Spreadsheets and Bedsheets (Havenwood #1)

8

ELLIOTT

T he early April evening was cool and crisp, the golden light of the setting sun casting a glow over Havenwood as I arrived at the Havenwood Playhouse. The cobblestone sidewalks gleamed faintly under the warm amber of the streetlights. Jules had mentioned I could stop by to pick up the event poster mock-ups he had promised for the GSA’s Pride Month event. I hadn’t originally planned to come tonight, Sundays were usually my quiet reset days, but Jules’ breezy text earlier in the afternoon had included a casual invitation that made me feel like declining would be more trouble than showing up.

Jules: Come grab the posters tonight! I’ll be at the Playhouse. Besides, you’ve got to see the glittery chaos I’m herding for Midsummer. You might even get inspired.

I’d stared at the message for too long before replying tentatively.

Elliott: I’ll stop by after dinner.

And now, standing just outside the open doors, I realized I had no idea what I was walking into.

The brick facade buzzed with vigorous activity, the grand, arched doors thrown open wide as if they were a portal to another vibrant world. Actors, crew members, and the occasional befuddled volunteer flitted in and out, their arms laden with scripts, set pieces, and, on one memorable occasion, a stray cat that darted mischievously between their hurried legs. I hesitated at the threshold, momentarily entranced by the swirling energy before summoning the courage to step inside.

Standing just inside the threshold, I found myself overwhelmed by the sensory overload and the rich tapestry of sound and motion. My gaze was then drawn to Jules, positioned at the epicenter of the commotion. Balancing a clipboard as if it were an extension of himself, he radiated a frenetic energy that somehow managed to anchor the storm of creativity surrounding him. With expressive hand gestures and impassioned tones, he directed an actor clad in a glittering costume, his voice rising just enough to slice through the ambient noise with a blend of authority and contagious enthusiasm.

“No, no, no! Oberon needs to command the stage!” Jules exclaimed, his fervor echoing against the walls. “You’re not just a fairy king; you’re THE fairy king. Own it!”

In that charged moment, the actor straightened, adopting a regal bearing, and delivered their lines with newfound boldness. Jules clapped his hands together, his grin broadening into an expression of triumph as he nodded in approval. It was at that precise moment that his gaze swept over to me, where I stood awkwardly by the wall, a silent observer amidst the vibrant, living tableau.

Jules’ smile widened like the spreading of a sunrise, and he bounded over with an infectious energy that seemed to ignite every corner of the room. “Look at you, Teach,” he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial, hushed whisper that felt like a secret shared just between us. “Welcome to the glittery chaos.”

I raised an eyebrow, feeling a reluctant smile tug at my lips as I absorbed the vibrant scene around us. “It’s… a lot,” I admitted, my voice tinged with awe.

He laughed, a sound so rich and resonant that it filled the space like warm sunlight. Nudging my arm with his clipboard, he declared, “Controlled chaos, thank you very much. There’s a method to this madness.” His words danced in the air, as if sprinkled with stardust.

I followed him as he gracefully weaved through the bustling space, his focus switching with a mesmerizing agility from one task to the next. Amidst the hectic demands of his role, Jules managed to find moments for everyone, a quick note scribbled on a notepad here, a sincere compliment there, a playful scolding that invariably drew bursts of laughter from the recipient. Watching him at work was like witnessing a conductor masterfully orchestrate a symphony of energy and creativity.

After a while, Jules plopped down beside me on an old, battered theater seat, its surface worn by countless performances, during a brief lull in the whirlwind. With his clipboard precariously balanced on his knees, he turned to face me, his eyes bright and endlessly curious. “So, what do you think? Controlled chaos or just chaos?” he asked, his tone inviting me into his world.

I glanced around at the scene in all its glory: costumes spilled haphazardly from creased racks, wires tangled across the floor like reckless vines, and the half-painted set loomed in the background with an almost theatrical drama. “It’s… impressive,” I confessed. “You thrive in this.”

Grinning wider, he reclined further into the timeworn seat. “You should try it sometime, step onstage and let loose,” he urged, his voice brimming with mischief and encouragement.

I shook my head, releasing a soft, amused laugh. “I think I’ll leave the herding of glittery cats to you.”

His laughter rang out, unabashed and joyful, drawing indulgent smiles and fleeting glances from nearby crew members who soon returned to their tasks. Before I could add another word, a frantic stage manager appeared at Jules’ elbow, relaying a hurried list of pressing issues that demanded immediate attention.

With a resigned sigh that mingled exasperation with amusement, Jules stood, casting me one last quick, infectious grin. “Hold that thought, Teach. Don’t go running off,” he said, disappearing back into the vibrant fray.

I lingered, watching him move with an effortless grace through the luminous chaos. This world, the noise, the glitter, the beautifully disorganized energy, was entirely foreign to me, yet Jules navigated it as if he were born from its very essence. It was utterly captivating, and I couldn’t shake the sense that coming here tonight was more than just a matter of picking up posters. It was like receiving an invitation to step deeper into Jules’ dazzling world, one brilliant, enchanted fragment at a time.

The first days of spring had arrived like a gentle exhale of relief. With the soft patter of April showers and the emergence of radiant sunshine and milder breezes, I found solace in the quiet moments spent among my garden beds. The late afternoon light slanted in, bathing every leaf and petal in a warm, golden glow, its beams casting long, delicate shadows across the carefully ordered rows of aromatic herbs and vibrant flowers. A whispering breeze stirred the foliage as I knelt beside the basil bed, its verdant leaves glowing with dew as I trimmed a few sprigs and gathered them into a neat, fragrant bundle.

The rhythmic snip of the shears and the gentle rustling of leaves was meditative, turning a simple task into a cherished ritual that softened the chaotic cadence of the outside world. I had begun to weave an internal tapestry of recipes, imaginative dishes featuring the herbs, perhaps pesto, roasted potatoes, or even a daring experiment with infused oils. The garden’s tranquility enveloped me like a comforting cloak, a welcome counterpoint to the ceaseless pace of the school year. In a spontaneous moment of connection, I pulled out my phone and captured the scene, sending the image off to Caleb with a lighthearted note.

Elliott: Looking forward to you visiting for Spring Break next week and helping me with the garden!

A sudden creak of the gate shattered the silence of my reverie. I rose, wiping the garden’s fragrant traces from my hands on worn jeans, and turned toward the sound. There, framed in the rustic embrace of the weathered wooden gate, stood Jules, his ever-present tote bag casually slung over one shoulder. His outfit, a brightly colored, lively shirt paired with artfully distressed jeans, spoke of effortless vivacity, as though he carried a piece of the day’s vibrancy with him.

“Wow,” Jules exclaimed as he stepped gracefully through the entrance, his tone imbued with reverence. His eyes, wide with wonder, swept slowly over the garden, absorbing every meticulously arranged row of plants and the vine-draped trellis that arched gracefully above. “Okay, Teach. This is… incredible. It’s like stepping into a Monet painting.”

A flush of unexpected pride warmed my cheeks, and I replied modestly, “It’s just a garden,” though my tone betrayed the delight nestled within me.

Jules, hardly one to miss a detail, crouched next to a lavender bush, letting his fingers gently brush the delicate purple blooms. “Don’t sell yourself short. This is the very antithesis of chaos. It’s… peaceful.”

After a brief moment of quiet admiration, he rose and allowed his hand to linger on the lavender, as if to capture its ephemeral scent, before moving deeper into the garden. There was a deliberate calmness in his movements now, softer and more measured than usual. Watching him wander, I noted how his gaze lingered on each plant with an unspoken reverence, contrasting strikingly with the theatrical exuberance I was used to.

“So, what brings you here?” I finally asked, breaking the silence that had settled like a soft mist.

Jules turned back at me with a playful grin, lifting his tote bag as if unveiling a secret. “I was dropping off the finalized poster designs for the Pride event, and I thought I’d deliver them in person. Callie mentioned you were the type who savors the outdoors, so I took a chance. She might have let slip where your home nestles.” He paused, raising an eyebrow in teasing challenge. “You’re lucky I’m not some unhinged superfan!”

With a raised brow, I teased in return, “Callie casually keeps tabs on where I live?”

“Not exactly,” he replied with a mischievous lilt. “Apparently, you mentioned your house was near the park during one of your post-GSA meetings, and Callie, with her mind like a steel trap, didn’t let that detail vanish. One offhand comment, and boom, I had your address. Honestly, you should be impressed by our teamwork.”

I chuckled softly and said, “Well, welcome to my quiet little corner of the world.” Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Drawing it out, I couldn’t help but grin as I read Caleb’s text.

Caleb: Looking good! Can’t wait to see you, Dad!

It was accompanied by a selfie of him pulling a goofy face, his tongue comically outstretched. A warm glow spread through my chest as I lingered on the image a moment longer than necessary, my smile softening with affection.

Jules resumed his wander, his fingers brushing lightly against the emerald leaves as he strolled. Upon reaching the vine-laden trellis, he leaned casually, his gaze roaming over the tranquil space. “You’re really good at this,” he murmured, his voice now soft and reflective. “It suits you.”

Glancing down at the bundle of basil in my hand, I adjusted a few leaves absentmindedly. “It helps me focus. Keeps things… grounded.”

He plucked a sprig of rosemary from a nearby bush and twirled it thoughtfully between his fingers. “And here I thought you were all spreadsheets and bullet points. Turns out, you’re quite the plant whisperer.”

Another blush unfurled across my cheeks as I looked away, a small, genuine smile tugging at my lips. “I wouldn’t go that far. But I do cherish something tangible, something I can nurture and see grow.”

His gaze softened further, his usually sharp, impish expression melting into something unexpectedly tender. “You know,” he murmured, his voice lowering to an intimate whisper, “you surprise me, Elliot Brooks.”

Meeting his eyes, I responded quietly, “I hope they’re good surprises.”

“The best kind,” he replied, his smile warm and unforced, his tone imbued with a sincerity that took me aback.

For a suspended moment, neither of us moved. The garden, usually a haven of quiet routine, seemed to pulsate with a newly charged intimacy, as if the very air had woven us together in a delicate dance of connection. Then Jules straightened, breaking the fragile spell as he raised his tote bag once again. “Where do you want these posters?”

I gestured toward the sunlit porch, a bittersweet reminder of the return to routine. As Jules followed me along the winding garden path, his rich presence hovered in the air, his words echoing softly in my mind. The late afternoon sun dipped lower, streaking the sky with hues of amber and rose, and I found myself saying, “Why don’t you come inside for a bit? I should wash up, and I can get us something to drink.”

JULES

The invitation to step inside caught me off guard, yet it stirred an immediate eagerness. “Lead the way, Teach,” I replied, my voice mingling with the aromatic tendrils of basil and rosemary that danced in the warm air. As we ascended the stone steps, an inquisitive spark flickered within me, wondering about the secrets his space might hold. His garden, arranged with meticulous care, hinted that the rest of his home might boast the same refined attention to detail.

Elliott swung the door open and beckoned me in with a graceful gesture. “Make yourself comfortable,” he offered.

“Sure,” I said, stepping over the threshold and instantly absorbing the interior. The cool, conditioned air provided a refreshing contrast to the lingering embrace of the day’s warmth outside. Every element of the décor revealed a crisp, pristine order, the walls flaunted subtle hues of soft greys and warm beiges that lent an air of effortless composure to the home. The furniture, elegant in its understatement and clearly of the highest quality, sat purposefully arranged, each item contributing to a tableau of calm and order. In stark opposition to the vibrant chaos of my own space, every gleaming hardwood floorboard mirrored the meticulous care taken, and not a speck of dust disturbed the symmetrical display of carefully arranged books on the shelves.

“Wow,” I murmured under my breath as I trailed my fingertips along the back of the spotless sofa. “This is… very you.”

A slight, amused smile played on his lips as he glanced over his shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Clean, calm, controlled,” I teased, returning his smile with a playful glimmer in my eyes. “It’s like walking into the physical manifestation of your spreadsheets.”

Elliott chuckled, a sound full of gentle mirth, as he made his quiet departure toward what I presumed to be the kitchen.

I drifted deeper into the living room, drawn magnetically toward a mantle resting above a softly crackling fireplace. There, a curated row of photographs in silver and black frames commanded my attention, each frame perfectly aligned like pieces of a well-told tale. The arrangement was far from the sterile precision of a catalog display, there was life in it, a warmth laden with memories waiting to be discovered. One image depicted Elliott standing beside a woman whose soft auburn hair cascaded around a cautious smile. They stood near enough to share intimacy yet maintained a respectful, deliberate distance, as though their relationship was forged with equal parts tenderness and decorum. It was not a casual snapshot; it was a carefully chosen moment.

Adjacent to it, a striking black-and-white portrait captured an older couple, their faces etched with kind lines and gentle laughter. The woman’s eyes twinkled with a secret joy, and the man’s subtle smile spoke of decades spent in silent understanding. But it was the photo of a boy, no more than nine or ten with light brown hair and a mischievous grin, that held me captive. His smile was wide, his front tooth endearingly crooked, and his bright expression radiated the spirit of a little rebel chasing adventures.

“Find something interesting?” Elliott’s voice gently broke through my reverie, pulling me back to the present.

I turned swiftly, a blush of mild embarrassment mingling with delight. “Just admiring,” I replied, nodding in the direction of the mantel. “You’ve got a good eye for… balance.”

He shifted his gaze over the photographs, his expression unreadable yet not unkind. “I guess I like things to feel grounded,” he said in a tone as measured and steady as the composed interior.

I stored away the image of that joyful boy and the tender couple, along with a growing curiosity about the lives captured in those frames. Who was the boy? Who was the couple? And what of the woman beside Elliott? I decided these questions would wait, tucked away for another time.

Elliott then reappeared with a tall glass of lemonade, condensation beading along its surface like tiny jewels. “Thanks,” I murmured gratefully as I accepted the drink.

The first sip carried a burst of tart sweetness that sliced through the lingering heat of the day, invigorating my senses.

“You’ve got a nice place,” I remarked, gesturing around the immaculately arranged living space. “Definitely not like my apartment.”

“I can imagine,” he said, his smile broadening mischievously. “Decorating isn’t exactly my forte.”

“Yet functionality looks pretty damn good on you,” I countered, and that spark of connection returned, subtle and undeniable. I let the silence linger for a moment, savoring the interplay of cool lemonade and warm conversation while gazing out the window at the garden we had just left behind. The gentle hum of the space, combined with the steadfast calm of Elliott himself, left me with an inexplicable feeling that I was on the brink of something transformative.

Breaking the comfortable silence, Elliott gestured toward the porch. “Shall we sit outside? The light is fantastic at this time of day.”

I nodded eagerly, already drawn to the serene allure of the garden. “Lead the way, Teach.”

We stepped back into the embrace of the evening air, settling onto wooden chairs nestled under a soft cascade of string lights that framed the roof's edge. The transition from the pristine interior to the intimate garden felt like a seamless merging of two worlds, each reflecting elements of his character: structured precision softened by inviting tranquility.

“This is really nice,” I observed, reclining slightly as the cool glass rested warmly in my palm. “Do you spend much time out here?”

“As much as I can,” he admitted, his voice imbued with the simple pleasure of the moment as his eyes swept across the garden. “It’s... peaceful. A perfect way to end the day.”

I nodded, absorbing the quiet comfort that wrapped around us like a soft blanket. The rhythmic chirping of crickets filled the spaces between our words, and for once, I found solace in that silence rather than an urge to fill it. Elliott exuded a calm steadiness, a contrast to the vibrant, ceaseless energy that surged within me. Yet, sitting beside him, I discovered an unexpected ease.

“So,” I ventured lightly, “how does a history teacher become so adept at gardening?”

A faint smile curved Elliott’s lips. “Trial and error, lots of research, and,” he added with a playful glint in his eye, “a spreadsheet or two.”

I laughed, the sound ringing clear amid the quiet symphony of the night. “Of course. The spreadsheets. I should’ve guessed.”

As we continued our conversation, the day yielded to night. The stars began to scatter like diamonds across the deepening sky, and the evening air grew cool and inviting. There was something in this unhurried moment, a simplicity that felt almost sacred. Although the path of our evolving connection was uncertain, I knew in my heart that I was eager to explore it further.

“You’ve created something really special here,” I said, gesturing towards the lush garden. “It’s like the mirror opposite of the Playhouse.”

Elliott nodded, his eyes thoughtful as he considered my words. “I suppose that’s why it works. The theater, it’s vibrant, alive. Your world surges with movement. Mine... thrives on stillness.”

I turned my gaze toward him, admiring the depths of his reflection in the gentle glow. “And yet, here we are, carving out a sort of unexpected middle ground.”

With a tender smile, he murmured, “Maybe chaos and order aren’t so incompatible after all.”

We lingered in silence for a while, a silence rich with unspoken understanding. I tilted my head back, letting my eyes wander to the sparkling stars above, and softly said, “Thanks for sharing this space with me, Elliott.”

He regarded me with a quiet humility, the lines of his face softened by the dim light. “Thank you for reminding me there’s more to life than quiet gardens.” His words hung between us, a delicate truth acknowledged without fanfare.

I exhaled slowly, savoring the moment as he fixated on the stars a moment longer before shifting beside me to catch my eye. “I should probably be going,” I said quietly yet firmly. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your night.”

He nodded, though his hesitant pause betrayed that he wasn’t entirely ready to dissolve the warm cocoon of our shared evening. Reaching for my now-empty glass, his fingertips brushed mine briefly, a touch that sent a soft, electric impulse through me. Before I could dwell on it, he rose gracefully and motioned toward the house. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

I followed him through the softly lit kitchen, where the atmosphere had grown even cozier, as if the walls had absorbed the ease of our conversation. Approaching the front door, Elliott hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck as if weighing his words.

“Would you like to have dinner sometime?” he asked, his tone tentative and careful, clearly uncertain of my reaction.

I blinked in surprised delight, warmth spreading through me. “Yeah,” I replied, the unexpectedness softening into genuine warmth. “I’d love that.”

A small, content smile curved his lips. “How about Friday? Seven o’clock at Rivermere Bistro?”

“That sounds perfect,” I answered, my response flowing with an ease that delighted me.

Stepping out onto the porch, I was met by an evening sky awash in deep purples and gentle pinks, the first stars delicately emerging as night took hold. I began ascending the path toward the sidewalk but couldn’t help glancing back.

Elliott stood in the doorway, his thoughtful eyes following me, his gaze a quiet promise brimming with anticipation. As I turned forward again, an uncanny feeling stirred within me, an intuition that tonight had subtly altered the course of our connection.