While Grandma watchesan episode of “The Sweetheart Report,” a reality dating show, I brainstorm and noodle around on a graphic design app. I watched loads of how-to videos after my ex asked me to create branding for his startup. I did a few projects for some people at my church, too. Incorporating fire and baking elements, I create some logo ideas for Crush Cakes.
Pleased with my work, a few days later, I arrive at the municipal complex with a digital portfolio. The firefighter I love to hate is in his office across the hall, and I march over there with a black coffee and a skip in my step.
“Good morning, I’ve been working on something for you,” I announce.
Patton looks up from his computer, confused. “Morning.”
I present the logo and then swipe through some other mockup designs that are professional but warm in a fire engine red and cream color scheme. On one, I included the tagline,When Life Crushes You, Make Cake, printed in various fonts.
“I also created a social media strategy,” I continue, pulling up more documents. “And ideas for cross-promotion with Parks & Rec events. Plus, merchandise concepts—t-shirts, mugs, totebags. All proceeds could benefit the fire department programs. The company that’s doing the squirrel stuff gave me discount codes, so I thought I’d pass some of the savings off to you.”
He stares at me, speechless? Impressed? Annoyed that I deviated from his strict business plan?
“This must have taken hours,” he finally says.
“Only a few late nights. I enjoy the creative challenge of marketing, branding, and bringing visions to life.” Also, ignoring the increasingly desperate situation of a restaurant that’s struck an iceberg and is slowly sinking.
I point to my favorite logo option. “This one incorporates a subtle flame design in the letter C. See?”
He stares at the tablet, then at me, and back again.
“You don’t like them? I just thought it was another way to honor your captain, your dad, and all the hard work you’ve been doing. If you already made something or hired someone else, it’s no big deal. I just?—”
Patton rocks his head from side to side.
My stomach sinks.
Finally, he says, “These are amazing. Not to mention this was item number fifty-three on my to-do list. I’m still on number eight, so this is a huge help. Thank you.”
“Oh. So it’s okay?”
“It’s great. Seriously. There is so much to work with. The guys are going to be impressed.” The corner of his mouth twists. “The hard part is going to be selecting one.”
We spend the next hour going through details as we settle on two designs, and I refine them. He asks questions, offers input, and gets especially excited about the t-shirt idea. It’s collaborative—neither of us leading or following—as we work together like two normal people rather than a pair of stubborn goats perpetually at loggerheads.
At one point, our hands brush while reaching for the samemockup and a warm shiver rushes through me. I think of his hand wrapped around mine as he helped me to stand after lunch at the firehouse the other day. All of the brief touches we’ve had light up like little dots to connect, revealing the shape of a heart.
“I can’t pay you for all this work,” he says quietly.
“I don’t want payment. I want, um, harmony?”
His eyebrow arches. “Harmony between us?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, we’ve been getting along better, so that’s a start, but more like in an ongoing fashion.”
“You want me to be nice to you? That’s very Parks & Rec.”
I grumble, frustrated. “I want us to stop bickering at every meeting.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He leans back, tucking his thumbs through the loops in his pants.
“The fun is in actually getting things done.”
“We get things done. We just sometimes argue while doing it.” His mouth curves.
“It’s called collaboration, Patton.”
He shifts closer to me, voice low. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
