Chapter 14 Blueprints for Aftermath

Chapter 14 Blueprints for Aftermath
“Yeah,” I say flatly. “I can already hear the dollar signs singing.”
I hang up. The studio goes quiet again. Just the AC humming and distant traffic below.
I sit there for a few seconds, staring at nothing.
Then my body moves before my brain has a plan.
++
Anyone walking past the hallway would probably think there’s a minor break-in happening inside De Cruz Atelier.
I start with the workstations. I stack the paper piles into neat squares, re-wrap the cables. Post-its that say “DON’T FORGET TAXES” and “CALL JAVI BACK” get peeled off and moved to the right side of the monitor, as if the right side of my life is more civilized than the left.
The big blueprints get rolled up again, slid back into their rack. The foam-board models with tiny plastic figures glued on top, I turn them around so if any stranger walks in, they see the clean minimalist façades, not the backs where Hazel went wild with marker: skinny stick people standing on the roofs.
Then I turn toward the painting corner.
On the floor, there are five canvases in different sizes. Two finished, three half-alive. One is another altar, but lighter; one is all architectural lines slashed over with red strokes like wounds; and one is too honest: a man’s silhouette in front of a window, broad shoulders, hands in his pockets.
I grab that one immediately.
“Not tonight,” I mutter, leaning it against the very back wall and stacking two other canvases in front of it. Like hiding a body in the closet, but artsy.
I toss the dry brushes and dirty palettes into a basin and carry it to the tiny sink in the corner. Cold water runs over dried paint, loosening it bit by bit. Blue, red, black pigments swirl down the drain, blending into a muddy brown. Kind of like my life, if I felt like being dramatic.
I open the small cabinet under the painting table. Wedged between paper rolls and old sketches, there’s a small dark blue velvet box. My fingertips find it on reflex.
The box isn’t big. It isn’t heavy. But it always feels like a brick when I pull it out.
I take it out, crack it open. The ring is still there, shining politely under the studio neon. Classic solitaire. The elegant version of a terrible decision.
Six years, and I still haven’t been brave enough to sell it or throw it into the ocean.
“I’m insane,” I whisper, snapping the box shut again. “I’m actually insane.”
I don’t even know why I brought it to LA back then. Maybe as a reminder. Maybe as evidence. Maybe because I was in too much of a hurry to sort anything.
But one thing’s clear: this box cannot be anywhere near visible when the man who gave it to me is standing in my studio as an anonymous collector.
I drag open the bottom drawer of the flat file, shove a few 2019 project folders to the back, and slide the velvet box into the farthest corner. So far that my fingertips don’t touch anything anymore.
The drawer closes with a soft thunk. It feels like sealing a coffin.
I straighten up, take a breath, then let out a short laugh. There’s no one else here, but my sarcasm still shows up on cue.
“Great job, Maya. Hide your six-year-old engagement ring like the FBI’s about to execute a surprise warrant.”
I go back to the drafting table. Pinned to the corkboard above it is a small photo: Hazel at two years old, chubbier cheeks, frosting smeared around her mouth, sitting on this very desk surrounded by papers. Next to the photo is a tiny sticky note that says, Don’t forget to live.
That can stay. That’s part of my defense system.
Below it, there’s a half-torn sketch: someone’s jawline, the slope of a neck, a hint of stubble shading. A small letter R in the corner, crossed out three times.
I exhale, pull the pin out, fold the sketch in half, then in half again, and tuck it into the back pocket of my jeans. Not because I’m sentimental.
Because if he sees it, if he recognizes it, I’m not ready for the questions that will show up in his eyes instead of his mouth.
I grab the broom from the corner. I sweep the floor like a stressed-out housewife: fast, hard, bordering on aggressive. Flakes of dry paint, graphite dust, sand that somehow made it here from the house (thanks, Hazel) all scrape together into one little pile.
I stop a few times and look around. This studio is usually alive: cables everywhere, paper stacked dangerously, an extra sweater hanging off a chair, empty coffee mugs abandoned in random places. Now… it’s starting to look like a minimalist catalog. Like a sterile version of a person who never gets messy.
I’m not sure I like it.
On the desk, my phone buzzes. An email from Daniel, the notification sliding across the screen:
Subject: The Altar – Sales docs & private visit confirmation
The buyer has agreed to tomorrow at 4 PM at your studio. He’ll come without entourage, just one driver. Please send exact address & parking instructions. Again, thank you, Maya. He’s… very invested in your work.
Very invested in your work.
Funny.
For a few seconds, I picture the answer I won’t send:
Tell him the last time he invested in something of mine, I ran to another continent.
What I actually type is:
You can send him the gallery address, I’ll share the studio location. Parking is behind the building, metal stairwell door.
See you tomorrow, Daniel.
Send.
And then, because my brain loves self-sabotage, I lean my back against the window and let one thought rise up:
He’s going to stand here. In the room I built after I ran from his. Between the blueprints of my new life and the colors I used to paint over the cracks he left.
He’ll see these white walls, the blueprint racks, the building models, the photo of Hazel pinned in the corner of the board. Maybe he’ll ask questions. Maybe he’ll pretend to be stupid again.
And me… I’ll be in my regular work clothes. Jeans, a T-shirt, maybe a blazer. No satin dress. No veil. No altar. Just my own desk.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Almost noon. I’ve got an online meeting with a client in twenty minutes. The world hasn’t stopped.
I force myself back into my chair. The cursor blinks in the middle of the CAD screen, needy. Next to the laptop, the sticky note Gemma shoved at me this morning has fallen out of my bag and landed on the desk:
DON’T SIGN STUPID CONTRACTS. INCLUDING EMOTIONAL.
I roll a pen over it. “Too late, counsel,” I mutter.
My fingers return to the keyboard. I draw a line, drop in a column, calculate the load. Logical things. Things with formulas.
Off to the side, there’s an altar that failed. Out there, there’s a man who once stood at it with me. Tomorrow, he’ll stand in this studio, not as a groom-to-be, but as a client.
And me?
I’ll be the architect making sure the structure is strong enough that this whole building doesn’t come down just because one old foundation decides to show up again.
I lean closer to the screen, the white lines glaring back at me. I take another sip of cold coffee, its bitterness slapping my tongue, dragging me back here.
To this desk.
To this city.
To the life I redrew for myself.