Page 6 of Patch Perfect

His simple offer warms me. For him, it means next October. It means he can imagine a day that far ahead with me in it. I send him to the next table before I say something too personal in front of twelve kids and a tub of purple paint.

By the time the last bus arrives, the patch is alive with motion. My dad drives the wagon, with guardians and kids packed onto the benches. Mom pours cider until the steam fogs the concession window. I draw orange cats, purple bats, and a surprisingly popular dinosaur wearing a knitted hat.

Roan keeps showing up at my table. Once, he brings more pencils. Another time, he brings a chair when I start kneeling to help the little kids. He even brings me an apple because I forgot breakfast. He never interrupts—he just notices.

He sets the apple by my elbow, joking that he checked with a doughnut committee. I take a bite while he pretends not to watch. I'm usually the one who remembers snacks and chairs for everyone else. Having someone notice me for once feels strange and a little vulnerable.

At the craft table, a boy named Eli refuses the prepared pumpkin stencils. He wants a monster with six arms, three eyes, and a bicycle. I clear a patch of table space and ask him to describe it. He does so very precisely. One arm holds a sandwich, another holds a flashlight, and the third on that side holds its little sister's hand.

Roan arrives with a stack of dry paper. Eli notices the patch on Roan’s jacket. “Do you have a motorcycle?”

“I do.” Roan kneels beside the chair. “I rode it here, but it stays parked while children are around.”

“Can you draw it?”

“I can try.” Roan picks up a pencil, concentrating so hard that I have to look away before I laugh.

Eli studies Roan's result. “That's a lawnmower.”

“I get that a lot,” Roan says, adding a wheel. “Better?”

“Now it's two lawn mowers.”

Roan accepts the judgment with a nod. Eli demonstrates how a motorcycle ought to look, moving his pencil with swift confidence. The bike comes to life on the page.

During the hayride break, I find Roan alone by the cider urn. He pours two cups and hands me one. I take a careful sip, but it is still too hot.

“Eli liked showing you his motorcycle,” I say.

"He showed me a better one." Roan glances at the craft table. He's proud of the boy, not of himself. I hold the warm cup and watch him in the quiet. He doesn't need my praise for helping. Maybe that's why I like him. My feelings for him have changed since Thursday. Now I notice them in small moments, like when he listens to a child or remembers I skipped breakfast.

I rest my shoulder against his. He gently nudges his cup against mine. We drink together as we watch Eli show Mia his monster drawing.

Dad calls for volunteers to help with the last group on the wagon. I take Roan's empty cup, and he heads toward the gate. A little boy asks whether the bikers can ride in the wagon. Beck immediately volunteers all of them. They spread out along the benches, and the children squeeze in between. Deacon takes off his sunglasses because one girl complains she can't tell where he's looking.

I watch the wagon cross the field. Last night, those same benches held only two people. Now every seat is full, and Roan looks back at me until I wave. My feelings have grown in twenty-four hours in a way I can't measure, though I keep trying to count the evidence: the apple he brought, the pencil he handed Eli, and the way he looked for me before the wagon left.

After lunch, I find him at the pumpkin-painting station. Mia has painted his wrist green. He has a yellow streak across his cheek and is holding a pear-shaped pumpkin while three children instruct him on competing design plans. He listens to each one. When he finally turns toward me, his expression says he wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

My family has always been my foundation. Seeing him fit in here, even for just an afternoon, makes it feel like there's room for someone else. That idea scares me more than our kisses ever did.

At four, the last bus leaves. Paint spots mark the barn floor, only two doughnuts remain, and somehow Deacon's huge bat now belongs to the community center. We spend an hour folding tables and searching for lost gloves. Roan helps Dad carry crates while I sweep. I hear Dad ask about the garage. Their conversation is so normal that I pause to listen. Dad asks something, Roan answers, and neither of them treats my interest in him as a problem.

When Roan comes back for the last crate, I hand him a damp cloth. “Your cheek.” He wipes the wrong side. “Other side.” He wipes his chin.

“You're doing that on purpose.” I take the cloth and touch it to the yellow paint. He goes still beneath my hand.

“Maybe.” His voice drops. “Are you tired?”

“Completely, but I still want to ride with you.”

“So do I.” He catches my wrist and kisses the inside of it lightly before letting go. “We'll eat first. Your mother packed us sandwiches.”

“Of course she did.” I turn to look at the barn door.

“And told me what time you need to be home.”

“What time?”