Chapter 40
Miriam
Time-out with a Lego set isn’t so bad, especially when you’re done adulting.
I’m not on punishment, but I’ve met my quota for talking and being around people over five feet tall. Hence my own exile to the quiet corner of my classroom that I use for sensory play. Decompressing is real, and building creates a flow state to channel stress.
Today was a lot—an aspirin and an animal tranquilizer to put me out of my misery kind of day. I also got a parking ticket three minutes after my meter expired!
The morning was a block of meetings I managed to survive from the corner of a cramped conference room with a large table, no windows, and a fan plugged in to circulate air between the bodies generating heat.
Aanya called together food advocates, urban growers, block club leaders, and community members who could spare the time away from their jobs before we went to City Hall.
For years, there have been cries for Buffalo to use the thousands of vacant lots in its possession for public benefit. Most of that land is here on the East Side, unused and crawling with weeds.
What I learned from today’s meeting in Aanya’s office, which violated fire code, is that community nonprofits try to buy the lots but are hit with unaffordable market rates.
If there’s one thing I hate more than a problem that doesn’t want to be solved, it’s having a solution that people in power refuse to implement.
And beads of sweat rolling down your back. I hate that too.
Marcela was a one-woman army during today’s City Council meeting.
She was the physical manifestation of patience, dressed in a blue suit and door-knocker earrings she surely wanted to pelt at her colleagues’ heads.
That didn’t stop her from calling her fellow councilmembers and the mayor to the carpet for allowing vacant land to remain neglected.
The process to obtain lots is arduous, shutting out residents and community groups. Why is it so hard to do the right thing? People put you in office to uphold their best interests, not to waste their time and tax dollars making their lives harder.
Sitting bare-ass on thumbtacks would have been more comfortable than being inside council chambers.
Stories of elders and others taking buses to reach food sources because the nearest supermarkets are miles away—in wealthier and less diverse areas—was downright shameful.
Buffalo might be the City of Good Neighbors, but it’s one of the most segregated cities in the country.
Marcela has been fighting for changes to local zoning laws to support more affordable housing and farming efforts, as well as land disposition policies that prioritize East Side residents in vacant lot purchases.
She also wants to reserve at least thirty percent of available vacant land for sustainable efforts.
Farming.
Parks.
Community gardens.
Housing.
Public art.
The math maths, and the dollars make sense.
I left the council meeting out of Twizzlers and with a migraine. Testimonies fell on deaf ears. City Council tabled the conversation, shutting down my sister and community residents.
The chaos, masked as political process, was enough for me to take a vow of silence for the rest of the day. The kids also had a rough day, so we kicked off our shoes and pulled out Legos, kinetic sand, and slime.
“Jayden went home. You’re out of kids.”
I glance at Ms. Amber in the doorway. “That was fast.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” she laughs, nodding to the tables of houses, skyscrapers, playgrounds, and farms. “You should keep these.”
I smile. “Plan to. I asked them to reimagine a Buffalo they want to live in and build it. We have art to go with it. Cleaner waterways. More accessible harbor space. The city could learn a thing or two.”
Kids have the smallest voices but the biggest imaginations, unrestricted by limited thinking, corruption, and how things “should be.” They remind me of myself when I was younger. I fell in love with engineering because of the possibilities. They’re endless if we only dare to dream.
“Speaking of reimagining.” Ms. Amber steps under the fluorescent lights wearing jeans and a worn sweater. “I want to talk to you about your position.”
The pit of my stomach drops, and I silently curse myself for wearing a blouse and dress pants. If I’m getting fired, I want to be comfortable.
“Okay.” I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
She sits down at a small table decorated in Lego creations and brushes back a curl from her silver pixie cut. Charades and mind reading aren’t talents I possess, so I sit there staring.
“We received a donation that’s large enough to begin work on our renovation projects and expand our programming.”
“Amazing! Congratulations.”
“The donor requested we make your position full-time to support the incredible STEM work you’re doing.”
All I can do is blink. My position isn’t publicly advertised as part-time. It’s just my name and title on the website. Who would know I don’t work full-time and invest in me?
Marcela doesn’t have the funds. Her corporate job paid good money, but not like that.
My mother…no comment. And any funds from my father would come with a long lecture about using my talent.
Kieran doesn’t know enough about my business to intervene. He also doesn’t strike me as someone who would give without cameras present.
Which leaves one person.
My heart somersaults in my chest. “Antonio,” I whisper.
“Mr. Knight, yes.” Ms. Amber’s tone is cautious, her brows creasing the fine lines in her chocolate skin. “But he asked to remain anonymous.”
How did he not think I wouldn’t piece it together? He’s always doing things he assumes will go unnoticed, like the stash of Twizzlers that popped up in my mailbox. Even in his absence, he makes his presence known.
“I won’t tell. He’s my—my—”
The warmth of Ms. Amber’s smile echoes in her voice. “He mentioned a friend when the Steel were here in January. Someone in engineering, whom he spoke fondly of. That was you?”
“Yes.”
Her grin spreads. “He seems like a fine young man. Handsome too.”
“The best,” I say, my voice thick and unsteady.
Antonio never ceases to amaze. His attention to detail and care for my needs render me speechless.
The simplest gestures—the non-Valentine’s Day gifts from the Houston Space Center, ordering me a phone charger from a different country—are reminders he’s thinking of me.
He’s very thoughtful, but this is love. Not just for me, but for the community center and the kids who fulfill me every week.
“I have to go,” I say, already on my feet.
It’s a fight to not break down in front of my boss with big, messy tears and Florida Evans theatrics. My emotions and I don’t do PDA, but this man has me ready to be a spokesperson on its behalf.
I hug Ms. Amber, her price to enter and leave the premises, grab my bag and coat off the rack, and rush out the door.
My boot buckles clink over worn linoleum.
I want to sprint to my car, which is under the spell of never-ending winter, and drive to Steel House.
But Antonio isn’t there. He left for Utah with the team yesterday to acclimate to the higher elevation before Saturday’s game.
One day together wasn’t enough. By the time I made it to him after work, he’d fallen asleep with a granola bar dangling from his mouth. Sleep knocked him out for the rest of the night. I stayed in his arms on the couch, studying the shadows of his profile, which was softened from hard-earned rest.
Antonio and the rest of the Steel are getting national attention.
The recent media blitz and their undefeated record are bringing more fans into the world of rugby.
I don’t like him being away for so long, but the videos of him online keep me company.
They’re slo-mo shots of the team’s forearms and wide thighs.
I’m not ashamed to say that I saved a few of Antonio’s ass in rugby shorts, and a well-timed video of the deep cut of his abs clinging to his drenched jersey.
To them, I say, thank you for your service.
My pulse leaps when my phone rings until I realize it’s the factory-setting jingle and not the dial-up modem that’s sent me diving over the sofa on an occasion or two. Okay, six.
“Hey.” My attempt to chamber the flat greeting fails.
“Don’t sound so excited.” Kieran’s chuckle travels down the line.
“Sorry. Long day and a lot on my mind.” Like a man who isn’t you. I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder to zip my coat. “Did you need something?”
“I wanted to see about dinner, if you’re up for it.”
“Tonight?” I scrub my brow and think of my date with the DVR and a pint of ice cream.
“I haven’t seen you since our first date. We can go back to my office, and you can use the lab again.”
Damn him and that beautiful space.
A man in a trench coat could lure me into a sketchy van if he promised a computer with finite element analysis software.
I spent hours in the Maple King lab, skipping down a long rabbit hole and into a wonderland of ideas for my job. Everything I needed was at my fingertips. My mind was on technology I hadn’t accessed since I graduated. Not romance.
Kieran stayed in his office most of the night. He never tried to kiss me, and I showed no signs of interest. There were a few sidelong glances from my eyes to my lips, but nothing to suggest a future proposal.
Marcela always told me people set too-high expectations on first dates, and that leads to delusion or a misdemeanor.
The allure of access to material properties applications and visualizing stress conditions is what drew me back to the state-of-the-art facility.
I sent no calls or texts since then for Kieran to be inquiring about a same-day dinner almost two weeks later.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” The chill in the air latches on to my breath on my way out the door. No spring in sight. Only Mother Nature’s freezer.