Sensing I’d lose that battle if I put up resistance, I nodded.
When we reached the front counter, he locked the cash drawer and flipped two switches. Light fell across the desk and the corkboard where someone had pinned the Founders’ Festival schedule. Dancing Saturday at eight. Live band. No cover. All ages welcome.
“Are you going?” he asked.
“I staff the public information table during the parade,” I said. “After that, I’m not required to stay.”
“That’s not really an answer,” he said.
I shrugged. “I’ll probably wander around for a bit. I like supporting local businesses and there will be plenty of booths to peruse.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you there.” He held the door open.
I stepped out and paused at the top of the stairs to breathe in the cooler night air.
“Rowan,” he said, and the sound made me turn. He was close enough that I could see a smear of chalk along his forearm and a nick on his knuckle where a weight plate had probably got him earlier in the day. A person could catalog those details and call it due diligence. Or she could acknowledge she wanted to touch both places.
“Thank you for helping Harvey,” he said. “He won’t say it more than once, but it matters.”
“I know,” I said. My voice came out quiet. “And you’ll drop off the certificate on Monday.”
“I will.”
We looked at each other a beat too long. The air between us shifted, like whatever had passed between us while we danced had followed us outside. He leaned in like a man who had every intention of asking a question he hadn’t asked yet. I felt myself moving closer in response, then remembered who I was and where we were.
“I should go,” I said.
He nodded once, acceptance without injury. “Good night, March.”
The nickname should have irritated me. At least he’d stopped calling me Sergeant. Tonight it sounded like a promise to use only the part of my name I could bear.
“Good night,” I moved down the steps without looking back.
In my car, I set the folder on the passenger seat and sat for a moment with my hands on the wheel. I had come for a missing line on a form. I was leaving with the impression of a hand steady at my back and the sure beat of one, two, three sitting under my skin like a second pulse.
Checklists hadn’t failed me yet. I wouldn’t let them start now.
I started the engine. The Founders’ Festival was coming up. The town would hang lights and gather on Main and pretend summer could last a little longer. A man who taught an old friend to dance would stand under those lights and prove something to himself. A woman who didn’t dance would choose whether to step onto the floor.
I pulled out of the parking lot with the music still counting time inside my chest and a very inconvenient thought in my head. The Butterfly might know how to land. The question was whether I would let him.
CHAPTER 5
DANE
The printer chugged along, spitting out each piece of paper in turn. I stacked them up: the stormwater plan, fixture cut sheets, ADA path detail with the dogleg, the public notice template, and the new insurance certificate with the courts named and the town listed as additional insured. The vending machine clicked and hummed in the next room. Somewhere down the block, Main Street was still riding the sugar high from Sabrina’s grand opening.
I sent an email to Rowan first. Every document was scanned, labeled, and attached just like she’d wanted them. Then I slid the hard copies into a manila folder and walked out to the back lot with the public notice and a roll of tape.
The fence was cool under my forearms while I smoothed the notice flat. It felt good to put something where everyone could see it. No shortcuts. No begging for favors. Just the sign, right where the sun would hit it in the morning like Nellie said. I stepped back and read the words a second time even though I already knew them by heart: the proposed recreational use, public comment window, and meeting date. I pictured kids pressing their noses to the chain link to read it, then the old boys from the Tap pretending they hadn’t.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Holt: You alive?
Me: Posting the notice. Packet’s done.
Holt: Good. Don’t forget Lane’s soccer practice at five tomorrow.
