Page 14 of Dropping the Ball

“Think a canopy of marigolds, like you had a whole field of them but then lifted it to the ceiling.” He walks us to different areas of the cavernous warehouse, showing us the illustrations for what he has in mind in each section.

Every few minutes, he stops to check with Madison, asking her the first time if she’s good in the hot warehouse, checking in on her with a glance after that.

She insists she’s fine, and after twenty minutes, we’ve covered every section of the open space, Micah explaining which materials he already has, which ones he’s still sourcing, and when the installation itself will begin.

“First of October,” he says.

I give him a knowing look. “Is that so Madison can’t come bother you because she’ll have her baby?”

“Hey,” Madison protests, but Micah’s eyebrows go up.

“Wait,” he says, staring at her form-fitting cream knit dress. It looks like it’s going to split and eject a pumpkin any second. “You’repregnant?”

His delivery is so deadpan that it takes Madi and me a beat to realize he’s joking, and then her laugh echoes through the empty warehouse. I couldn’t keep a straight face if I wanted to, but I try, giving him back his “cool guy” nod. That’s what makes him break, a laugh rumbling out. It’s almost more of a feeling than a sound.

“I better not still be pregnant by October first,” Madison says. She looks at me. “You got this gala, right? Because I don’t want to come back until this thing is a freaking Met-level wonder ready to make us a couple million dollars.”

She’s not really asking. Her faith in me is as complete as mine is in her, but I tell her anyway. “I got this.”

“Good, because I’ve had to spend so much time with Micah lately that we almost put his name into the baby name rotation.”

“Itisunisex,” he says.

“So is Merle,” I tell him. “Doesn’t make it a great choice. Kaitlyn, on the other hand . . .”

Micah frowns. “You have an unfair advantage if we’re competing for who your sister should name her baby after.”

The word “competing” reminds me who I’m dealing with, and my humor fades. I wouldn’t have put it past old Micah to try to win that competition for real. I know he’s joking now, but I’d be an idiot not to watch for the ways in which he will try to one-up me.

I’m the boss, I remind myself. I make my tone brisk and professional. “Will we need to meet again this month?”

“Depends on how hands-on you want to be,” he says.

Evil glints in Madison’s eyes, and I cut her off before she can make a “hands-on” joke. I say, “I manage people only as much as they need to be managed. How often have you and Madison been meeting?”

“As needed,” she says. “Depends on which phase of the project we’re in.”

“I’ll supervise as much as I need to.” I choose the wordsuperviseto remind him of our roles here. I expect him to bristle and tell me he doesn’t require supervision like he’s a kid on a playground, but he doesn’t say anything. “If it looks like you have everything running smoothly, I’ll leave you to it so I can focus on the fundraising side.”

He nods. “I’ll be in touch.”

Does he have to keep using words like hands and touch? Is he doing it on purpose? Keeping me off-balance was the only hobby he’d seemed to have in school.

“You can let me know if we need to adjust the communication,” he continues. “I’m sure we will.”

My gaze sharpens at the last words. Something in his tone I can’t quite name tells me this is a subtle dig. It’s polite but also . . . not? I’m used to him laughing at me. This is not that. There’s almost a weariness? boredom? irritation? in his tone. It’s like the way less-seasoned sales associates in department stores sometimes handle my demanding mother. They think she won’t notice their disdain—until she demands a different salesperson who will suck up to her, and they lose a massive commission. But whatever the undercurrent in his tone is, it’s subtle enough that I can’t call him on it either.

“Great,” I say, already turning toward the exit. “I’ll look forward to your updates.” See? It’s not that hard to avoid words about hands or touching.

“You’re a genius, Micah,” Madison calls behind her as she follows me to the exit.

I don’t look back, walking out of the warehouse and over to the passenger side of her car, a Porsche Cayenne she upgraded to from her smaller Mercedes because she needs a “mom car” now.

The heavy steel door clangs shut on the warehouse, but she doesn’t disarm the car. I glance over at her and sigh. She’s standing with her arms crossed, her eyebrow raised.

“It’s hot. Open the car,” I say. Austin women might break out our sweaters and boots when August ends, but only because we’d have to wait until November to dress seasonally if we went by the temperature. It’s almost ninety degrees right now. Rude.

“You aren’t getting in this car unless you promise to tell me exactly what your problem with Micah is.”

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