Dropping the Ball: a Holiday Rom-Com
Dropping the Ball: Chapter 18

“That was the last candy bar.” I hold up my empty carton to show Micah. “Does that mean I get tricks now?”

He glances at the time on his phone. “It’s almost nine. You’re safe.”

“What if some hungry NFLers come by and get mad that my porch light is off?” I’m not at all worried about it. A few other lights have gone off on the street over the last fifteen minutes, and only a few kid-sized stragglers in the distance seem bent on chasing down the last of the sugar.

“Won’t happen. Halloween law.”

I smile at this. “So weird I’ve never heard these laws until tonight.”

He slides his mask back on his head, and it’s good to see his full face, even though the top half is damp with sweat and red lines trace where the mask dug into his skin. It’s good skin. It’s a good face.

“You doubt me?” he says. “What kind of proof do you need?”

“I don’t doubt you. You’re my go-to Halloween expert.” I stand and stretch before holding out my hand to pull him to his feet too.

He ignores it and rises the way I imagine Batman must in the movies, a fluid upward motion that ends with him in Batman stance in front of me, arms folded across his chest. His chest, which bulges without the help of any foam. I like Batman stance so much—even when he’s so close I have to lean my head back to see him. Maybe especially because he’s that close.

I’d chosen a hard cider from his cooler, and I feel the effects now that I’m on my feet. My cheeks flush and my scalp tingles. I sway toward him and step back even as he reaches out to hold my elbows and keep me steady.

“You good?”

I slip away from his touch under the guise of gathering up empty candy boxes. “Yep, stood up too fast.” I’ve been standing long enough that this doesn’t actually make sense, so I hurry past it before he notices. “I’ll go stick these in the trash and come back to help with the rest of this.”

I go around the garage and shove the boxes in my recycling bin. When I get back to the driveway, everything is put away except the chairs, which he’s already folding. I grab the other one and fold it, then hand it to him. He shifts it to his other arm and keeps his hand outstretched.

“Uhhh . . .” I look around, not sure what he’s waiting for.

“I need my tool back. It would really put a—”

“Don’t,” I warn him.

“—wrench in things if I left without it,” he says over my groan. “Don’t make me come and take it.”

I glance down to where it protrudes from the chest pocket of his borrowed shirt. For a reckless split second, I almost say Why don’t you try. Instead, I hand it over. “Going to take it with you to watch scary movies in case of monsters?”

He puts it away and locks his toolbox. “Scary movie night is cancelled. My buddy with the best setup has a kid home puking, and just in case it’s not from candy, no one else wants to go over and bring it back to their kids. Puke viruses set off chain reactions, apparently.”

“Disappointed?” I ask. I don’t know why. Maybe because I want to keep the conversation going. Maybe because I hoard every detail he shares about himself.

“Kinda,” he says. “We were going to watch Zombie Lake, and I haven’t seen it.”

I need to study. I need to be in bed by 10:00 so I can get enough sleep before I hit the gym at 6:30 tomorrow morning and start another long day of work and more studying. I need to do anything but what I’m about to do. I know this.

“We can watch it here if you want,” I say anyway. His surprised look makes me regret it immediately. “Never mind. I feel bad that you have to miss it after you spent all night saving me from suburban street thugs.”

He pushed his mask on top of his head a while ago, but now he pulls off the hood altogether and runs his hand through his messy strands. I curl my fingers when they twitch in jealousy.

“Now that you mention it, I definitely saved you from at least five different things tonight. I deserve to watch that movie. Let’s do it.”

“Good. Okay.” I lead us into the house in a perfect example of not remotely resetting our boundaries. “I should offer you a tour, but you’ve seen it already.”

“Just parts. Let me change out of this costume and then I’d love a tour.” He holds up a gym bag.

“Sure. I guess we’ll start with the main bathroom.”

I lead him to it, and he emerges a few minutes later in jeans and a chocolate brown thermal that makes my mouth water. Um, because of chocolate. Because I love chocolate, and this shirt makes me think of it.

“This is a Cardston build, isn’t it?” Micah asks, surveying the great room and saving me from my thoughts. “They do good work.”

“Yeah. The previous owner only lived here for two years and didn’t change much, so that’s why Madison was being so pushy about it.”

I let him take it in, from the opposite wall of windows reflecting us in the archway to the fireplace and conversation area at one end to the dining room and serving nook at the other.

“How do you feel about her choices?” he asks.

“Are you asking me if she nailed Scandinavian, natural textures, muted tones?” I repeat his words from that day in his store. “She did.”

“But do you like it?”

There is so much wood, rock, and natural fiber that it should feel like a mountain cabin, but I’m nothing you would associate with cozy cottage style, and neither is this. It feels simple, modern, and warm. Sophisticated, but not in Mom’s stuffy brocade settee way.

“I love it.” Maybe twenty-six is too young to embrace sophistication as an aesthetic, but it’s me. “I’m happy here.”

“She did an amazing job,” he agrees.

“You should see it in the morning.” Does that imply staying through the night? “Or any kind of daylight, honestly. Madison didn’t use a lot of color, but when the sun comes through the windows, it pulls out the colors she did use and it feels like a different space.”

“What are some of your favorite touches?” he asks.

Madison bought so many things that I regularly notice new ones, but I do have favorites.

“I have this pretty cool table.” I lead him over to the dining area.

He gives a soundless whistle. “Whoever made this is a master. I must know more.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s okay. One of those cocky artist types, but if you can get past that, his stuff is pretty good.”

He grins. “What else you got?”

“Threadwork partners with Teak Heart a lot. Do you know it?”

“Fair trade home goods?”

I nod. “Madison worked there during college. It inspired her to start Threadwork. Anyway, she tries to get most of the decor type stuff from there, like these lamps.” I turn on the cylinder lamp on the nearest side table. “Made from cocoa leaves.”

“Very cool.” This is not a man who will bore of interior design discussions.

“I’ll show you my office. It’s my favorite space.” He follows me down the hall. I flip the switch to turn on the floor lamp and point to it. “Everything in here is my favorite, like that.” It’s simple, a black arch with a drum shade in neutral fabric. “I don’t know how to explain it, but she bought that lamp and put it in the living room. But it has such a perfect arch, I moved it in here because it makes me feel peaceful. That’s rope glued all over the lamp shade, but it doesn’t feel busy. It feels intentional, like the rope chose its natural course and the lamp maker was smart enough to let it.”

He doesn’t say anything, so I point to the love seat. “I study there pretty much every night, and the lamp makes it better. I smile every time I turn it on.”

I cross to the desk beneath the picture window. “And this. I never thought I’d want a glass desk. Fingerprints and all that stuff. But I love it. It makes me feel like I’m out in my yard, in the grass and fresh air because it’s here and not here.”

“Madison really knows you, huh?” he asks softly.

“Yes, but this is the only room I didn’t let her do. It’s my retreat more than even my bedroom. Some of this I moved in here after she ordered it for the living room. Other stuff, she’d send me options and I’d pick. She must have sent me twelve pictures of desks, but I knew as soon as I saw this one.”

“You have a good eye. The base matches your lamp.”

“Right? That perfect curve feeling again.” The glass desktop sits on two black arches forming its four legs. They run parallel to the long edges, not the short ones, so it’s unexpected and soothingly symmetrical at the same time. The longer arches give it the same curve as the lamp. “Do I sound like a lunatic or does that make sense to a furniture maker?”

“Makes sense.” He glances down to the green rug and over to the only art in the house that I chose myself. “And that piece?”

When I lie on the sofa, my head on the lamp end, my feet propped on the armrest, this is what I see on the facing wall. It’s a wood mosaic made of chips from light ash to walnut. At first it looks like gentle rolling hills against a sunrise. But look longer and you realize it’s the silhouette of a woman’s body viewed from the back.

“Do you see hills or a nude woman lying on her side?” I ask him.

“Both.”

“Does it feel provocative?”

He meets my eyes. “No.”

I agree. The artist didn’t include any of the provocative parts, catching the curve at the rise of hip and following the lines to her head, the hair made from wood so light it must be birch, pooled gently behind her, no curls or tendrils to suggest motion. “She’s resting. She found a place where she feels safe enough to lie down and . . .”

“And what?” It’s a quiet prompt.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I like it. The second I saw it, I wanted to be her, like it matters to be her, like being there is the most important thing she can do.” I know why I love this picture, but do I want to explain it to Micah? Micah will understand. Am I okay with that?

“She’s enough,” I say, studying the relaxed curve of her shoulder. “In that moment. Probably in all her moments. But you can only rest like that and belong to everything around you if you know you’re enough.”

When I look over at Micah, he straightens from the wall and looks down the hall in the direction of the kitchen. “Could I get a drink? Just water.”

His tone is distracted. It’s like running into a light pole in front of the boy you like.

“Sure.” I turn off the light, glad to hide my stinging cheeks. In the kitchen, I pull out a glass and show him the door for the built-in fridge. “I don’t do bottled water, but the fridge dispenser water tastes good.”

He nods and takes the glass, watching it fill while I wet a paper towel and use my reflection in the faucet to swipe at the smudges on my cheeks. At least then there’s a reason for them to be red.

When he’s done, I shut off the faucet and turn to face him.

“Did I get it all?” I ask.

He eyes me over the rim of his glass and nods as he drinks, and I look away from the mesmerizing rhythm of his throat muscles as he pulls at that water.

I busy myself with throwing away the dirty paper towels, and when I look up and he’s still drinking, I go to work on the bottom button of my borrowed shirt, trying to figure out how to politely kick him out of the house. Probably the trusty Actually, do you mind if we skip the movie? I just realized how long my day is tomorrow.

“What are you doing?”

I freeze on the next button and look up at him. “Giving your shirt back.”

“Don’t worry about it. You can bring it next time you stop by the warehouse.”

“No, it’s okay. I realized it’s pretty late to start a movie, so if you don’t mind—”

“Kaitlyn.”

I move to the next button. “What?”

“Katie.” It’s an order, but a gentle one. “Look at me.”

“Hang on, I’m almost done.”

His glass clinks on the counter, and he walks over as I’m moving to the middle button. He puts a hand over mine and gives it a light squeeze.

I stop unbuttoning, but I don’t let go. I do put on a neutral face before I look up to meet his eyes.

“Katie, I need to tell you something.”

The words everyone wants to hear, especially from a guy they keep suffering humiliations in front of. At least I’m the only one who knows my explanation of the art in my office was another light pole moment.

“I’m listening.” My voice is calm and cool. Boss mode. Good job, me.

He sighs and draws me into his arms, holding me until I relax against him enough for him to rest his chin on my head. I can’t help it. I’m wound tight as a ballerina bun when I’m around this man until he touches me. Then I’m something offensively basic and malleable, like putty. I hate being a cliche.

“I need to tell you something,” he repeats, and the words rumble in his chest against my ear. “But for reasons that I promise to explain later, right now I need to watch a movie. A loud movie. A movie with a very, very simple plot. Can we do that?”

My pride is trying very hard to step away, fake a yawn, and tell him sorry but I’ll try to replace time to drop by the warehouse sometime next week. But my curiosity will choke me if I let pride win. What does he need to tell me? Why does he need a two-hour distraction first?

I do step back. Micah doesn’t fight me, but he also lets his hands slide alllll the way down my arms to close around my wrists, and his stupid shirt is no protection at all from the heat of that touch.

“Zombie Lake is that movie?”

He gives a choked-sounding laugh. “I really hope so.”

“Fine.” I slip my wrists free, pull his shirt over my head, leaving me in my trusty white Calvin Klein cotton tee, and shove it into his chest. “But keep your shirt.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second like he’s in pain. “Thank you.”

“You are being weird,” I inform him.

“No argument.” He goes back for more water, and I walk into the living room and fish the remote from a basket. The big “painting” over the fireplace is actually the TV, but the screen resolution is so high that when you use the art screensaver option, it looks like actual canvas. When I turn it on, the painting dissolves to reveal the screen. I’ve only used it a couple times, and it’s always like a magic trick.

This time, I barely notice because I’m much more focused on what will happen when it goes off again.

What exactly is Micah planning to reveal?