Dropping the Ball

20. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Kaitlyn

I’m not sure I get Micah.

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. Big ones. 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 for why 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’m elegant , 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 and feel it. It soars, the frame in place, the ugly rebar bending and twisting in a ballet up to the center point. I step closer, 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—”

“Word gets out and my cover is blown, then the feds are here, and you’ve ruined the gala.”

I curl my lips in to deny him a smile. “So just construction stuff?”

He nods. “And Slurpees. That sounds good.” He pulls out his phone and speaks as he taps. “Get Slurpees on way back from shed. Get me red.” He glances up. “What flavor do you want?”

“Nothing for me, thanks.” I have major love for Slurpees, but mostly as a memory from Madison’s wedding, not for the brain freeze experience.

He slides his phone into his back pocket, and I notice that while he has no tool belt, he’s in jeans that give his thighs the love and respect quads like that deserve. They’re old Levis, I’m pretty sure, the only denim that looks better the older it gets, and his jeans look very touchable. I mean soft. They look soft.

“Any questions?” he asks. “I know it’s still pretty bare bones.”

I run my eyes over the expanse of the frame. “I’m getting the dimension. Is it my imagination that the warehouse feels bigger with something in it, not smaller?”

He shakes his head. “No. Most rooms are like that until you start adding things and seeing how much really fits inside. Makes you perceive the space differently.”

“A really smart guy told me that’s what an art installation does. Makes you notice your relationship with a space.”

He gives me a small smile. “He didn’t say it that way because he’s not that smart, but you said it perfectly because you are.”

“Thank you.” It’s a compliment I’ve heard a lot coming from him, but it almost makes me blush. I’m ridiculous.

“I had a backup plan if you weren’t catching the vision yet,” he says.

“Oh? Tell me.”

“Multisensory experience. Put on an evening gown, pass you a plate of crab puffs, talk about our golf handicaps and cattle futures.”

“That’s what you think happens at rich people parties?”

His eyes glint. “Tell me it isn’t.”

“Okay, it is. I didn’t bring an evening gown with me. Sorry.”

“I meant I would put it on. To sell the story.”

That does make me grin. “Please tell me you have a gown here ready to go.”

“Sadly, I lied about that. But I did set up the deejay booth.” He slides his phone out again. “Ready?”

I cock my head at him, curious about where this is going. “Ready.”

The chorus to “Can’t Feel My Face” by The Weeknd pours out, and Micah bites his lip dramatically like he’s doing telenovela sexy face and hits a middle school shuffle. His eyebrows go up, a challenge to dance. Madi would probably already be four steps into some choreography for it, but I only shake my head, smiling. I don’t do silly. I’m missing whatever gene lets you cut loose like that.

Micah presses another button on his phone. “Not going to lie, I had a feeling you wouldn’t go for that.”

“Not going to lie, I’m surprised you did. What happened to Mr. Too Cool for Everything from high school?”

“I left him in high school. That guy did his job until I could get out of there.”

“Did you really hate it?” I ask him.

“Not all of it.” His smile now is slight, but his eyes are steady on mine. “Let’s try this instead.”

The opening notes of “Thinking Out Loud” come out. A slow dance. He holds his hand out. “May I have this dance?”

This is still silly, but my stomach flips anyway, like he’s asking for real. I can’t say no after refusing the fast dance. I accept his hand. “For gala research.”

He pulls me into a classic close hold, the kind that would be appropriate for any two people dancing at a social event. “For gala research.”

We dance a few steps. I know how to dance. Madison loves to dance, as in she was on the Hillview dance team. I wasn’t into it that way, but I do have a sense of rhythm, and Mom made us both go to cotillion and learn how to partner dance. Micah’s firm hold and easy movement means he probably did too.

“It looks like your uncle’s money extended to cotillion,” I say.

He draws back enough to smile down at me. “No, but I’ll take the compliment. I’m a natural.”

Natural. A good way to describe how this feels. Dancing with Micah in the middle of an industrial warehouse beneath a rebar skeleton . . . This is exactly the kind of spontaneous thing that makes me self-conscious, worried about who might walk in to see this weirdness, or hoping I smell okay, or anxious that I’m being too stiff.

Each time one of those concerns tries to materialize, it dissolves instead, like it can’t penetrate the bubble Micah and I have slow-danced into. All that exists here is the multisensory experience he promised. The warmth of his hand against my waist through my thin sweater. The light rasp of the calluses in the hand holding mine. The scent of his cologne. It’s different from high school and so light I can only smell it because we’re this close. Grapefruit, maybe? But then it also reminds me of skiing in the Alps last Christmas.

The music fills the space around us. How did he get it to sound so full? It’s pressing in on us, and somehow, by the chorus, we’ve drifted closer, our thighs brushing against each other as he moves us through gentle quarter turns every few beats.

I want to lean into it, rest my head against his chest, let my eyes close and all my other senses open more. I catch myself swaying toward him, the tiniest movement, too small for him to have noticed, but it’s a warning to my system. Time to bring my brain back online.

“This song is a throwback,” I say. “Been a minute since I heard it.”

Micah meets my eyes. “You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

“This was the theme for the senior prom?”

“Oh, that’s right.” I remember now sitting with my friends at a table, goofing off while the people who came with dates danced to it. “I’m surprised you remember.” I don’t add anything about how he hadn’t gone.

“Here’s something else I remember.” He lets go of my waist to slide his phone out, and I miss the warmth as soon as he does. The hand resting on his shoulder tightens, a spasm registering a protest of him letting go. I tense, hoping he doesn’t notice, but he does, giving my other hand, the one still wrapped in his, a light press.

The song stops but he doesn’t, keeping the gentle rhythm of our steps through a few silent seconds until a new song starts.

I recognize it after a few measures. “‘All of Me’?”

He only nods and keeps us dancing, and I listen to the lyrics. Why did he choose this one?

“Maybe don’t overthink it,” he says as it plays through the first chorus. “It’s a good song.”

I am overthinking. What does he mean, it’s something else he remembers? I force a slow breath in through my nose and loosen my shoulders. Let it go. Enjoy this .

I should be telling myself to step away, make a small joke, and move us onto business. But no. Enjoy this. That’s what my brain and about ninety-seven percent of all my other atoms say, so I obey.

Somewhere around the third verse, Micah’s hand on my waist moves, sliding toward my lower back, drawing me closer. I should overthink this too, but I can’t. My thoughts are a quiet hum, and if I had to give them words, all I could offer would be a soft sigh and yes . Just that. Yes .

“I couldn’t afford prom,” Micah says, “but if I’d been able to, I would have asked you.”

I take that in, not saying anything for a moment before I confess, “I would have said yes.”

He draws me even closer, and his breath stirs my hair, sending a shiver down my spine when he says, “This is the song I would have wanted to dance to with you.”

Unhnhnhn . . .

My brain makes that and several more wordless noises. Then I lean my head against his chest like I’ve been wanting to, and we dance through the final verse and chorus.

What are we doing? What am I doing? Why am I doing this?

Scratch that. I know the answer to that one. I’m doing this for seventeen-year-old Kaitlyn, who wanted this so badly.

Why does current me feel the same way? This makes no sense. I should step away, laugh it off, ask a question about the sculpture. Instead, I stay where I am, head resting against Micah, noticing every minute change of pressure in his fingertips against my back, tracking the rhythm of his heart, which I feel more than hear.

When the song ends, we both step back, my hand slowly trailing out of his. Our eyes catch, and neither of us says anything. I don’t know what he can read in my face, but in his, I see a smile in the crinkle at the corner of his eyes that doesn’t reach his lips, an ease in his body as he taps his phone to turn off the music before he puts it in his pocket, a watchfulness in his eyes as he tries to read me.

I’m not one to rush into silences and fill them with chatter. If anything, I double down on the quiet. But this silence doesn’t feel awkward; it feels fraught, like it’s already full, but I’m not sure with what. It makes me uncomfortable, so I pivot to what I know.

“I see the vision,” I say, successfully suppressing a wince when the words are more meaningful than I mean them to be. “Probably the crab puffs would have helped, but I get it enough.”

“Thanks for dancing with me,” Micah says. He’s not going to let me laugh this off.

I need to change the subject though. The mood of those few minutes still clings to me like the finest spun silk, and I want to gather it around me and revel in it. I can’t do that right now. Everything coming at me is feelings, and I need time to sift through them. Instead, I pluck the mood Micah spun around us away from me like it’s a spider web, brushing it off as fast as I can.

“You’re welcome. Good moves. You putting them to use at any Halloween parties this weekend?” I keep my tone light, an interested boss making polite conversation with her contractor.

“No, I’m low-key on Halloween. Saturday, right?”

I count in my head. “Yes, Saturday.”

“I’ll hang out with my buddies, have some beers, and watch a horror movie after they’re done trick-or-treating.”

“Your friends go trick-or-treating? As what? Overgrown frat boys?”

He smiles. “As dads with toddlers. We hang out when the toddlers are done. What about you? Do your people observe Halloween?”

I laugh at him phrasing it like it’s a religious holiday. “No plans.” I’d gotten some invitations, but I’ll either be studying or exhausted from working and studying all week.

“Not even a beer and a scary movie?”

“I’d have to remember to stop and get beer to stock it in my fridge. Chances are that I’ll spend Halloween night studying for the bar until I fall asleep at nine.” I don’t care if it verges on pitiful. I’m not playing a game where I try to make Micah think I’m a hot social commodity. I want him to understand exactly how packed but boring my life is, in case he wants to . . . I don’t complete the thought. Just in case.

“At home? What about all the trick-or-treaters? You know your neighborhood is one of the top five trick-or-treating destinations in Austin, right?”

I did not know that. “Some things are making sense now. I wondered why my street looked like a Hollywood horror set vomited on it.”

“It’s all decked out, isn’t it?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Yeah . . .”

“I only know that from driving past your house late at night, every night.” He frowns. “Wait, are stalker jokes in bad taste?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then that was a teenage crush joke.”

“Not better.”

“Then I know because it’s been like that for years, and I used to trick-or-treat over there as a kid. The street two blocks over from you is legendary. Every house gives out full-size candy.”

“My real estate agent mentioned that the neighborhood does a lot of community spirit stuff, but I wasn’t paying that much attention. I just wanted a place close to my sister’s house, and I didn’t want any neighbors close enough for me to hear all their noise.” When Madi had lived with Sami and her other roommates at the Grove, I’d had fun going over to visit, but I prefer having space and quiet.

“You’re going to get spillover trick-or-treaters from full-size-candy-bar street,” he says.

“I’ll keep my porch light off.”

“And risk tricks when you don’t give out treats?” He crosses his arms and shakes his head at me. “Looks like I’m going to have to save you from yourself. I will be at your house Saturday at dusk with candy.”

I should protest. He is inviting himself into my space, both literally and figuratively, as he makes a claim on my time. But I don’t want to. “Fine. I like candy.”

He gives me a stern look. “The candy is not for you. The candy is for the children, Kaitlyn. You must give it to the kids.”

“Ugh. If I have to.”

“You do have to. This is your first Halloween on this street, right?”

I nod.

“Then definitely,” he continues. “You have to set the tone correctly the first year.”

I must still look grumpy about it because he adds, “Be the auntie Harper Ivy Mae needs you to be.”

“Harper needs me to be a full-size-candy-bar auntie?”

He nods, his face solemn.

“Then I’ll be a full-size-candy-bar auntie.” Another thought occurs to me, and I don’t want to bring it up, but I need to be the good boss Madison expects me to be. I swallow a nervous tickle in my throat and say, “So we’re clear, this is a hangout, right? Not a date?”

Micah . . . smirks? Is that a smirk ? I want to snatch back the question, or reword it, but it’s too late.

“I’m shocked you would even ask, Katie,” he says. “Are you saying you want it to be a date?”

“No! I’m just—need it to—boundaries and . . .” I trail off when Micah’s smirk doesn’t budge. I take a steadying breath. “Never mind. It’s not a date. See you on Saturday.”

“It’s a date,” he says. I glare at him, and he adds, “Meaning like you would say to anyone about a firm plan that is not a date. That kind of a date.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I settle on a brisk nod and a “See you then” as I turn to leave. It’s only as the warehouse door closes behind me that I remember I didn’t ask Micah any of the questions I’d meant to about his progress, questions to show I’m monitoring the project closely.

Dang. There is no way I’m going back in to ask him now. I saw most of what I needed to with my own eyes, and I can email him any other questions I have later. There. Solved it.

When I realize I’m humming “All of Me” as I start my car—and probably will for the rest of the day—I don’t know how to solve that. But I tune the radio to an oldies station and let it try.

Send help.