Page 30 of Two’s Better

I still had half my eye on her as she paced back and forth along the windows, before she made her way back to the table. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye, and felt my stomach drop.

She didn’t look good. In fact, she looked like she was going to be ill.

She glanced up and my stomach dropped further as she caught the open panic and concern on my face. She shook her head subtly, and I exhaled a little bit in relief. She wasn’t clamming up; she was going to talk to me when we were alone.

Our study date couldn’t end soon enough. The five of us looked through each other’s portfolios when we called it a day, even though we currently weren’t working on a group project. Technically, we’d been given the same site to work on, and since we were in the same Atelier, we all had to focus on our Atelier’s overall vision and make sure each of our portfolios followed the general theme. But that was the joy of being an artist; literally none of our ideas nor how we put them down to paper were the same.

“Have a lovely evening, everyone,” Olivia said after we’d exited the library. “Let’s hope Bonnie and Harper don’t decide we should do a surprise presentation tomorrow,” she added grimly.

“I will literally throw up right now at the thought alone,” Ofure muttered, making us all laugh.

With a wave and well wishes, we separated.

I gave Ofure some space as we walked, knowing she’d talk when she was ready. This time, I didn’t hesitate to take her hand, wanting her to know, no matter what, whether she told me whatever was bothering her or not, I had her back. She glanced gratefully at me, giving my hand a squeeze. I squeezed back, my chest hurting with love for her.

We were halfway home when she finally spoke.

“Uzi,” she began, her voice a little shaky.

My grip tightened helplessly around hers. “Yes, Fure?”

I glanced at her to see her lips twitch, before she turned serious.

“Remember when I asked you about if you—if you felt like you were just doing things because they were expected of you, and not because it’s actually something you want to do?”

“Yeah ...” I said tentatively. She’d wanted to tell me something then, I remembered, though I wondered what that conversation had to do with the call with her father.

Impossibly, her grip tightened even more. “I don’t think I want to be an architect.”

For a moment, I was sure I’d misheard her.

“I know,” she continued hurriedly, like she was subconsciously expecting me to berate her. I would never do that, but I still held my tongue. Her gaze was focused resolutely forward. “I know what you’re going to say; I know, I know, I know. We’re weeks away from our final submissions; a mere handful of months away from graduating; how could I decide now, suddenly, that I don’t want to be an architect anymore? How does that make sense, right?”

“I wasn’t going to say any of that, but okay.”

She laughed, but the sound held no mirth. Then, to my shock and horror, she began to cry.

I immediately stopped walking, tugging her to the corner of the pavement so we weren’t blocking other pedestrians.

“Fure, baby,” I whispered, pain tearing through my chest at her sobs. I pulled her into my arms, hugging her tightly. She buried her face in my chest, shoulders and chest heaving. Fuck. She must’ve been holding this in for longer than I’d thought.

She didn’t want to be an architect? I’d be lying if I said this hadn’t come out of left field. Not to brag or anything, but Ofure and I were amongst the top students in our year. She might struggle with her concentration and, thanks to her social anxiety, often perform poorly when she had to present, but that—at least to our tutors—didn’t detract from the outstanding quality of her work.

I felt selfish, suddenly, of all the dreams I’d had of us taking over our fathers’ firms together; how many times had I excitedly brought it up—showed her how much I couldn’t wait for us to get to that moment?

I pulled back a little, cupping her soft round cheeks and using my thumbs to smooth away her tears.

“Is it me?” I whispered. “Have I been pressuring you?”

“No,” she said immediately, the word vehement. I relaxed, but only minutely. “I just ...” She ducked her head, forcing me to drop my hands. I put them on her shoulders, giving them an encouraging squeeze. “Every time daddy calls, he reminds me of The Plan. Finish your undergraduate degree. Get an internship for a year. Apply for the Master’s programme. Work another internship. Become recognised by the Royal Institute of British Architects and the Architects Registration Board.”

I knew the spiel; my father recited the same shit to me, too. But it seemed, while it had given me a reassuring checklist for my future—a straightforward set of goals I could work toward accomplishing, step by step, it was instead a rigid timeline that apparently caused her nothing but panic.

“But lately, I actually started to let myself think about it. Is this what I want to do for the rest of my life? Sit in an office, drawing plans? Coming up with designs for buildings? I know I’m going to sound selfish and spoiled, but properly letting myself think about it has made me realise that I’ve actually hated almost every single moment of studying for this degree. Every time we have work, I want to do absolutely anything else. And sure, yeah, there are moments I do enjoy what we’re doing, but those moments are far outweighed by my sheer disinterest and—and dispassion—with everything else.

“And daddy is expecting so much from me. After he’s used his blood, sweat, and tears to send me abroad, I dare complain about not liking what I’m doing? Who even likes their job, am I right?”

“I do,” I said automatically. She finally looked up at me, sniffing. “I mean, at least I think I do.”