Page 11 of Dropping the Ball

Between the fights at home and the definite side-eye from people in the hall between classes, this library goes from retreat to fortress.

A fortress that Micah Croft breaches, ambling in like the twenty square feet of empty tables and carpet around me aren’t a moat of metaphorical lava meant to discourage random ambling.

No, he ambles up in his Vans, the right toe starting to fray now.

He stops at the other side of the table. “Kaitlyn?”

I glance around like I’m checking for other people before meeting his eyes. “I guess so.”

“Right. I mean, I know you’re Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn Armstrong, right?”

I raise my eyebrows and wait. So help me, if he tells me to smile, I’m shoving this table into his scrawny chicken thighs.

“I’m Micah.”

“I know.”

“That day, um.” He taps the table with his knuckle a few times. “I meant it when I said I like your hair. In Chinese class.”

Like I’m not going to remember. Does he really think I’m going to trust that this isn’t another trick? He was volunteering at the table for the World Without Exploitation Youth Coalitionearlier this week during campus club rush. What are the chances he’s suddenly bringing up the hair comment two weeks later, exactly when our company is once again being falsely accused of exploitation?

None. The chances are none.

I roll my eyes and push back my chair.

“Wait, I mean it,” he says.

I stand and hitch my backpack over my shoulder. “You said that. I believe you.”

He pauses. “You don’t.”

“I don’t.” I push in my chair hard enough for it to make a soft clatter when it hits the table. I wish I had something besides sarcasm to rely on. A snappy insult. A way to make him the butt of a joke like Drake made me. But all I’ve got is silence and retreat, so I use them both.

He calls, “Bye?” as I walk out.

I don’t look back.

Chapter Six

Kaitlyn

I’ve learned not todoubt my sister. Her first wedding is urban lore in Austin, and her second wedding—to the same guy—is still spoken of reverently by the good people of Cleveland County, Oklahoma, where they held it at her in-laws’ horse ranch.

But my faith in her stretches to the breaking point as she pulls into the nondescript parking lot of a commercial warehouse off Highway 183 where she plans to stage the gala. Besides a Tacoma pickup with a matte blue-gray finish, there’s no other sign of life. No trucks waiting to be loaded with freight. No vehicles of other workers.

“Scared yet?” Madison asks, grinning.

“Of what? Mafia guys waiting to kidnap me for ransom? No. Pulling off an event to raise a million dollars? Yes.” It is blander than I could have imagined. This place doesn’t have spooky vibes, which is almost a shame, because at least that would beatmosphere. It’s just an empty warehouse with a boring off-white stucco exterior, no romance to it. Not even graffiti to keep it interesting. It is the instant rice of buildings.

“Micah is here,” she says, cutting the engine. “You’ll see.”

“This is not the type of building I’d expect an architect to be into.”

She climbs out of the car, and I follow suit. Micah gets out of his truck at the same time.

It’s a much different Micah today than jeans-and-ratty T-shirt Micah from Saturday. Madison warned me that the A/C wouldn’t be on in the warehouse, so to dress comfortably. Early September temperatures in Austin are approximately the same as my gym’s sauna, so I chose a tailored sleeveless sheath. Micah is in black pants and a short-sleeved buttoned shirt with a black vintage map print on it. They’re not tailored, but he’s chosen the right size and cut for his athletic build. He’s on the lean side but well muscled.

Pecs, remember?

---