19. Power Tools & Promises
POWER TOOLS & PROMISES
Dylan
All set for the last-minute touch-ups and lighting dry run? Just want to make sure the orchard setup won’t overwhelm the ceremony arch.
The corners of my mouth tip up before I can stop them. I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, replaying the wording. Dry run. Lighting. Ceremony arch. All business. But she’s asking me. Trusting me to know whether we’re ready or not.
“She found an excuse,” I mutter to myself, flipping the phone in my palm. “You’re growing on her.”
I text back quick.
All set, boss. Going to do another pass to add some more lights and secure the ones already there.
There’s no reply yet, but that’s fine. Addison’s probably already in five places at once with a clipboard in one hand and a backup list in the other.
I set my phone down and look around the equipment bay, mentally checking off what I’ll need.
Lights, anchors, ladder, clips, two reels of low-voltage wire, solar jars.
I can muscle most of it on my own, but running everything efficiently would be faster with a few extra hands.
The station’s mostly quiet, the buzz of a distant radio drifting in from the office. Rookie Lee passes through the garage door, eating trail mix straight from the bag. He nods when he sees me.
“You stringing up Christmas lights in September?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“Orchard lighting test for the wedding setup,” I say, lifting a coil of wire and laying it in the truck bed. “Addison wants to make sure the aisle isn’t overwhelmed.”
Lee pops a raisin in his mouth. “You doing that alone?”
“I was thinking of recruiting some morally questionable labor.”
He grins. “Flattery and caffeine get you an hour.”
“Perfect. Meet me at the orchard in thirty?”
“Done. I’ll bring my gloves. And my playlist.”
I load the ladder and start tying down the gear.
The soft slam of the station’s front door makes me look up just as Mrs. Ramirez, one of my kids’ moms, walks in, wearing joggers and a scrub top, her curls piled on top of her head in a no-nonsense knot.
She’s holding a tray of coffee mugs and chatting with dispatch. She likes to take care of us.
She spots me and detours. “Please tell me you’re not single-handedly stringing up orchard lights with that busted shoulder.”
I shrug. “Just a few finishing touches before the storm rolls in. Nothing major.”
She sets the mugs on the nearest counter. “Need help?”
“You just got off a shift.”
“Exactly. Which means I’m not due back until noon tomorrow, and my house is full of middle-schoolers who have suddenly discovered TikTok comedy. Please. Help me escape.”
I laugh, but the warmth in my chest catches me off guard. “Seriously, no pressure.”
She waves it off. “You built my boys a ball field when they couldn’t even keep their shoes tied. You show up for people. It’s time we showed up for you.”
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out right away. Instead, I just nod and pass her a pair of gloves. “Fair warning. There will be zip ties.”
“I live for zip ties.”
By the time we’re all at the orchard, the sun’s beginning its slow descent behind the tree line.
The space is peaceful, the kind of quiet that makes you breathe deeper.
The arch stands off to the side, rough cedar against soft sky, and the grass still bears faint wheel marks from last week.
It smells like sun-warmed earth and possibility.
Lee blasts a ridiculous playlist from his truck while we unload. Ramirez sorts the solar jars without asking, instinctively spacing them where they’ll catch the most residual light. I can always count on her to anticipate work to be done and jump right in.
I climb the ladder and start feeding cable through the anchor brackets I installed last week.
The work settles into a rhythm. Bracket, loop, secure, measure, clip. Ramirez keeps the battery packs in order while Lee fumbles a bit with the dimmer settings, mumbling something about wire polarity and his deep distrust of LED tech.
“Okay,” he says. “We’ve been chill, but let’s get to it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Get to what?”
“Addison,” he says, drawing out the name like it’s gossip wrapped in a bow. “We’ve all noticed. You’re building arches like they hold the secret to the universe. You’re here after hours. You bring backup for a dry run like it’s a fire drill. When are you going to put a label on it?”
Ramirez doesn’t deny it. She just sips from her water bottle and says, “You’ve got a soft spot, all right, and it’s not for lighting placement. You’re gone for her, and everyone can see it. What are you planning to do about it?”
I scrub a hand through my hair and glance toward the arch. “It’s not like that.”
“It totally is,” Lee says.
I exhale slowly. “Fine. I like her. Okay? A lot. She’s brilliant. She’s relentless. She doesn’t take shortcuts, and she doesn’t make excuses. She’s got more on her plate than most people can manage, and she still makes everything run like clockwork.”
They don’t interrupt. I think they know this is the kind of thing that you don’t cut off halfway.
I let my voice drop. “But she’s also under a microscope. Everyone watches her. Judges her. People like Cassandra and Simon Baxter —” I stop, shaking my head. “They’d twist it. They already twist things. I wouldn’t do that to her.”
They don’t say anything.
I step off the ladder, stretch my shoulders, and take in the view. Lights begin to glow, catching the late-day gold. The rows between trees look like something from a magazine now. We’ve managed to finish all three main rows and half the perimeter without a single blown fuse.
We’re tired. A little sore. But it’s the kind of tired that comes with purpose.
“You ever think about being the guy someone counts on?” I ask suddenly.
Lee raises an eyebrow. “You mean, like, you?”
“No,” I say, then shake my head. “Well, yeah. Maybe. I used to think I just liked fixing things. That it was enough. But lately…”
“You want more than fixing.”
I glance toward the space where Addison usually stands, clipboard in hand, telling me not to use nails longer than 1.5 inches. “Yeah. I want to be someone she doesn’t have to manage. Someone she trusts. Even on her worst day.”
Ramirez smiles gently. “Then keep showing up.”
The final test run goes off without a hitch. We flip the switch and the orchard glows — not too bright, not too dim. Just right. Like it’s holding its breath for something beautiful.
I snap a photo and send it to Addison with one line:
Lights are up. Hope it matches what you pictured.
Ramirez hands me a bottle of water and pats my shoulder. “Good work, Coach.”
Lee claps me on the back and says, “Hey, if this wedding thing doesn’t pan out, we’re starting a side hustle. Smyth & Sons: Emotional Renovations.”
I laugh. “You’d last two hours before zip ties break you.”
We pack up as the first stars peek through the lavender sky. I linger behind for a few minutes, watching the orchard glow in the near-dark, golden and still.
Lee suddenly flops onto a folding crate and declares, “If I die young, please bury me beneath solar string lights.”
Ramirez chuckles and stretches her arms over her head. “Better than overhead fluorescents at the ER.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
You’ve outdone yourself! Can’t wait to see them in person.
I can’t help myself but grin as I’m putting my phone back in my pocket.
Lee chuckles, “Boss lady happy?”
“Yes, she is.”
I stay standing, rotating my shoulder gently. It’s sore from the ladder work, but worth it. The orchard looks… right. Like the kind of place someone would whisper vows into the wind and actually believe they’ll last.
“You good?” Ramirez asks, nudging my boot with her own.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just soaking it in.”
She exchanges a look with Lee, who immediately smirks.
“I think you’re downplaying things,” Ramirez chuckles.
“You’re going all-out for this, huh?” Lee says.
“She asked,” I say simply.
Lee whistles. “You’ve got it bad.”
“She deserves the best,” I reply. “And not just because she’s the planner. She’s the one making sure everything runs while everyone else takes credit for the sparkle.”
Ramirez looks up from her solar jars. “Does that woman know how lucky she is to have you in her life?”
“Working on it,” I say.
Ramirez’s voice is quieter now. “So what? You’re just gonna be her behind-the-scenes hero forever?”
“I’ll be whatever she needs me to be,” I say honestly. “If she wants distance, I’ll give it. If she wants help, I’ll show up. But I’m not going to be the reason she loses credibility or control over something she’s worked her whole life to build.”
There’s a silence that follows, thoughtful rather than awkward. The kind that fills you with both clarity and ache.
Lee sighs. “That’s annoyingly noble.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah, well, welcome to unrequited small-town crushes.”
Ramirez stands and dusts off her palms. “It’s not unrequited. She trusts you. That counts for something.”
“Trust isn’t love,” I say.
“No,” she agrees. “But it’s the first brick in something that lasts.”
We finish cleaning up as the orchard begins to dim around us. The solar jars hold their glow, warm and steady. Lee helps coil the last of the cables while Ramirez texts her boys to remind them not to burn the house down reheating frozen pizza.
As I lock the truck bed and tuck the final bracket into its case, I can’t stop thinking about Addison.
She didn’t see this tonight, in person — the orchard, the glow, the way people stepped up just because I asked. But I hope she’ll feel it. I hope she’ll know.
Because when you care about someone, you don’t push. You build. You wait.
You show up.
Even if it’s just with zip ties and backup batteries.