12. Bethany
Chapter twelve
Bethany
My laptop glows too bright in the dim kitchen, and I squint at the spreadsheet. Every cell in this thing feels smug.
Four browser tabs sit open, all contractor spec sheets written in English but look like they are from an appliance manual.
I'm in way over my head. Any minute now someone's going to tap me on the shoulder and ask who let me play grown-up.
"I can do this," I mutter to no one.
My coffee has gone cold, and I drink it anyway.
I shift in the kitchen chair and it drags against the floor with an ugly scrape.
I pull up my texts and stare at Timothy's name, drafting three versions of the same question. They all sound wrong.
I delete "sorry to bother you" twice before switching out of his contact info and pulling up Shane's.
Shane has been my contact at the lodge longer. He knows the building, and answers practical questions.
Going through him is familiar. Sensible.
Cowardly, possibly, but sensible.
I send:
Hey, quick question. Gate measurement: six feet from the post or the hinge?
I open the report template for Grant and start typing.
Boards show minor structural fatigue near section three, I write.
What I mean is: this thing is one bad afternoon away from a lawsuit with skates on.
Gate latch mechanism intermittently functional, goes in next.
Translation: if a guy leans on it wrong, we're looking at a hip check delivered by the universe itself.
I print one page for no reason except that paper feels more official than a PDF ever could. The printer wheezes it out. Same, buddy.
My phone buzzes on the table. I glance over, expecting an answer from Shane.
It's Timothy's name on the screen instead. A phone call, not a text.
"Hey," I say.
“Shane said you needed the gate checked,” he says. “I’m out at the rink.”
I catch myself charmed by the total lack of drama.
Behind his voice I can hear wind, the metallic clang of rink equipment knocking around. All that is happening to him while I sit here in my dry, quiet kitchen drinking my cold-ish coffee.
"Wow. I didn't mean to send you out there. I just meant whenever."
"Wasn't a big deal," he says.
"Okay, hook the tape at the base of the near post," I tell him.
“The near post,” he repeats. “Got it.”
There's something unfairly satisfying about being listened to with no argument attached to it.
I am flustered by a man correctly measuring a gate. This is a new low. Or a new high. I genuinely have not decided and would prefer not to.
I open my spreadsheet and start updating line items while we talk.
He calls out the measurements, and I enter them into the spreadsheet.
"Anything else you needed while I was out here?" he asks.
I hesitate. Then, "Can you send me a picture of the gate?"
Two photos come through. One of the gate, and another of the lower boards beside it. The exact spot I'd flagged as check again in my private notes without telling anyone.
Being useful to people feels familiar. Having someone step in for me without being asked feels dangerous. And I honestly cannot tell what to do with that.
“I could swing by the hardware store tomorrow and price out hinges,” Timothy offers, as casually as if he is commenting on the weather.
Every instinct I own says decline. Keep it contained. Keep it simple. Keep him at gate-measuring distance.
"Sure, I'll text you the list," I say instead.
I realize I'm smiling at my laptop screen.
My mouth is apparently going against my own good judgment.
After we hang up, I stand at the window with the phone still warm in my hand. Outside, the streetlight flickers.
I add a line to my project notes: Confirm supply run with Timothy.
The coffee is officially beyond saving.
And so, I suspect, is my ability to keep pretending this is only about the outdoor rink.