clear out my office and things from the condo.
There’s a place on the midnight flight. That gives me enough time to swing by the office and say my goodbyes.
I text Sage.
Me: I’ll be on the Midnight Flight out of Vancouver. Landing in Toronto around 7:40am your time.
Sage:All done?
Me: All free.
Sage:Be safe. I’ll see you mid-morning then.
Me:Will do.
Goodbyes to my team. Uber to the airport. I’ll text Ethan once I pass security.
25
MISREAD BLUEPRINTS
Ethan
The Miller House is laughing at me.
Or at least, that’s how it feels as I stand at the center of the living room, gripping Sophia’s carefully written notes like they’re some sort of foreign code. She’s mapped everything out in elegant handwriting. And yet, here I am, squinting at it, turning the paper sideways like that might magically decode its meaning.
Claire lounges against the wall, tapping her sneakers impatiently against the dusty hardwood. “You realize it works better if you actually read it upright.”
I glance down, grimace, and slowly rotate the page around. “Funny. I thought I’d try architectural interpretation through abstract expressionism.”
Claire’s eyebrow arches sharply. “That’s just a fancy way of saying you’re clueless, right?”
I sigh heavily, dropping the paper onto the table. “Pretty much.”
Claire steps closer, looking at the notes and sketches with exaggerated focus. She points at a particular scribble. “What does ‘MC-KH-living?’ even mean?”
“McKitchen?” I guess lamely.
She snorts, her laughter echoing mockingly around the bare walls. “Someone help us. Ethan Reed, handyman extraordinaire, brought down by Sophia’s mysterious shorthand.”
I cross my arms defensively. “I’m doing my best.”
“Your best involves staring at these same notes for the past week without making any progress,” Claire retorts dryly, eyes narrowing. “Face it — you’re lost without her. Maybe you should try that fancy gadget called a phone.”
“It’s only 8am in Vancouver.”
“Then text. Like any rational adult in this century would.”
I hesitate, rubbing the back of my neck. “What if I wake her up?”
Claire groans theatrically, rolling her eyes skyward as if asking for divine patience. “Good grief, Ethan. Either text her or hand over your phone and I’ll do it — and trust me, it won’t be subtle.”
She holds out her hand impatiently, waggling her fingers. I huff and pull out my phone, glaring half-heartedly. “Fine.”
Fingers hesitating, I finally type out a careful message.
