Page 28 of Rising Heat

I carry my tea over to the counter and open the pitch I’ve been circling all week. I’ve been stuck on it since before the move. Staring at it now, the problem practically introduces itself.

The client keeps asking for luxury and approachable in the same breath. Exclusive but welcoming. Premium but accessible. The deck has slowly become six slightly different versions of the same identity crisis.

I stare at the screen for a minute, then start deleting slides. After the fourth one is trashed, it sounds like one person talking instead of a committee. She doesn’t need more options. She needs somebody to tell her which version is actually hers.

I move the copy around, swap the image hierarchy, rewrite a headline that’s been bothering me for two weeks, and suddenly the entire thing clicks into place.

By the time I lean back, my tea is cold. I don’t care. The work is good.

My phone buzzes across the counter.

Alex

Alive?

I laugh.

Darcy

And thriving.

Alex

Shame.

Alex

I was enjoying telling people you ran off to join a cult.

Darcy

Boston is not a cult.

Alex

Jury’s still out.

Alex and I met at a design summit in New York three years ago after accidentally hiding from the same keynote speaker in the hotel bar. Since then we’ve spent an alarming amount of time talking each other out of bad client decisions and passing projects back and forth whenever one of us is overloaded.

My phone buzzes again.

Alex

How’s the apartment?

Darcy

I own too much drinkware and not enough seating.

Alex

Sounds like you’re winning.

Darcy

That’s what I keep telling myself.

Alex