The Design(71)

“Hey Grayson. It’s Mitch. I have some things to discuss about—”

I scrambled to end the message. I couldn’t listen to one of his client’s messages. I didn’t need anything else to feel guilty about. I reached for the phone and pressed down on the same button as before, hoping to cut off the voicemail. I needed to get out of there, but Mitch’s message wouldn’t go away. I kept pressing buttons, cursing under my breath, until finally, Mitch’s voice cut off.

Get out. Get out. Get out. I repeated the phrase over and over again as I replaced the key and rolled his chair back to where it had been positioned before I’d moved it in the first place.

“First saved message,” the voicemail began.

“No! Crap!” I stammered.

“Hey, Grayson. This is Frank from Whitmoor Apartments.”

I reached to stop the message from playing, but paused with my hand midway over the desk.

Whitmoor was my building.

“We were able to install that security system you asked for on unit #450.”

My unit.

I could feel the color drain from my face as Frank continued on.

“I’ll shoot the bill over to your email and I’ll include an invoice for that portion of the rent you requested.”

What the hell?

I reached for the phone and slammed my hand down onto every button until the message cut off. Truthfully, I wanted to rip the phone from the desk and chuck it across the room, but I refrained. Instead, I stood there in a daze, trying to replay the last few seconds in my mind. Maybe I hadn’t heard what I thought I’d heard.

No, I definitely had.

Why in the world was my landlord calling Grayson? How did he even know who Grayson was?

As calmly as possible, I clutched the two pieces of Grayson’s letterhead in my palm and left his office. I glanced back once, ensuring everything was in its correct place, and then paused when my gaze landed on his phone.

In a matter of two minutes, my world had flipped upside down.

What the hell was Grayson doing installing a security system in my apartment without asking me? And what was Frank saying about my rent? Hannah and I split the rent 50/50 each month.

None of it made sense and there was no time to try and decipher it. Alan, Mark, or Peter could walk in at any moment and I didn’t want them to see me standing in his office.

I had a layer of sweat on the back of my neck, my heart was hammering against my ribcage, and my stomach was twisted into a tight, anxious ball. All morning I’d been unsure of whether or not I could proceed with my submission. But then I heard that message, and my world wasn’t so black and white anymore. That message had effectively made my decision for me. I was going to submit my design. For the next ten minutes, I operated like a robot. I shoved every emotion below the surface as I went about the motions I knew I had to do.

I loaded the letterhead into the printer beneath Alan’s desk and pulled up the summary for my design proposal that I’d worked on over the weekend.

Once it was printed on the letterhead, I took a deep breath and forged Grayson’s signature at the bottom of the page. There, in wet black ink, was visible proof that I was jeopardizing everything in my life by submitting my own design.

Would Grayson forgive me if he ever found out?

Would he ever find out?

What did it matter, anyway? Grayson had his own secrets to worry about.

Without another thought, I slipped the letterhead into the manila enveloper and sealed the top.

Done. There’s no going back.

By the time I made it back up to the twentieth floor after slipping the envelope into the building’s outgoing mail, I felt completely numb. I should have felt guilty, angry, sad, or at least somewhat regretful, but I couldn’t manage a single thing.

I stepped into the office to find Alan, Mark, and Peter at their desks, chatting amiably. I watched Peter peel his satchel over his head and hang it on the back of his chair as Mark silently took his seat.

They didn’t notice me at first, not until I was almost at my seat.

“Hey Cammie. I was wondering if you’d left your stuff here last night,” Peter said, pointing to my purse on my desk.

“Nah. I got here a few minutes ago and then ran down for some coffee.”

Peter glanced down to my hands, which were clearly not holding a cup of coffee.

“Drank it down there,” I explained, though I should have just shut my mouth.

Peter nodded slowly and Alan turned to inspect me.

“Morning,” I offered. He gave me a curt nod and took a seat.

I was the last one to sit down and as soon as my butt hit the chair, Alan began to drone on and on about the company’s design submission.

“We’re a little behind on our proposal and it needs to be in the mail by noon today,” Alan said, reaching into a desk drawer to pull out our design packet.