Bittersweet Memory

Rain inbookland(2)

They were both black sheep in their families.

"Closed up," Corinne said quietly. "Allison and I just loaded the last of the stuff."

Paul was silent for a second. "Want me to come over?"

"Not yet." She sniffled. "I just need a minute alone."

"Okay." He didn't push. "I'll bring dinner later? That Italian place you like on 57th?"

"Yeah."

"Corinne," his voice softened, "it's just a studio. No big deal. My clinic makes enough for both of us. We'll open another one. Bigger. Better."

Corinne laughed through her tears. "Paul, your clinic barely makes enough to cover the medication costs."

"So?" He laughed too. "We'll save up. Or I'll go beg my dad. What's he gonna do, disown me? We can run away together."

She laughed properly this time. "You're ridiculous."

"Seriously though," he said, gentler now, "go home, take a hot shower, get some sleep. Don't think about any of it. I'll be there soon."

"Okay."

She hung up, staring out the window, feeling a little warmer.

At least she had Paul.

At least someone was on her side.

The cab drove down Lake Shore Drive, Lake Michigan a deep gunmetal gray in the rain, waves crashing against the seawall with a dull, rhythmic thud. The skyline rose through the mist in the distance, the sharp point of the Hamilton Building stabbing at the sky like a knife.

That was where she was going.

Thirty minutes later, the cab pulled up outside her apartment building.

It was an old pre-war building near the University of Chicago, not far from Paul's clinic. The apartment was small, one bedroom one bath, walls painted warm cream, big windows that flooded the place with sunlight on nice days.

She'd rented it with money she'd earned working summers, not a cent from the Hamiltons. She loved it here—the quiet, the neighborhood feel, waking up to birdsong outside her window, watching the sun set through the west-facing windows in the evening.

Now even this small sanctuary was in jeopardy.

The driver helped her carry the boxes upstairs, she paid him, thanked him.

Opening the door, the apartment was dark.

She fumbled for the light switch, and warm yellow light flooded the space. The four cardboard boxes stood in a corner of the living room like uninvited guests, reminders of everything that had happened that day.

Corinne stripped off her wet clothes, walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower.

Hot water poured over her head, warm against her freezing skin, and finally, she sank down on the floor of the shower, pulled her knees to her chest, and cried silently.

Warm tears mixed with the hot water, running down her face. All the frustration, anger, humiliation, helplessness—all of it came pouring out at once.

Why?

She just wanted to build something different. She didn't want to be like the rest of the Hamiltons, living their whole lives in a bubble of money and power. She just wanted to bring light to the corners everyone else forgot.

Why was even that too much to ask?

She didn't know how long she sat there, the water running cold.

Finally she stood up, turned off the faucet, dried off, wrapped a towel around herself, and walked out.

She sat on the couch in the living room, staring at the four boxes in the corner, her mind a blank.

Horton had given her three days.

In three days, she had to give him an answer.

Go back to Hamilton Group, or lose everything.

What choice did she have?

Going back meant bowing to Horton, abandoning her ideals, walking into that place she'd hated for twelve years, looking at those fake faces every day, doing work she despised.

Not going back meant losing the trust fund, means she might not even be able to pay rent, means her future with Paul would be that much harder.

She picked up her phone, scrolled through her contacts, found Horton's name.

Her finger hovered over the screen.

Outside, the rain picked up again, hammering against the window, dense and cold.

Corinne stared at the word Father on her screen, and suddenly she was twelve years old again, her mother on her deathbed, holding her hand: "Corinne, listen to Horton. He's your stepfather, but he's all you have now."

After her mother died, Horton had done his duty as guardian—paid for her schooling, gave her every material advantage. But he'd never once asked her what she wanted. He'd arranged everything for her—what school to go to, what to study, what her future should be.

She was a puppet on his strings, dancing along the path he'd drawn.

At eighteen, she'd applied to art school, wanted to study sculpture. Horton had found out, frozen her bank account without a word, forced her to change her application to Yale Architecture.

"A Hamilton studying sculpture?" That's what he'd said, voice thick with contempt. "Embarrassing."

That was the first time she'd fought back. The first time she'd lost.

Now it was happening all over again.

Corinne put the phone down, walked to the window, stared out at the rain.

Night had fallen, and through the Chicago rain, thousands of lights glowed across the city, each one a story behind a window. Where would her story go?

She thought about that little library in Brookland, the kids' faces when they'd heard about the renovation, the seniors holding her hand saying "Finally, somewhere to sit."

Those faces, those voices, were so clear in her mind right now.

She couldn't just let it go.

Even if she had to go back to Hamilton Group, she wasn't giving up. Not entirely.

Corinne took a deep breath, picked up her phone, and called Horton back.

He answered on the third ring.

"Decided already?" His voice, as steady as ever.

"I'll do it." Her voice was steady too, steady enough to surprise even herself. "I'll come intern at the group."

"Good." No emotion in his tone. "Monday, nine o'clock, Administrative Department. Don't be late. Hamiltons don't keep people waiting."

"But I have conditions."

Silence on the line for a beat.

"Go on."

"First." Her voice firm now. "The Brookland Library project. Since Hamilton Group took it, you build it exactly according to my original plans. No cutting corners, no downgrading materials, and absolutely no turning it into some luxury co-working space or whatever your developers have in mind."

"Done." He agreed immediately.

"Second." She kept going. "Six months internship. After that, no matter how I perform, you don't get a say in what I do next. I can stay at the group or I can leave. And you can't use the trust fund as leverage ever again."

Silence again.

After a few seconds, Horton spoke. "Done. After six months, you get full control of the trust fund."

Corinne let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

At least she'd won something.

At least the kids in Brookland would still get their library.

"Anything else?"

"That's it."

"Good." The authority was back in his voice. "Monday, nine o'clock. Don't be late."

The line went dead.

Corinne put the phone down, walked back to the window, stared out at the rain.

It was still falling, but maybe, just maybe, it was letting up a little.

She didn't know what waited for her at Hamilton Group. She didn't know how those six months would go. She didn't know if, after six months, she'd still have the courage to open another studio, still have the will to keep chasing her dream.

But she knew she couldn't just give up.

Even if she had to walk into that place she hated, she was going to hold onto what mattered.

Even if she had to walk through thorns, she was going to find a way to bloom.

The doorbell rang.

Corinne wiped the last of the tears from her face and went to answer it.

Paul stood on the doorstep, holding an insulated delivery bag, still carrying the cold of outside with him. His hair was wet, strands sticking to his forehead, but his eyes were bright, like stars.

"Got your favorite," he said, grinning and holding up the bag. "Mushroom risotto, and that tiramisu you're obsessed with from the Italian place on 53rd."

Corinne looked at him, and suddenly she wanted to cry again.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding on tight.

Paul froze for a second, then put the bag down and hugged her back, rubbing gentle circles on her back. "Hey, it's okay. It's all over now."

"Paul." Her voice muffled against his chest. "I told my dad I'd go intern at the group."

Paul's arms tightened around her, then he pulled back, looking into her eyes. "It's just six months. It'll fly by."

"You're not mad?"

"Mad?" He laughed, brushing a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb. "You did it for the Brookland project, didn't you? I know you."

Corinne looked at him, warmth spreading through her chest.

He always understood.

"But I have to go back there." Her voice was small. "That place. I hate it so much."

"I know." He cupped her face in his hands, looked at her seriously. "But Corinne, you have to remember—no matter where you are, you're still you. The girl who wanted to build a library for Brookland, who wanted to bring light to the places everyone forgot—that girl isn't going anywhere."

He paused.

"Six months. That's nothing. After that, we'll open another studio. Bigger. Better. We won't just build the Brookland library. We'll build community centers all over the South Side. All over Chicago. All over the country. The whole world is going to see what we build."

Corinne looked into his eyes, saw the faith there, the hope there, warm as sunlight.

Suddenly, she didn't feel so scared anymore.

She wasn't alone.

Someone believed in her dream.

"Yeah." She nodded, smiling for the first time that day, a real smile.

"Come on." Paul picked up the delivery bag, pulled her over to the kitchen table. "Let's eat before the risotto gets cold. You know, the chef at that place is actually from Naples. Authentic as hell—"

He chattered on as he unpacked the food, his warm voice filling the apartment.

Outside, the rain was still falling, but inside, it was warm.

Corinne sat at the table, watching Paul move around her kitchen, listening to him talk, and the ice around her heart was melting.

Six months.

She'd get through it.

She'd hold onto her ideals, hold onto her boundaries.

Even through the thorns, she'd find a way to bloom.

Rain tapped against the window, a steady rhythm.

A new story was beginning.