Me: Wouldn’t miss it.
Holt: Proud of you, little bro.
Me: Don’t start.
I grinned at the sign on the fence. My good mood stuck around when I went back inside. The morning rush had died down, and I got busy gathering used towels and starting a load of laundry in the office. It was still quiet enough that I heard the front door open and close. I wiped my hands on a towel and stepped into the lobby.
Rowan stood at the desk. She’d swapped the cardigan from yesterday for a light jacket. Even on a Saturday, her bun looked as tight as ever. The clipboard wasn’t in sight, but I assumed it lurked somewhere within reach.
“Hey,” I said.
She looked over, took in my dusty T-shirt, the chalk on my forearm I hadn’t bothered to scrub, and the packet on the counter. “You sent the email,” she said. “I came for the hard copies. Gillian told me to tell you she bet the council would faint if you turned a full packet in early. I said I’d bring smelling salts.”
“Good timing.” I slid the folder toward her. “Insurance certificate’s on top. Section three filled in, itemized.”
She opened it and scanned the page. Her finger tracked line by line, precise as a level. Her mouth did the smallest thing when she reached the rider that named the town. It wasn’t a smile. It was the absence of resistance.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I posted the notice,” I said. “It’s on the back fence. I put it at eye level for the kids.”
“That’s where it belongs.” She closed the folder and held it against her chest. “Do you have a minute to confirm the adjusted path length from the fence to the pad? I’d rather not discover a two-inch problem at the meeting.”
“Sure,” I said, and grabbed the measuring tape.
We stepped out into the lot. I anchored the hook on the stake and walked the line while Rowan read off numbers. “Thirty-six to the bend,” she said. “Forty-eight to the edge.”
“Dogleg adds two feet,” I said. “Still within ADA.”
She nodded. “As long as the slope stays shallow, and the surface is uniform.”
“So no river rock.” I shook my head.
“No river rock,” she said, but the corner of her mouth gave a little.
We checked the setback against the fence and the width at the pinch point near the drain. She didn’t waste words. I didn’t either. It felt like moving weights with someone who knew when to spot and when to step back.
When we finished, I left the tape hooked to the stake and grabbed two sodas from the cooler inside. I returned with the cans and offered one to her. She actually took it instead of looking at me like I was trying to buy a favor with a can of cherry cola.
We sat on the back steps with our shoulders almost touching and our knees pointed toward the lot. The sunlight caught the laminated notice and created a glare. For a long minute we didn’t say anything, just sat in the silence.
“You work a lot,” she said.
“Today needed it.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow probably will too,” I said. “Until the courts are open.”
She tipped her head like she was thinking about what I said. “Most people prefer shortcuts.”
“Most people don’t color-code their tabs.”
She made a soft sound that could have been a laugh. “Tabs save time.”
“Steps save people,” I said, then winced at how earnest it sounded out loud. “I mean, on a court. And off it. Repetition gets you where you want to go.”
She looked at the notice again, then at the chalk dust I’d missed on my forearm. “Words are easy,” she said. “Anyone can promise follow-through.”
