Page 45 of Dropping the Ball

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he keeps making up reasons to see me.

I liked having lunch with him last week. A lot.

I liked sitting and hearing about his work as he pointed out the progress with low-key pride. I liked the way he listened when I told him about Marigold, leaning forward, his eyes focused on me, as if he was filing away every detail some place important in his brain.

It’s been over a week, and he invites me every day to come check on the progress. I want to see him. Badly. And that’s the problem. I need two extra hours a day right now to make my life work, but time disappears when I’m with Micah. Slips by and I don’t notice. Feelings are waiting to pounce.Bigones. Giving myself more time for that to happen would be totally irresponsible.

I’m going over today anyway, which has my common sense sounding the alarm. I don’t care. I’ve run out of excuses forwhy I can’t stop by. I want to see the progress in person. I like progress.

Progress in this case being Micah. But also the installation.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my walk-in closet, eyeing my outfit. It’s late October, and I can go Full Sweater now if I want to, regardless of what the thermometer says, which is seventy. Good enough reason for me to tuck a whisper-thin ivory cashmere V-neck sweater into wide-leg coral trousers and finish it off with a pair of nude pumps.

My gloss is perfect, the flick on my eyeliner is lethal, and my nerves are . . . electric.

When I park at the warehouse, only Micah’s truck is there. I frown as I climb out of my car. We’re two months out from the gala. Shouldn’t I see a hive of activity, all swarmy with construction workers while Micah supervises, wearing a tool belt low on his hips, worn jeans fitting exactly . . .

I sigh. I have not previously thought much about tool belts. I’ve never seen Micah in one. Why am I suddenly imagining it? The man is definitely not standing around guessing what I’ll be wearing when I walk in today. I stare down, frowning. I could have bought half a boob job for the price of these pants and paid for the other one with the rest of this outfit. But then I wouldn’t have this sweater to fill out with my new boobs.

It’s fine. Why am I obsessed with my boobs right now? I’melegant, as Mom likes to say. Designers create with my build in mind, she’ll assure me. “I am Charlize Theron,” I say as I reach for the warehouse door. “And she’s made it on talent.” And a similar haircut.

I walk in and stop short, my breath catching as I take in the work in front of me. I’ve been seeing the pictures, but it’s a totally different experience to stand here at the feet of this rebar skeleton andfeelit. It soars, the frame in place, the ugly rebar bending and twisting in a ballet up to the center point. I stepcloser, brushing my finger over the nearest strut, making sure it’s still the same rusted rebar that sat in a pile a few weeks ago. It is. My finger picks up iron dust as I run it down the ribbing.

“Hey,” Micah says. I spot him on the far side of the floor. He didn’t have to call loudly with only the two of us in here.

“Hey,” I answer. “Harper Mae is fat and sassy, and like you”—I pat the strut—“growing bones. This looks great.”

“Picturing it yet?” he asks.

I slide my hands into my pockets and skirt the perimeter to reach him, keeping my shoulders back.Charlize Theron, Charlize Theron, Charlize Theron. Small boobs, big sex appeal. “Charlize Theron.”

“What?”

What the crap? I clear my throat. “This reminds me of Charlize Theron because you know how it looks like she should be a dancer but then she does the hardcore action movies?” What am I even saying? If I had to defend this answer in an essay, I probably could, but it would take at least two pages to untangle my thinking. So I bite my tongue on the urge to babble anymore to Micah.

“Like tough but graceful?”

I’m close enough to see his forehead wrinkles as he tries to follow my logic. See, that wasn’t so hard. “Yes, like that.”

“Thank you,” he says.

I glance around the quiet warehouse. “Tell me the truth. Did you lose your crew? Was it mutiny? Plague? Blizzard?”

“Alien abduction,” he says.

I scoff. “I don’t believe in aliens.”

“But a blizzard in Austin has no internal logic flaws?”

“None.”

“The crew is on a supply run,” he says.

“Are we talking Slurpees? Or across the border to Mexico?”

His face grows serious. “Drug running jokes aren’t funny.”

My stomach tightens. “Sorry, that was insensi—”

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