My side aches at the comparison. There’s more overlap in that Venn diagram. The shame of overconfidence, of having reached too far, having placed myself higher than I belonged. Of trusting something, someone, I shouldn’t have.

“I don’t know if everyone believed him. There was already bad blood with some other designers because I’d been the favorite. Besides, he was the established designer and he presented the concept. In the end, no one backed me up, so I left. A family friend out here was going through his own shit and needed a roommate, so I moved. I’d never even been to New York before. At least I had some experience with a subway, after downtown LA,” I add, but my smile feels heavy.

“Have you considered getting back into design since?”

“Yes and no.” I run my thumb over the scar on my palm. I didn’t climb for six weeks after my fall. Partly doctor’s orders, waiting for my body to heal. Mostly, it was the hit my confidence had taken. Baby steps brought me back: indoor bouldering, some top-roping on routes I knew well, and after a few months I was back at the same wall, staying well below the damaged shelf.

The drawings I’ve done of Meryton shuffle through my mind like a deck of cards. More baby steps?

“I looked before I left LA. It turns out, a sexual harassment claim and a reputation for claiming the work of others doesn’t make for good reference material. And now, three years on, I’d hardly be competitive. My portfolio’s ancient, I have no recommendations and no internship experience I can actually discuss.”

Wickham nods, looking thoughtful, and his shoulders drop. “Liz, I really am sorry to hear that. I—I had a similar experience. Something that should have been mine was ripped away, and . . .” He gives me a wan smile. “I guess I have fallen.”

“Shitty thing to have in common.” I grimace. “I don’t usually talk about what happened. It’s not like I have a chip on my shoulder about being an admin—”

“Especially with how good you are at it.”

The compliment is a balm. “I’m torn between hating what happened then and not wanting it to define who I am now, or what choices I make. There might be something on the horizon, I . . .” I chew my bottom lip. “Thanks for listening. Sorry I prattled.”

“My pleasure. You have an excellent prattling voice, too.”

“How about you?” I pat his hand as casually as I can. “You said you have some deal in the works?”

He winks. “It’s not locked down. I don’t want to jinx it.”

“You another tech wunderkind?”