Page 9 of Dropping the Ball

My hair is the color of . . . nothing. Of dust. Of the grit that blows across West Texas during the winter. Of oatmeal and burlap and old stucco. I don’t do anything with my nothing-colored hair except wear it in a ponytail to keep it neat.

The new guy saying I have good hair is like telling a Kardashian that no one notices the Botox.

So he’s one of them.

Great. Got it.

Chapter Five

Micah

Kaitlyn Freaking Armstrong.

It finally happened.

I’d realized about a month after she hired me that Madison Locke was Madison Armstrong Locke, and I’d probably cross paths with Kaitlyn again. I’ve known since late spring when Madison announced her pregnancy that I would finish this project with Kaitlyn.

I’ve known for two weeks that I had a meeting coming up with her. I’ve looked forward to it, even.

But that did not prepare me to see her standing in my showroom today, her eyes running over my furniture, assessing it, no hints of her opinion on her face.

I open the door to my truck and toss a folder on the passenger seat, buckling up. It had been exactly like high school in the worst ways. But also in the best one.

Crack a joke that makes her mad? Check.

Play it cool while I get a read on her? Check.

Wish I could sketch her, even as she frowns at me? Check.

But also . . .

Want her to respect my work? Check. And then she does? Check.

She bought Starling.

I’ve debated pulling that table from the showroom to save for my own home, but although I live comfortably, I’m not comfortable enough to walk away from a twelve-thousand-dollar sale. I’d half banked on it being too unconventional for anyone to want it.

Kaitlyn Armstrong wants it. She tried to play it off like she was picking up a card table from Target, but I’d become an expert in reading Kaitlyn during our four years at Hillview, and I’m still fluent. Wonder had flickered across her expression when I’d mentioned starlings.

That’s how well I know her face. Not sure how I feel about being able to read it like no time has passed.

I pull out of the parking lot and head toward home, replaying our showroom interaction in my mind. She still has a classic vibe, but with new details.

Kaitlyn hadn’t been the kind of girl a guy would catcall. She was buttoned-up and serious. Even though Hillview is the most elite private school in Austin, they don’t require uniforms, but that had almost been Kaitlyn’s aesthetic. She’d been a jeans-and-Oxford-shirt kind of girl.

She’s still slender, but with subtle curves. Her hair is shorter, falling to her chin in a sleek, shiny curtain, like varnished beech.

She’d been wearing a thin black turtleneck and slacks. And yet . . . I’ve seen women in little black dresses—very little black dresses—that weren’t as sexy as Kaitlyn had just been, covered almost head to toe.

Her posture is different too, poised but not at all tense. I might not have recognized her if it weren’t for one big tell: the familiar disdain in her eyes.

Pure Kaitlyn, vintage grades nine through twelve. Also vintage: the strong suspicion she tried to make leaving the store into a race.

I’m sorry she feels like I ruined her chance at valedictorian, but the incident she blames me for? I didn’t cause it. In fact, I was the first one to her side to make sure she got help. And as for beating her GPA, it was a fair fight all the way down the line.

Which means even with the disdain, our run-in is a good thing. It’s given me a chance to see for myself that she’s doing well, and maybe I’ll be able to set the record straight as we keep meeting. Maybe I’ll even be able to get us on a different footing. Wish my footing today wasn’t my beat-up Vans and woodshop clothes, but I can’t sweat that now.

I pull into my driveway and park. The garage could hold two cars—if it weren’t my main workspace. I hit the opener and climb out, grabbing the folder I needed and head inside the garage. It’s full but organized, walkable aisles between my workbenches, tools lined up against one wall, odds and ends sorted against the other.

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