Dropping the Ball: a Holiday Rom-Com
Dropping the Ball: Chapter 15

I’m not sure I get Kaitlyn.

Maybe I get her as much as anyone ever does. Like in high school, when seeing her instead of looking past her like so many people did made me feel like I knew a secret: She was an undercover stunner, and the otherwise-smart boys at our school were big-time blind.

It’s no secret now. She’s polished to a shine, and the way she carries herself draws the attention of everyone in a room before she even says a word.

It could just be me. I don’t think so.

I lean against the door of the warehouse, the last one to leave. It’s been over a week since we started construction, and it’s been that long since Kaitlyn has stopped in. She texted to thank me for sprucing up her office, and I’ve sent her two progress updates so far, photos of the work, hoping it would prompt her to say she was coming for a site visit.

She hasn’t.

She hasn’t, and this is definitely the first time I’ve ever wished that a client had a habit of popping in.

I turn off the overhead lights and set the lock, wondering what I should do about Kaitlyn.

I’m into her. Again. I’ve got better dating skills than I did in high school. We’re already on better footing than we were then with our friendship truce.

Option: Do nothing and take my lead from Kaitlyn.

No. I’m not a passive guy.

Option: Wait until this project is done, then ask her out.

Possibly. I’m a patient guy.

Option: Ask her out now.

Yes. This is what I want.

Risks don’t scare me, and this isn’t a big one. Either she says yes or she says no. But never asking her versus getting rejected have the same outcome: no Kaitlyn. Never asking? That only leaves regrets. What ifs? Nah. Not my thing.

Now I need to figure out when and how to ask her in a way that makes her want to say yes.

I put my plan in place the following Monday: Give her great reasons to come to the warehouse.

Trust me, I can’t believe what a genius I am either.

Normally, Austin is still hot in October. Low-eighties temperatures are normal, but the weather gods smile down in this, the second week of October, and we get some rain, which cools things down, and we’re in the high sixties two weeks earlier than usual.

I try a variation of this every day until Thursday, when I get much more pointed.

I put my phone away, smiling. I know that’s not what she meant, but I’ll make sure it’s worth her time. Today will be about reading her. I’m certain she isn’t annoyed by me anymore, but I want to see if I’m imagining that she feels a pull toward me.

Could I take her avoidance of the warehouse as a neon sign blinking NO? Yes. But there’s more to it. I’m sure of it. I don’t know if Kaitlyn keeping her distance is a her thing or a me thing, but that’s today’s mission: figuring it out.

That and getting her stoked about how this installation is coming together.

But mostly getting a read on her.

When she walks in at 12:30, Eva is on break in her truck, having cleared out when she saw me setting up for Kaitlyn. Specifically, after she saw me create a makeshift table with stacked paint buckets and plywood, covered with an unused paint tarp, and set with Styrofoam takeout containers from a food truck that comes through every day. The clincher was when I said, “Go eat in your truck so I can see if my client is into me,” and she’d walked out laughing ten minutes ago.

“Hey,” I say, as Kaitlyn walks over to meet me. She’s in a suit the color of pink lemonade, a fitted white top beneath, and pointy black shoes. “Wasn’t sure if stopping by meant you’d have to skip lunch, so I thought I’d better have some for you in case.”

Her smile is warm, like she’s never dreamed of dodging me. Maybe I misread the situation?

“That’s thoughtful of you. I wouldn’t mind a bite to eat, but why don’t you show me around first?”

“Or,” I say, sliding out one of the few folding chairs we keep onsite, “I can point it out to you as we eat because that’s the beauty of this open floor plan.”

Her smile widens, and she takes the seat. “What’s on the menu today?”

“Pork adobo nachos or chicken enchiladas in green sauce,” I offer, pointing to each container. “I bought it from a truck, so you can’t go wrong.”

“Is that the rule?” she asks, reaching for the nachos.

“Sure. You don’t eat from food trucks much?”

“I haven’t, no. What?” she demands when she catches me trying to hide a smile.

“That’s very Hillview of you, that’s all.”

“What does that mean? You’re as Hillview as I am.”

I shake my head. “I’m definitely not.”

“Okay, Micah Croft. I knew at least two of your cousins. Smells like family tradition to me.”

There’s no bite to her tone, and I’m glad for multiple reasons that I convinced her to come today. One is that I can see we’ve definitely left behind our antagonistic dynamic. But the second is that I can show her things about me that she doesn’t know.

“Not the way you think. You were honest about how hard high school was because of nonschool things, so I’m going to tell you some stuff you don’t know about me. Couldn’t know, because I made a point of not telling anyone my business at Hillview.” I shake my head, remembering how much I cared about this back then when I don’t care at all now. “I did go there on family money, but I was a charity case.”

Her forehead wrinkles, and she pauses in the act of lifting her fork. “Don’t those two things cancel each other out?”

I reach over and pluck a loaded nacho. “It’s like this nacho. I eat it like normal-to-poor people do: with my fingers. You eat it with a fork.”

She glances from my nacho to her fork and takes the bite from her fork anyway, eyeing me like she’s waiting for me to continue.

“My mom is a Croft, so she grew up with lots of money. But for a lot of reasons, she was a hard person. She made choices that made her life harder. Got disinherited, but didn’t want much to do with her family anyway. Not until I was getting close to high school age. My grandparents had passed by then, so she went to my uncle and made a deal with him that meant he would pay for me to go to Hillview.” I take a bite of my enchilada, thinking about how hard that must have been for her given how much she hates accepting help. “She was fine never seeing a dime of her parents’ money, but she didn’t want me to have less advantages than she did. So I went to Hillview.”

Kaitlyn hasn’t taken another bite through this. “Wow. I had no idea. So you were a loser poor kid?”

She says it with such a straight face that I laugh and choke slightly on a piece of shredded chicken. When I wash it down with a gulp of water, I grin. “Yes. The trashiest of trash.”

A small smile peeks out at me. “There’s a lot of gaps in that story. I have a feeling that’s where some of the hardest stuff is?”

I nod. “Perceptive.”

“I’ve been getting a lot of unlicensed therapy,” she says.

“You—what?”

“Madison. She’s been working off and on with a therapist for the last two years, and she likes to try it out on me. Maybe I’m getting infected.”

I tilt my head to study her. “Nah. You’ve always been perceptive, seeing things other people don’t.” I wonder if she’ll ask how I know this, but the tops of her cheeks flush pink, and she lets it pass.

“I didn’t see that you weren’t a regular Hillview student.” She shakes her head. “No, that’s not right. You went out of your way to be different than the other students. I didn’t realize you weren’t one of us trust fund kids.”

“I went out of my way to fly under the radar, that’s all. I only cared about getting the grades that would get me a full ride to college.”

She starts to take another bite—with her fork—then pauses and sits back, stares at me, understanding dawning on her face only to be chased by a flicker of guilt. “And I was so mad at you for taking valedictorian.”

“Winning valedictorian,” I say. “It’s not my fault you bombed that calculus test like a dummy rich kid.”

“Isn’t it though? How do I know you didn’t go out to the field that day specifically to distract me when I was walking out of school?” she asks in a teasing cross-examination.

Interesting. She’s going to go there. “You mean when I was out there shirtless, showing off my sorry biceps?”

“The pecs were the problem.” Then her eyes widen slightly, like she hadn’t meant to make the joke aloud. “Anyway, I’m sorry I wasn’t gracious about it. I had no idea.”

“Sorry,” I say, rubbing my chest. “Did you say something? I got distracted by my problematic pecs.”

“You’ll be okay. You can’t break your nose on them.”

I switch to my most pedantic voice. “Well, actually, you didn’t break your nose on them. You broke it on a post.”

Kaitlyn blinks at me, then her mouth twitches. “Micah, did you just ‘well, actually’ my post?”

That makes us both laugh, and I want to high-five or fist-bump her in appreciation, but while it’s a shade more than professional, it veers into friend zone territory, and that’s not where I’m trying to steer.

I offer her a handshake, and when she takes it, still smiling, I make sure to brush my thumb over her knuckles, up then down, leaving no question that I mean to do it. “Well done, Kaitlyn.”

She slides her hand from mine and shifts in her seat. “Thanks. And Katie is fine.”

I lean forward and prop my chin on my hand. “Are you saying our truce is real, Katie?”

“Didn’t I tell you that in my office before you spiffed it up like a good friend does? Thank you again for that.”

Her mouth says friend, but she’s guarding her glances. Friends don’t do that. People who don’t want to let on that they’re into you do that.

I can’t push. My instincts say blurting “Hey, I’m into you, let’s go out” will shut her down. I want to make myself a safe place instead.

“You’re welcome again,” I say. “And as your good friend, I’m going to make sure you get fed, so why don’t you eat while I give you the seated tour of the progress?” When she nods, I point out what we’ve done so far, from the bolted perimeter to the supports Eva has welded in to start the canopy.

She asks a few questions as I “guide” us, and when I’m done, I reach for my enchiladas.

“It looks really good,” she says.

“You’re probably wondering why I wanted you to come out here, since I’ve been sending you updates.”

“It crossed my mind.”

“I want to get your feedback on a possible change to the next phase.”

She gives me a neutral look. “Sure. Let’s hear it.”

“First, can I ask how much you guys want to raise with the gala?”

“Two million.”

She doesn’t even blink. I know the Armstrongs are one of the wealthiest families in Austin, but how rich do you have to be for that number to not even faze you?

“That doesn’t stress you out?” I ask.

“We’ve sold all the gala tickets, so the costs are covered—including this installation—and we’re already operating at a profit for the event. But hitting that total amount will depend on how well our guests respond to the silent auction items.”

“What happens if they don’t cough up the donations?”

“Micah, you better not try to do something noble like return your fee for this work.”

I snort. “Not a chance. I never undervalue my work.”

She smiles. “Good. I have a table that proves it. As for the auction and donations, that part mostly depends on me. I’ll make it happen, but yes, it’s stressing me out.”

A big dumb grin takes over my face. I can feel it, and I don’t care.

“What now?” She sounds exasperated.

“You’ve got the weight of two million dollars trying to bury you, raising the funds falls mostly to you, you’re stressed, and yet you’re sitting there, a nacho-eating queen like it’s nothing. Like we’re talking about organizing a barbecue. Wait, no. Not a barbecue. A . . . potluck.” I give her a fake concerned expression. “Do you know what a potluck is?”

“Micah.” She plucks a plain chip from her nachos. “Are you making rich people jokes?”

“A hundred percent.”

“I know what a potluck is. And I even organized a barbecue once.”

“Slumming it, were you?”

“Don’t think we’re going to skip over how my nacho-eating queen act has nothing on your too-cool-to-care act you’ve been putting on since high school.” She leans forward and taps an ivory-painted nail on my side of the table. “We. Will. Get. To. It.”

“Confessing I was the loser poor kid wasn’t enough?” I tease her.

“Felt like an appetizer. But let’s move on to your possible change to the next phase.”

“It doesn’t sound as awesome now that I know the goal is two million, but I thought if we built a bar in here, you could rack up even more cash. The more I think about it, the less—”

“No, tell me. What do you mean by bar? We’re planning to have waiters circulate with wine and champagne.”

I point to the south end. “Stage, big screen, live entertainment.” I indicate the rest of the floor. “Tables. Name cards. Cater waiters.” I point to the rolling bay door. “Grand entrance. Did I cover everything?”

“Yes.”

“What if instead of creating a small space near the stage for anyone who wants to dance, you clear a big space by giving people somewhere else they want to go. Specifically, over there.” I point to the corner across from the entrance. “Build a bar, but make it more than a walk-up where people order and wander away. Make it a lounge space with club chairs and low tables, so it would draw people from the dining tables to come over and stay. Then you can move those out and clear even more of the center for dancing and mingling. My thinking was that a bar would entice people to spend more money, but this crowd doesn’t do cash bars, does it?”

“Generally, no. But we should do an open bar with the intimate lounge feeling you described. It makes the experience feel more luxe, and our generosity prompts more of their generosity.”

“Virtuous giving cycle?”

“A strategic one. Let’s do it.” She stands. “Thanks for lunch and the update. I need to tell the event planner she has to hire a bar staff.”

I get up and gather our trash. “I’ll walk you out.”

At the warehouse door, I drop our garbage in the bin but pause before I hold the door for her. “Here’s a confession: When we had classes together, I never said any of my ideas out loud unless I knew they were good because I wanted you to think I was a genius.”

I push the door open, standing against it to give her room to pass. She stops in front of me, close enough that she has to tilt her head more than usual to meet my eyes.

“Here’s a confession: I started wearing lipstick senior year because I wanted you to think about my lips.”

Then she slips through the door, and she’s gone.

I look around the art room, not really seeing it. Mr. Lew, the art teacher, lets me spend lunches in here even though I’ve never taken studio art. He seems to get that I need to be in here anyway. Art teachers are like that.

Normally, I like to look for new work on the walls or any pieces that are in process. But I spent lunch in here yesterday, and there’s nothing new.

“You okay, Micah?” Mr. Lew asks, stopping by the table I have to myself.

“Fine. Letting my brain rest.” That’s a lie, but he nods and moves on. My brain is speeding like it always does, currently calculating whether I can get away with hanging out with Kaitlyn in the library. If I do it too often, she’ll avoid me for a few days. If I space it out enough, we’ll pull out our lunches and our work but end up chatting instead of studying.

Three days seems to be the sweet spot where she won’t retreat. I should wait until tomorrow. But we didn’t end up doing partner work in Chinese today, so we haven’t talked since lunch two days ago.

Whatever. This is stupid. Lunch barely started, and I’ll have talked myself into going to the library by the end anyway, so might as well go now.

She’s at her usual table, one that keeps her out of the main flow of traffic but gives her a good view of the door. I know that feeling. Not wanting to be in the mix. Always needing to see what’s coming.

“Hey,” I say as I set down my backpack. I always take the spot across from her but one seat down so we never have to make accidental eye contact. I want to know that every time I feel her eyes on me, it’s because she chose to look my way.

She blinks up at me. “Hey.”

She doesn’t smile. She never does when she says hi. It makes it even better when she does smile because it’s opposite of her eye contact. It’s unintentional, like she’s surprised to replace herself doing it. I like when I’m the reason it happens. I’ve learned over the last three years what kinds of things will do it, saving each instance like a crow with a shiny thing, waiting to trot it out and use it again.

If she’s not okay with me being here, in about five minutes she’ll remember somewhere else she has to go. If she’s okay with it, we’ll eat our lunches and end up in a conversation. I never know what it will be about. I never try to think of things because something always comes up, sometimes from her, sometimes me.

She pulls a bento box from her backpack, peels off the lid, and sighs.

“Tuna fish?” I guess. She hates tuna, even the fancy sushi-grade kind their housekeeper uses.

“Worse.” She tilts the box my way to show me the contents.

I squint. “You got a botany project for lunch?”

She takes her chopsticks and picks up different items, naming them and dropping them. “Bean sprouts. Pickled beets. Cabbage. Snap peas. Cauliflower. My mom has decided we’re all eating plant-based diets now. Raw plants.” She wrinkles her nose at the box. “I like meat. And there’s not even any dips. I’d sell my soul for hummus right now. But at least I’ve got these.” She brandishes a baby carrot. “You are my only joy.” Then she chomps it.

My uncle’s tuition check doesn’t cover the fresh meals served in the Hillview dining hall. My mother’s paycheck doesn’t cover a housekeeper. Or even groceries, sometimes. But cutting lawns on the weekends covers a crap-ton of frozen burritos, and I pull one out of my backpack, nuked and double wrapped in foil before I left for school this morning.

“Trade you for the cabbage and beets.” I can put them in my other burrito and make it more filling. Hopefully the oversalted ground beef (allegedly) will cover the taste of the beets.

“Done.”

We trade and eat, and halfway through my burrito, Kaitlyn pauses and points her chopsticks at it, then clicks them together. “So, why use forks, even?”

We have found our topic for the day. It wanders from there to a conversation about Vikings and how much we both hate Beowulf, which leads us to someone’s dog named Beowulf and on to dogs in general to parks and near the end of lunch, we’re somehow on the subject of what tattoo each Disney princess would get.

Kaitlyn is arguing that Cinderella is the one princess who would never, under any circumstance, get a tattoo while I’m pointing to proof of her rebellious streak as counterevidence when the slight crackle from the PA system signals an announcement coming.

“A reminder that tomorrow is the last day to buy prom tickets. They will be available before and after school and during lunch. If you are bringing a non-Hillview student, they will need a signed faculty endorsement from their own school to be submitted to a junior class officer before prom.”

My stomach tightens with every word of the announcement. I’m not a school activity guy. Maybe I would be into a few of them if I could afford them. But prom is different. Iconic even if school social stuff isn’t your thing. And Kaitlyn is very much a school activity girl. She’ll be there. With someone who can afford to take her.

I don’t care about the pictures or dinner or any of that stuff, but I think about her out there, dancing to the one slow song they’ll play at the end of the night, and I always see her dancing with me.

Your boy doesn’t have three hundred dollars for a pair of prom tickets. Hillview is a prom-at-the-Four-Seasons school. I don’t even have prom-in-the-school-gym money.

“Do you have tickets yet?” Kaitlyn asks.

I’m trying to read her tone. It’s heavy on irony, like Haha, Micah Croft at prom, what a joke. But there’s an undercurrent there, like maybe she’s . . . is she fishing? She’s not quite pulling off the casual conversation vibe. Is she trying to figure out if I’m going? If she’s not asking straight-out, is it because she wants to work the conversation around to me asking her?

It might not even be what she’s getting at. Library time and debates about Disney princess tattoos is as social as we’ve ever gotten. Is she hinting she wants to go as friends? Because that’s not what I would want. Are solid couples or friend dates the only options for prom? Is prom a thing where it can be a first date that turns into a more-dates situation?

I wish I had the option of pulling on this thread and replaceing out. Maybe for the first time ever, it truly sucks that I don’t have the money for this. Even if I scraped together enough for the tickets, there’s dinner, pictures, corsages . . . I’m not even sure what else would crop up.

My nasty beet-and-“beef” burrito settles in my stomach like a rock, and Kaitlyn is waiting for her answer, looking like she wishes she hadn’t asked after my stupidly long pause.

I start gathering my burrito trash as I answer. “Not doing prom.”

“Right. Probably not your thing.”

Couldn’t be my thing if I wanted it to be, which for her, I do. “I have plans that night.”

“Doing something cool?”

Babysitting the two neighbor kids for the single dad next door who works swing shifts at a shipping warehouse. I watch them most Saturday nights. The pay isn’t enough for me, and it’s too much for him, but he’s a good dude, and he helped me build shelves in our garage.

Instead of telling her that, I say, “My only plans are not to be at prom.”

“Right.” She stares down at her bento box.

“Gotta go grab a thing from Ms. Neely,” I say. She’s the college counselor, and seniors have to grab so many things from her throughout the year that it’s an excuse to leave any situation.

She doesn’t look up, only nods and chases a snap pea around with her chopsticks like she’ll get a trophy if she gets it.

I don’t want to leave her feeling like crap, but I don’t know what else to say. So I turn and walk out on Kaitlyn without looking back.

We don’t talk about it when I replace her in the library the next week or ever. When prom photos start showing up on Instagram two weeks later, I don’t know if I feel better or worse after scrolling through enough to figure out that she went with friends and not a date.

When a picture pops up with her and one of her friends instead of the whole group, I get a good view of her dress and answer my own question. She picked a strapless sparkly dress about as light as pink can go before it becomes white, and she looks . . .

She looks beautiful. I feel worse. It confirms what I’ve known since ninth grade. The only girl I’ve ever wanted at Hillview is the one furthest out of my league.