Page 71 of Dropping the Ball

“It’s not that. It’s . . .” A head shake. “Never mind.”

A few seconds later, we’re on Highway 183, and I wonder how long of a drive we’re in for. Or really, how long this awkward silence is going to be. But barely a minute later, we’re turning into a neighborhood right across from a self-storage facility.

“Welcome to Montopolis,” Micah says, his voice dry. Dry like it gets when he’s pretending something doesn’t matter, like he’s flipping the joke on someone.You think I care that I live in Montopolis? It’s funny that you think I would.

Montopolis is what polite people call “a working-class neighborhood” and most people call “poor.” Probably the poorest in Austin.

We drive down a street with a used tire store and Dollar General on one side, houses surrounded by chain-link fences on the other. The homes are small, smaller than my parents’ pool house, but with generous yards. That would give away their age even if the rundown exteriors of some of the houses didn’t. These were built fifty years ago or more, I would bet.

We turn another corner, and it’s more of the same. Chain-link fences around cottage-sized houses. Some look as if they’ve never been repainted. Most are tidy if plain. A couple have been modernized with trendy dark paint and white trim. After two more blocks, brand new duplexes pop up, tall with angular roof lines. They’re sprinkled among the original homes, a dissonant contrast to the single-level bungalows.

“That’s . . . a choice,” I say, eyeing a duplex that couldn’t look more out of place between the older homes flanking it than if someone plopped a spaceship down in a used parking lot.

“Gentrification,” he mumbles. He leaves it at that.

We turn down one more street, and he slows the truck. This one doesn’t have chain-link fences. Most of the yards aren’tfenced at all, but the two I see are decorative iron and a wood fence laid horizontally. He pulls into a driveway and parks.

The house is gray-green with a black vinyl roof, black shutters and door, and white trim. Everything looks new and fresh. There’s no fence, and the front yard is short grass with some low-maintenance shrubs along the house. Unless there’s a heck of a lot of house hiding behind it, I’d say it’s about the size of our Threadwork suite, maybe a thousand square feet?

“This is my house.” He looks less than thrilled.

It’s a fact of life that my friends who don’t come from money often feel like they have to apologize when they invite me to their apartments or homes. I understand, I think, but I wish they didn’t feel like they needed to. It’s not exactly normal for someone my age to own a home like mine at all, much less buy it outright. I get that.

I give Micah the same nonjudgmental smile I give them. “Did you renovate it? It looks great. I love the color, and the way you made it feel current—”

He winces. “Don’t. This level of cheerfulness from you is spooky.”

I press my lips together and swallow. “Right. Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound . . .” Condescending? Fake?

He shakes his head. “It’s not that. I did exactly what I wanted to do with this place, and I like it.” He glances toward the front door, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “My mom is home. She can be a lot.”

He lives with his mom? I didn’t expect that, and I’m not sure what to think about it. Most of the time, it’s a red flag. But red flags shouldn’t matter when it’s someone I’m not dating. “That makes sense. Austin rents are expensive, so saving money is good.”

“Don’t try to relate to the poor people, Kaitlyn.” A smile tugs up one corner of his mouth. “I own this place. I did grow up here, but I bought it three years ago from my uncle.”

“Oh. Sorry for assuming.” I had definitely sounded condescending.Saving money is good. That’s what everyone wants to hear a filthy rich trust fund baby say.

“Only my boys come over.” He drums his fingers a couple more times and looks at me. “They all know about my mom.”

“She can be a lot,” I repeat, realizing he means more than a big personality.

“She has bipolar. She doesn’t manage it well. If she comes out to the garage, let me handle it.”

“Is she having an episode?”

“Do you know much about bipolar?”

“One of my roommates had it. It never caused us any problems, but she had a couple of rough patches.”

He nods. “My mom’s can get extreme. She’s been erratic the last couple of months, but she won’t go see her doctor. When I went for a run this morning, she was already awake. That can be a sign she was up all night. One of her triggers for a manic episode is lack of sleep. Or sometimes it’s a symptom that she’s already in one.”

He scrubs his hand over his face, as if he’s the one who needs sleep. “She won’t do anything to you. But sometimes she gets upset with me. Don’t . . .” Head shake, like he’s not sure what he wants to say. “Let’s see if we can get in and out fairly quickly, and maybe it won’t be an issue.”

He hits the garage opener and we climb out. I follow him inside, down an aisle between two workbenches with pegboard backs. Tools hang from hooks over one bench. Small bins full of everything from screws to drawer handles line the other.

“Sorry it’s crowded,” Micah says. “There used to be plenty of room when I started upcycling furniture during college. I get somany commissions now I had to put in more workbenches plus sheds in the back to handle all the salvage my boys bring me.”

The garage smells like chemicals and sawdust, but I like it. It deepens the sense that this is Micah’s space. “I don’t know anything about woodworking, but I have a feeling that for someone who does, walking in here would feel like a kid going to a toy store.”

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