After we hang up, I pull out my planner and flip to today’s page and the immediate tasks to tackle. Then I pull the binder forthe Fireman’s Ball. The rough timeline stares back at me, covered in color-coded tabs with still more sticky notes filling in the gaps with ideas that came to me last night when I couldn’t sleep.
Three months to plan one of the biggest events of the year. Three months of working with Patton Cross, who thinks I’m frivolous, annoying, and incapable of differentiating between a budget spreadsheet and a grocery list.
I’ll show him.
I’ll show everyone.
My phone buzzes. It’s my brother again.
Fab: Dad’s asking about money. What should I tell him?
Me: Tell him not to worry. We’ll figure out something.
But will we?
The afternoon creeps by in a blur of emails and phone calls. I approve a permit for the spring concert series (I’m already praying for clear skies). Deny a request to build a treehouse in the town square (The Junior Scouts get an A for effort). Field questions about parking for the farmers market (no, we’re not going to construct a parking garage!).
Normal stuff. Manageable stuff.
At quarter of five, right as I’m finishing up, Patton appears in my doorway.
My breath does a weird thing, as if it doesn’t know whether it’s supposed to be moving out or in.
He looms. There’s no other word for it. Six-foot-two of disapproval filling my doorframe like he’s personally offended by my existence. So why is he here?
“Got a minute?” he asks.
Having realized the folly of my ever-cheerful attempts to win him over, I discard them in exchange for brute honesty. “Not really.”
“I’ll be quick.”
He steps inside without waiting for permission, holding a folder.
I gesture to the chair across from my desk. He sits, taking up all the space and oxygen in the room.
“I need these approved.” He slides the folder, presumably containing the revised permits, across my desk.
I open it and take a quick scan. He’s fixed most of the issues, but there are still a few problems. Minor ones, but still.
“You’re missing the environmental impact assessment,” I say.
“It’s a building renovation, not a strip mine.”
“It’s on parkland. The regulations are clear.”
“The regulations are ridiculous.”
“Take it up with the state. I just enforce them.”
His nostrils flare. “Can you just approve it?”
“Not until it’s complete.” I narrow my eyes.
“You’re being difficult.”
“I’m doing my job.”
We stare at each other across my desk. My ridiculous squirrel plushie—a gift from the mayor to all staff—sits between us, its beady eyes watching the standoff.
