“He’s coming in again on Sunday at seven,” I said. “If you happen to be in the neighborhood…”
“I’ve got too much to do,” she said. “But I appreciate the invitation.”
As she got up, she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, then seemed irritated with herself for doing anything that might be considered soft.
“I should go,” she said. “I have three packets to prep before the agenda closes.”
“Thanks for coming by,” I said.
“I was already out. It wasn’t a big deal.”
We walked back through the gym. In the lobby, she set the folder on the counter long enough to pull a pen from her jacket. She wrote something small on the top page, then paused and added a second line.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A note to myself,” she said. “So the minutes reflect the timing of your submission.”
“Do the minutes care?”
“They do when I write them,” she said.
I liked that about her. The ownership. The steadiness. The refusal to hand anything over to luck.
At the door, I reached for the handle and stopped. “Rowan.”
She looked up.
“It wasn’t nothing in that room,” I said. “The dancing. I’m not asking for an answer. I just want you to know I felt it.”
Her breath shortened in a way most people wouldn’t notice. “I don’t make decisions based on feelings.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s one of the reasons I like you. It’s also the reason I’m going to keep showing up until my actions are louder than whatever you’re afraid of.”
That knocked something loose behind her eyes. Not a crack, but a small shift.
“See you later, Mr. Thorne.” She moved past me onto the step.
“Are you going to the fundraiser at The Knotty Tap later on tonight?”
Her nod pulled a surprised smile out of me.
“I’ll see you there,” I said. “And stop calling me Mr. Thorne. It’s just Dane.”
She paused, the corner of her mouth catching. “Okay then, just Dane.”
The lot was still. She crossed to her car and didn’t look back. I watched her taillights until they slipped past the trees.
Inside, the gym felt quieter without her in it. I wiped down the counter, put the tape back in its drawer, and stood for a second with my palms pressed flat against the wood. The man I used to be would’ve chased the next distraction, started a new project, anything to outrun the quiet.
But the man I wanted to be? He picked up the list.
Harvey at seven. Order the surface sample sheets. Confirm slope tolerances. Print the bulletin notice for inside because not everyone checks fences. Build the damn courts the right way.
I grabbed the packet, tucked it under my arm, and stepped back outside. The sun was still high, spotlighting the stakes in the dirt. That posted notice fluttered in the breeze, bright as a flag.
It didn’t look like a delay. It looked like a promise.
A place to land.
