Austin: She laughed at my story.
Me: Everyone laughs at your stories. Usually AT you, not WITH you.
Austin: You like her.
Me: I tolerate her.
Austin: How generous of you.
Me: She’s competent.
Austin: Not helping your case.
Me: Serviceable.
Austin: Now you’re just being weird.
I don’t respond because the truth makes a riotous crawl into my awareness. If I pretend I don’t like her, I can convince myself not to in a bizarre version of “fake it until you make it.”
I’m toast. I lock up the firehouse and head to my truck, intent on driving far, far away from these thoughts. Carson City is an hour’s ride. I have a department meeting about budget allocations and equipment upgrades. Important stuff. Things that matter.
But my mind repeatedly jumps ahead in time to Monday morning and meeting the woman with the deep, mocha eyes and full lips who will undoubtedly be waiting for me.
For the first time, the notion of going back to the house alone doesn’t seem too appealing.
9
WINNIE
I arriveat the office Monday morning armed with a color-coded folder, three different timeline proposals, and enough caffeine to face Patton Cross whether he likes it or not.
Today is the first official Fireman’s Ball planning meeting and nothing is going to interfere.
I’ve prepared talking points, a detailed budget, and vendor list options (organized by priority and price point).
I even laminated the seating chart options because I’m the person who does these kinds of things on the weekend while Grandma watches game shows and mutters about how I need to “get out more.”
“You’ve got this,” Mindy says, appearing in my doorway with a mug that says,Dear Monday, it’s you, not me.
Well, I do. Carpe Monday! Seize the day!
She says, “Just be confident. Professional. Don’t let him intimidate you.”
“I’m not intimidated.”
“Your left eye is twitching.”
I touch my face. “It’s the fluorescentlighting.”
Thomas rolls in on his swivel chair. “For what it’s worth, I think Patton’s bark is worse than his bite.”
“That sounds like the start of a cautionary tale.”
Thomas bursts into laughter. “I see what you did there. Bark-bite, tale-tail. Like a dog. Good one, Winnie.”
My friend Peony appears with a box of doughnut holes from Dot’s Dots (There is an adjacent putt-putt course called Hole in One) and tilts her head as if she’d overheard the Patton commentary, then shoos them away. She has a sixth sense for when I’m in need of something delicious … and when I’m spiraling.
Peony is the calm to my chaos. The soothing balm to my itchy sweater—and Patton Cross is definitely an old, moth-eaten, itchy wool sweater.
