Page 67 of Dropping the Ball

“Okay. Strong argument. You want to say they weren’t dates, they weren’t dates.”

“They weren’t dates!”

“Okay.” I’m unbothered since I expected this reaction.

“The whole point of a date is to get to know someone and see if you’re the right fit. We haven’t done that. Like, we haven’t specifically decided that’s what we’re both trying to figure out. When I think about you—” She breaks off, and I sense a confession in the unfinished sentence.

I lean forward. “When you think about me, you . . . what?”

“I think ‘interesting’ and then ‘wish I had time.’ If this was meant to be, neither of us would have to work so hard to talk me into it. If you’d asked me out for real, you’d know I can’t say yes.” She crosses her arms over her chest, daring me to contradict her.

“Because you’re busy? Busy isn’t forever.”

“Busy is for the next year, minimum.” She gets up and wanders toward the windows, not that there’s anything to see but our reflections. “Everything I do costs me something else. Something important. I barely make my life work as it is. I should have been studying tonight, Micah. And I didn’t, and that is the problem.”

“Are you sorry I came over?”

“No.” She turns to me again. “But what happens when I take the bar in February, and I screw up something and then I realize the four hours I lost tonight are the four hours I needed to study?”

“Lost.” My voice is flat. I can’t help it. That’s a hell of a way to describe spending time together.

“And it’s not just that. With our family name on the gala, Ihaveto make sure it comes off without a hitch. When those donations are totaled at the end of the night, if it’s anything less than two million dollars, it will be a failure. Failing means screwing up Madison’s goals. Failing all the people in Dhaka I met this summer who are waiting for a chance they need because Armstrong Industries ruined everything ten years ago.”

I turn toward her, both feet on the ground, and rest my arms on my knees as I study the floor. “It’s been okay. The last couple of months. How often we’ve been able to see each other. It doesn’t have to be more than that until things calm down.” I look up to meet her eyes. Hers are guarded again.

“That’s not how I work. I’m all in or all out.”

“You had a whole two-year relationship with someone because it was convenient. That doesn’t sound all in.” Frustration clips my words.

“I was second to school for him. He was third to school and Threadwork for me.” She copies my gesture, pointing between the two of us. “Is that what this is? You want to play a distant third?”

I rub my forehead. “No.”

“For what it’s worth, you wouldn’t be a distant third.” Her voice is tired. Regretful. “You would become the main thing, which means I would ultimately fail at whatshouldbe the main things, and that will inevitably make me blame getting caught up in you, and then . . . you. I would blame you.”

“You’re making some leaps there.”

A shrug. “Maybe before tonight I was. But after . . .” She waves at the sofa. “Now I’m sure. Can you honestly say that tonight won’t change the way we interact professionally?”

Instead of answering, I stand, gaze back on the floor, thinking, trying to decide if I should argue her out of this. But I don’t want to. She’s right. Anything that went wrong, she’d blame me. I dig my keys from my pocket and meet her eyes.

“That’s the one thing Icanpromise you. Because you’re right, you shouldn’t have to be talked into this. And that’s not even about pride. I don’t want to wonder when I’ll have to do it again.” I flick a glance at the door. “Look, I should go. But don’t worry about the installation. I don’t want to let down Madison either.”

Her lips part like she’s about to say something else. But she doesn’t. She turns toward the door too. “I’ll walk you out.”

I feel her eyes on me as I head down the walkway outside and pause. “Seriously, don’t stress about the warehouse. You don’t understand how good I really am. Put your energy toward the rest of it. I got this.”

Then she disappears as I round the corner toward my truck.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kaitlyn

Micah may have “gotthis,” but I don’t.

He is on my mind the whole next week, but he’s as good as his word, sending me an email any time there’s progress to show in the warehouse. Beyond that, there’s nothing. No schemes to get me down to the warehouse. Every night I go home to study without a text convincing me I need to go “check” something is a disappointment and a relief.

I only have six weeks to find enough auction items for us to get them processed in time, properly displayed or packaged, and integrated into the flashy video presentation Madison hired a media company to produce. They keep asking me for more material, warning me they need time to film and edit and do whatever other technical wizardry has to happen so it looks as slick as a video package at the Oscars or something. They shouldn’t worry. I have exactly four items so far. They can probably pull it all together in an afternoon.

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