Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: Critique, Confrontation, and a Chance

By 11 a.m., the critique room was packed. Students clustered around tables, adjusting models and arguing over color swatches. Eliott stood by his prototype, Jake beside him, sipping a soda. Every few minutes, someone would glance at the workbench—one girl from his design class, Lila, even stopped to ask, "Did you build this yourself? It's so cool."​Then Tyler swaggered in, followed by two guys from his fraternity. He was carrying his "minimalist chair"—a clunky thing made of dark wood, with legs so thin they looked like they'd snap if you leaned on them. He spotted Eliott's prototype first, his lips twisting into a sneer. He sauntered over, the chair scraping the floor, and tapped the workbench with his knuckle. "Nice paperweight, Hart. You gonna frame it? Or use it to hold down your 'I quit' letter when your dad finds out you're still playing around?"​The room went quiet. Jake stepped forward, but Eliott put a hand on his arm. He looked Tyler in the eye—this guy who'd made his past life even more miserable, who'd laughed at his mom's illness, who'd never had to choose between his dream and his family. "At least mine's useful. When's the last time your chair did anything but look expensive?"​Tyler's face turned pink. "You're just jealous you can't afford real materials—"​"Enough." Professor Hale clapped his hands, cutting him off. "Let's start the critique. Voss, you're first."​Tyler huffed, but carried his chair to the front. He set it down with a thud, and the legs wobbled. "It's 'minimalist luxury,'" he said, preening, running a hand over the wood. "Costs $500 in materials—solid oak, hand-finished."​Hale raised an eyebrow. He walked over, picked up a stray pencil from the table, and set it on the chair's seat. The chair creaked. "Can it hold a mug? Or is it just for show?"​Tyler's face went redder. "Well—oak is strong, so—"​"Mine can hold 200 pounds." Eliott stepped forward, Jake right behind him. He carried the workbench to the front, set it down gently, then flipped the legs open—clean, sharp "clicks." He grabbed his laptop (12 pounds), Jake's backpack (stuffed with textbooks, at least 30 pounds), and a heavy metal toolbox (another 25 pounds) and stacked them on top. The workbench didn't even shake. "It weighs 4.8 pounds. Costs $30 in aluminum—recycled, by the way. Folds into a backpack. I designed it for people who need a workbench, not a trophy."​A few students whispered—Lila even whistled. Tyler's jaw dropped. "You—you copied this! I saw a design just like it online last month!"​Eliott pulled his sketchbook out of his bag, flipped to the first page of workbench designs, and held it up. The date in the corner: September 15, 2017. "I've been working on this for nine months. You? Hale told me you copied your chair from a 2016 blog." He paused, then added, quieter, "And past life—you bragged about buying that design from a kid on Fiverr at a party. Drunk, remember? Said you 'paid him $50 to keep his mouth shut.'"​Tyler froze. His fraternity friends shifted awkwardly. Hale sighed, shaking his head. "Voss, you're done here. Pack your chair and leave. Hart—your turn."​Eliott talked for 10 minutes. He didn't stutter, didn't apologize. He explained why he'd chosen aerospace aluminum ("light but strong, perfect for people on the go"), how he'd tested the leg mechanism ("broke three springs before I got the tension right"), even showed a photo of Jake using the prototype to fix his bike last weekend. When he finished, the room erupted in claps—even the quiet kid in the back, who never spoke, nodded at him.​Hale smiled, clapping him on the back. "Munich's gonna call you by the end of the day. Mark my words. This is exactly what they need."​They left the studio at noon, Jake high-fiving everyone they passed. Eliott's phone rang halfway to the hospital—"Dad" flashing on the screen. His chest tightened, just for a second—past life: this call had made him delete the app, had made him cry in the bathroom for an hour—but then he thought of his mom's whisper, "Don't let them break you," and swiped to answer.​"Eliott! Ethan said you blocked him. What's wrong with you?" His dad's voice was shrill, like he was already angry. "The finance job's waiting—Mike said he'll give you a raise after six months! You can't throw this away for some stupid internship!"​"I'm not taking it."​"You what? Your mom's in the hospital! We need money!" Past life: he'd believed this lie, had begged his mom to let him take the job. She'd cried and said, "I don't want your money. I want you to be happy."​Eliott stopped walking, leaning against a lamppost. Jake stood beside him, silent but steady. "Mom's insurance covers chemo. You know that. You just don't want me to do something that makes me happy." He thought of his mom in her hospital bed, holding his old sketchbook, saying, "I wanted to be a painter once. Married your dad, had you, and… let it go. Don't do that." "I applied to Munich. I got in. And if you can't support that—" he took a breath, "—then I guess we'll talk when you're ready to be proud of me. Not proud of the 'stable' son you want me to be. Proud of me."​There was a long silence. Then his dad yelled, "You'll regret this!" and hung up.​Jake patted his shoulder. "Dude. That was brutal. But good. Real good."​Eliott nodded, shoving his phone in his pocket. "Long overdue."​They reached the hospital at 1 p.m. His mom was sitting up in bed, a book in her lap, a vase of daisies on the nightstand—Eliott had forgotten she loved daisies, had forgotten to bring her any in his past life. She smiled when she saw him, holding out her hand. "You look different. Lighter."​He sat on the bed, taking her hand—warm, a little thin, but still his mom's hand. "I'm drawing again. And I applied to Munich. Got the acceptance email 10 minutes ago." He pulled out his phone, showing her the screen.​Tears filled her eyes. She brushed a strand of hair off his face—just like she used to when he was a kid. "Oh, Eliott. I'm so proud. You know… I wanted to be a painter once. Had a scholarship to art school. But your grandma got sick, and I… let it go. I never wanted that for you. Never."​Eliott's throat closed up. He hugged her tight, careful not to jostle her IV. "I know, Mom. I'm not gonna let it go. Not this time."​They talked for an hour—about her next chemo session (the doctor said it was going well), about Jake (she laughed when he heard about the bike fix), even about the Munich internship (she asked if he'd visit the art museums while he was there). When he stood up to leave, she grabbed his wrist. "Your dad'll come around. He's just scared. He lost his mom young, too. He thinks 'stable' means 'safe.'"​Eliott nodded. He hoped she was right.​He stepped into the hallway, Jake waiting for him, and that's when he saw her—Claire Bennett, standing outside the café, her sketchbook pressed to her chest, her mom yelling at her.​"Art school? Are you insane?" Claire's mom snapped, waving a piece of paper—Eliott recognized it as a community college acceptance letter. "You'll end up broke! Waiting tables! I worked three jobs to put you through high school, and this is how you repay me?"​"Actually, she won't." Eliott stepped forward before he could think—past life: Claire had sat in the cubicle next to him for three years, hiding her sketches in her desk drawer, whispering, "I gave up. I'm sorry." He'd never said anything. Never helped. This time, he would. "Her work's incredible. I've seen it—Jake showed me a sketch she did of the old bookstore downtown. The way she drew the windows? It felt like you were there. Art school isn't a waste. It's a chance for her to not hate her life."​Claire's mom spun around, eyes narrow. "Who are you?"​"Eliott Hart. I'm going to Munich for design. And your daughter? She should be going to that art school. Because if she doesn't—" he looked at Claire, her eyes shiny with tears, "—she'll spend the next 10 years wondering what if. My mom did that. I did that. It's not worth it."​Claire's hands stopped shaking. She opened her sketchbook, flipping to a page filled with watercolor paintings—city skylines at dusk, a stray cat curled up on a bookstore windowsill, a girl with a paintbrush (Eliott realized it was Claire, drawing herself). "I did this last night. The bookstore. I… I want to paint things that make people feel something. Not just file papers. Not just wait tables."​Her mom stared at the paintings, then at Claire. Her shoulders softened. She took the acceptance letter from Claire's hand, folded it carefully, and handed it back. "Why didn't you show me these? I thought… I thought you just doodled. I didn't know it meant this much."​Claire laughed, a wet, relieved sound. "I was scared you'd laugh. Scared you'd say it was stupid."​"I'm sorry I did that," her mom said, pulling her into a hug. "Go. Go to art school. I'll figure out the tuition. I'm proud of you."​Eliott smiled, stepping back to let them have a minute. Jake nudged him, grinning. "My cousin's a badass. Told you."​Claire walked over to him a few minutes later, her mom waiting by the café door. "Thanks. For the push. I… I would've folded. Like I always do."​"Anytime," he said. "And hey—send me your paintings once you start school. I wanna see how good you get."​She grinned, pulling out her phone. "Give me your number. I will."​His phone buzzed as they exchanged numbers— a text from Hale: "Munich called. They want you to start a month early—July 1st. Said they've got a workbench prototype they want you to help refine. Congrats, kid. You earned this."​Eliott showed Jake. They yelled, loud enough that a nurse glanced over and shook her head (but she was smiling). Claire laughed, holding up her phone—"I just texted the art school. I'm in. They said I can start in August."​As they walked out of the hospital, the sun was bright, warm on their faces. Jake slung an arm around Eliott's shoulders. "You know what's crazy? You're not even trying to be the 'safe' guy anymore. You're just… you."​Eliott looked at his sketchbook, tucked under his arm, at the Munich text on his phone, at Claire walking ahead of them, laughing with her mom. He thought of his past life—empty, lonely, full of regret. Thought of this life—messy, scary, but his.​"Safe killed me once," he said, smiling. "Never again."​He didn't just get a second chance. He was gonna make sure no one he cared about wasted theirs, either.