Chapter 4
She said, "If you've lost your dreams already, don't start bawling yet. Go check that box where you stash all your old stuff. I know you. You can never bring yourself to toss anything out."
My eyes flew open.
Man, my eighteen-year-old self really knew me.
I got up and went to the bedroom, pulling open the bottom drawer of my closet.
There were a few old storage boxes stuffed in there. Every time I moved, I'd grumble about how much space they took up and almost tossed them, but in the end, I always ended up hauling them along.
The lids were covered in yellowed labels: "College," "Competitions," "Random Stuff But Actually Important."
I dragged the boxes out, and the dust made me cough twice.
On top was a hardcover sketchbook, the cover patched up with tape.
I flipped to the first page, and there were some big, bold words scrawled by my eighteen-year-old self:
[Joanna Shaw's Life Map.]
Underneath, there was a wobbly, crooked path sketched out.
[Get into college in Oakwood.
[Put on some kickass exhibitions.
[Buy a place with huge windows.
[Host exhibitions in ten different cities.
[On my thirtieth birthday, I'm going to buy myself a really expensive red dress.]
I looked at that line, then glanced down at my gray pajamas.
Forget the red dress.
On my thirtieth birthday, I didn't even get a piece of cake.
There were a bunch of old photos tucked in the back of my sketchbook.
The sign from the old cinema in town, the pomegranate tree outside my grandma's house, the market before it got torn down, and the old stall by the train station that sold candied hawthorns.
On the back of each photo, there was a sentence.
[One day, I'll make sure all these places stay.]
I flipped through them one by one, my fingers stopping on the last page.
It was a polaroid of me when I was eighteen.
In the photo, I was wearing a faded denim jacket, standing in front of the county station, with a bulging backpack on my back, grinning with a wild, goofy look.
On the back, it said: [Joanna Shaw, you're going to go far away one day. Don't let anyone convince you to go back to your cage.]
Just then, the doorbell rang.
I closed my sketchbook, walked to the door, and peeked out through the peephole.
Andrew was standing outside, holding a cake box.
He showed up so fast, I didn't even have a chance to say no.
I didn't open the door.
He pressed the doorbell again, then called my phone.
I answered, but stayed silent.
He was still outside, letting out a long sigh on the other side of the door.
He said, "Joanna, I know I was too harsh yesterday. Open up, let's talk."
I glanced at the letter I wrote when I was eighteen, sitting on the entryway cabinet.
If it were yesterday, I probably would've opened the door.
I would've taken the cake, pushed down all my feelings just because he sounded gentle again, and let this whole postponed wedding become nothing more than a 'minor emotional hiccup.'
But today, I didn't move.
"Not today," I said. "Take your cake and go."
I could see Andrew frowning through the peephole.
"I'm already here at your door," he said.
"Yeah, I see you," I replied.
He lowered his voice. "So you're really going to leave me standing out here like this?"
I held onto the doorknob, feeling the cold metal against my fingertips.
"Yeah," I replied.
There was a brief silence outside.
The apology on Andrew's face slowly faded away. He set the cake down by the door, his voice slipping back into that restrained tone I know all too well.
"Doing this is just going to make things worse," he said.
I didn't say anything.
He waited a moment, then turned and walked away.
Only after I heard the elevator doors close did I finally open the door.
The cake box was sitting by my feet, the ribbon tied in a pretty bow. There was a card tucked in on top.
It read: [Happy birthday. Don't be mad.]
I picked up the cake and put it in the fridge.
Then I opened my laptop and created a new folder.
I named it "My Stuff."
I copied over every sketch, every bit of research, every concept draft, every client meeting note, and every email from the old factory project that had my personal touch.
This time, I didn't rush to send it to anyone.
At three in the afternoon, Philip called me himself.
He hardly ever contacted me directly.
Usually, if he needed me to pull an all-nighter fixing a proposal, hop on a last-minute business trip, or cover for a client's mistake, he'd have the department head pass the word.
The only time he'd reach out to me in person was when he needed me to drop everything and obey right away.
When I picked up, he let out a couple of laughs.
He said, "Joanna, I heard yesterday was your birthday. I got so swamped I forgot to wish you a happy birthday."
I was sitting at my computer, staring at the half-finished project files on my screen.
"Thanks, Mr. Turner," I replied.
"About the project handover, Emily said you haven't sent her all the files yet. She's new and still getting up to speed. As a senior employee, you should be more supportive and help her out."
I dragged a file called "Initial Concept Sketch for the Old Factory District" into the backup drive.
"I'll send her the basic project files before I leave work today," I replied.
Philip's smile faded a bit.
"What do you mean by 'basic project files'?" he asked.
"Supplier contacts, confirmed quotes, client requirements, project timeline, and signed process documents," I replied.
"What about the source files?"
I glanced at my sketchbook sitting on the desk.
"The source files have my own early ideas, unfinished concepts, and some display drafts that haven't been officially cleared by the company. I need to make sure my name's on them and figure out how they can be used," I said.
On the other end of the line, I heard the sound of a pen tapping on a desk.
A tap after another.
"Joanna, you've been with Brightview Creative for seven years. The company gave you a platform, so everything you create during work hours belongs to us," Philip said.
I closed my eyes, swallowing back the words 'I know.'