I shook all thoughts of Porter, Robinson, and Greer out of my mind and got back to work researching more on our client. The Serrano brothers were a pair of suave Spanish olive oil and wine producing billionaires with money to burn. They were also the new owners of Atlanta’s latest powerhouse soccer team and wanted a state-of-the-art soccer stadium to rival any in the league. Although incredibly posh, the Serranos were also huge environmentalists, touting sustainability within all their business ventures. I tapped my pencil against my chin as I stared at the computer. They deserved a stadium for a team that was the same and set the tone for what they wanted to bring to the soccer league: style and sophistication all while being sustainable.
I wanted to ping Porter back, bounce some ideas off him, but I left him alone. I could figure things out on my own. But part of me just wanted to talk to him. I enjoyed talking to him. I tapped my fingers on my desk. I wasn’t here to make friends. I wasn’t here to get close to anyone, even if we could laugh together. I was here to rebuild my résumé. Work truly should come first.
After what seemed like forever, I looked up at the clock. It was five minutes until six. I had spent the last four hours drafting and researching and I’d lost track of time. I peeked out my door and looked across the hall. Porter was standing at his desk, putting things into a messenger bag. Fuck it. You can at least say good night. That’s just being polite.
A. James: Packing it up for the night?
P. Harrison: Yeah. Got to head out of here ASAP.
A. James: Hot date?
The chat messenger showed he was typing, then paused. I looked out my door and saw Porter, scratching his head. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Porter responded.
P. Harrison: I’ll TTYL. Get home safe.
A. James: Sure. Thx. See you tomorrow.
Crap.
I stared at the screen, my eyes avoiding the hallway as I heard his office door close. Did I say something wrong? Was I getting too personal? His personal life was absolutely none of my business. I had slipped into my old habits of getting too comfortable, too familiar.
One thing was for certain, I damn sure didn’t have a date.
The train ride home didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would, considering that MARTA never runs on time after rush hour. I had to call the mechanic as soon as possible to get my car fixed.
I walked the two blocks from the station to my little 1940s West End bungalow. Walking in heels from the station was for the birds. As soon as I got inside, I kicked off my heels, threw my portfolio down near the coatrack, tossed my keys in a bowl on the buffet next to the door. I took a moment to just take in my house and all the work I’d been putting into it for the past few months. It was all coming together.
This house had been my childhood home and my mother’s childhood home. After my father died, my mom decided it was too hard to stay in the house. “Too many memories,” she declared. She bought a condo in Vinings, close to active seniors, our church, and some of her friends to start a new life. So, when I moved back home to Atlanta, I knew I’d want to move into the family home and remodel it. I had made sketches of what I wanted to do. Over the past months, I was making strides in making the home more modern. To make it my own. I was finally settling down somewhere for a while. It was the least I could do with money that felt dirty.
I was most proud of the kitchen. It was sleek and modern, with cool, contemporary stainless-steel appliances and a massive island for entertaining that also housed a wine cooler. My mother had laughed and said, “A fridge just for wine? That is some bourgeois Black people’s shit.” Yet, she had been the first person to bring over a nice bottle of champagne to “test it out.” The kitchen was a far cry from the outdated flowered wallpaper that had turned yellow from smoke, grease, and years of cooking. I smiled, thinking about how my father almost burned the house down trying to fry chicken. It had been painful for me to tear down that wall that had the last traces of my father. Once completed, Mama smiled and said I had brought new life to the place. But I couldn’t cook in it yet. Not before she burned sage and removed the “negative energy of Uncle Cecil’s wife’s potato salad” which was the last thing we ate in the old kitchen at Daddy’s repast. It had craisins in it. It was a family scandal.
In the living room, I had re-tiled the fireplace myself, in cool blue, gray, and green tile. Blue was my dad’s favorite color. I knew it would be the perfect color scheme for the fireplace, and Mama agreed.
Despite the extensive renovations, plastic still lined the walls in the master bath. I had an ongoing dispute with George Flores, my lovely contractor, about what to do in the master bathroom. He said it would be more elegant with a detached claw-foot tub and a smaller walk-in shower. I told him I didn’t want a tub at all, desiring a twelve-foot-long glass encased shower with imported tile and two waterfall showerheads instead. Mr. George, as he preferred to be called, was a lovely man and one of the best contractors in the city and knew his stuff. He thought that my idea was a waste of space and would bring the value of the house down. I didn’t want a damn tub. I wanted the shower of my dreams because, to be frank, I wanted to have sex in a shower that would accommodate me and my eventual partner. Of course, that was none of Mr. George’s business. I just let him think it was purely for “design aesthetics.” I was an architect, after all. So, we were at an impasse.