Page 69 of Dropping the Ball

“You’re the client.” There’s a hint of dryness. I welcome it, relieved to get a flash of the real Micah. “I’ll be at the site tomorrow after lunch.”

“Great, I’ll text before I swing by.”

We hang up, and watching his name wink out on my dash display when the call ends gives me a melancholy pang. It’s probably due to the weather. It’s been in the sixties for a week, the surest sign that Austin is finally entering fall, weeks after the calendar did.

I’m going to see Micah tomorrow.

I sit with that for a minute or two while I drive. That’s fine. Good, even. Best-case scenario, seeing him after almost two weeks could show me that I’ve been exaggerating that Halloween make out, making it a bigger deal than it was because my brain plays it on a loop like it’s the script of a Disneyland ride running every minute the park is open. Worst-case scenario, I realize I’m not exaggerating at all.

At least it will be a good reminder to keep on keeping on with this boundary.

It’s a worst-case scenario.

I know as soon as I spot Micah’s truck in the parking lot and my stomach flutters.

“You have got to be kidding me.” I park and cut my engine. Butterflies over his truck. But I’m not surprised. Not after I spent an hour last night choosing a “drop by the jobsite to see the architect” outfit. I’m letting this matter more than it should. “Compose yourself, Kaitlyn. You will focus, lead, and delegate.”

I repeat that a few times before I decide I’m grounded enough to get out of the car and go in.

As soon as I do, I pause, taking in the changes. Despite watching this develop through email updates, it’s something else entirely to experience it in person. The knot of worry that has grown tighter inside my chest as we hurtle toward New Year’s loosens for the first time. It’s slight but distinct as it comes out as a faint gasp of awe.

There are no more orange poles. They’re either black or encircled in a column or “stalk” of vertical rebar, round as the trunk of an oak, rising to curve outward at its top. The interior stalks are connected at their tops by iron marigolds four feet in diameter, touching edges welded to each other, several marigolds extending from each stalk to the next stalk in every direction, not linearly but like a honeycomb, almost. Even though Micah and Eva have only covered a fraction of the total venue area so far, the effect is alien and beautiful. It doesn’t seem possible for this to exist inside a commercial warehouse, a space so functional it’s the antithesis of creativity.

Whatever else may happen at this gala, no one will question the venue now. It will be the talk of the town and all over social media.

I don’t even notice the high mechanical whine filling the warehouse until it stops. I glance over to see Micah across the floor, hard hat and safety goggles on, holding a power tool the size of . . . I don’t know anything about power tools. I can’t draw a helpful comparison.

He’s the most dressed down I’ve ever seen him in black joggers and a sage green T-shirt. He lifts a hand in greeting, then rubs his face against his sleeve, like he’s sweating. But the temperature is perfect thanks to the cool weather.

There are two other workers as well, guys around my age, who each give me a nod. Micah pulls the goggles down around his neck but leaves on the hard hat as he hands his tool to the other guy and walks over to meet me.

The guy calls, “Micah?”

“Gimme a second, Ty,” Micah calls back.

It’s so strange to have other workers in here. I haven’t seen anyone on-site besides Micah since the day I met Eva. It feels like having buyers coming through your house while you’re home. Like, sure, they’re allowed to be here, even supposed to be here, but it still feels off.

“Hey,” Micah says, stopping a few feet away so we can speak at a normal volume.

“It’s good to see you.” It’s not what I mean to say, but it is what I mean. Maybe he’ll take it as one of those things people say out of habit and not a confession.

He doesn’t return the sentiment. Instead, he runs a glance over me, but I don’t know how to take it. It’s not a leer. I’m not sure Micah would even know how to leer. It’s not cold or warm, dismissive or . . . anything. It’s like he’s taking inventory.Yes, this is still Kaitlyn.

“Welcome back to the hive,” he says.

“I’m blown away.”

“Thanks.”

That neutrality again. I can’t read his tone. “So the reason I wanted to talk to you—”

He holds up a finger. “Hold on, let me put Ty back to work. It’ll be loud, but we can go up to the booth if that’s okay?” I nod, and he hollers for Ty and gives him a thumbs up.

The loud whine is back. Micah hands me a hard hat from the table beside the door and leads me on the shortest route to the stairs, a diagonal path through the world he’s created. I don’t understand it. He’s only reframed an empty space, but crossing this section of the warehouse floor beneath it feels like a different lifetime from standing on the bare slab it was in September.

We climb up to the supervisor loft, and he shuts the door, muffling the screech of the work below us. “Hit me with it,” he says. “Band-Aid treatment. Tell me how much you’re about to complicate this job.”

“Do you know who Gabriela Juarez is?”

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