5. Lena #2
The men looked up as we approached, their conversation pausing briefly before one of them, white-haired with a plaid flannel shirt and suspenders, raised his mug in greeting.
“Ethan! Truck giving you trouble? Don’t usually see you up here on workdays,” he called out.
“Morning, Frank,” Ethan replied. “Just showing Ms. Mercer how the overlook gets used throughout the day. She‘s documenting it for the road project.”
All three men turned their attention to me, their expressions a mix of curiosity and outright disapproval. I’d seen that look in every small town I had worked in, the cautious assessment of an outsider who might change something precious.
“So, you’re the road engineer,” Frank said, his tone neutral but watchful. “Got any intention of listening to the folks around here when they tell you we don’t need your pretty new roads?”
“Respectfully, I’ve seen first hand exactly why you do need new roads,” I replied, with the same carefully controlled tone I’d used a thousand times before.
“I can assure you, I won’t be changing anything that doesn’t need it.
I can’t do my job properly if I don’t understand how people actually use these spaces. ”
The man nodded slowly, seeming to weigh my sincerity. “Been coming here every morning for twelve years, since I retired from the lumber mill. Weather permitting.” He gestured to his companions. “Jim and Phil too. Some days there’s six or seven of us.”
“Except Sundays,” added the man I presumed was Jim. “That’s family day.”
I pulled out my notebook, making notes that would never appear in a standard traffic study: “Daily informal gathering, 7-9 AM, weather dependent, 3-7 participants, consistent for 12+ years.”
“What are you documenting exactly?” Frank asked, watching my pencil move across the page.
“Usage patterns,” I explained, looking up. “How people interact with this space, how often, what needs it fulfills. It helps me understand what elements are essential to preserve in any redesign.”
Phil, who hadn’t spoken yet, gestured toward a metal container nestled between two rocks near the edge of the clearing.
“We put that trash bin there ourselves three years ago. Town council was taking too long to approve an official one. We empty it every other day, take turns bringing the bags to our home bins. So you see, we take care of things around here on our own.”
I walked toward the container, noting its strategic placement and the way the rocks shielded it from wind. Inside were several paper coffee cups, napkins, a granola bar wrapper, evidence of regular use. I photographed it, then scanned the area more carefully.
Near the entrance to the path, I noticed a collection of bike tracks and a makeshift bike rack fashioned from a fallen log that had been partially smoothed and secured between two trees.
The wood showed the polished wear of handlebars repeatedly rested against it. I ran my fingers over the worn surface.
“Mark from the hardware store made that,” Ethan said, coming to stand beside me. “His kids ride up here after school sometimes. Got tired of them dropping their bikes on the ground.”
I made another note, then spotted something I missed during our previous visit.
A small patch of wildflowers growing in what appeared to be a deliberately maintained semicircle near the edge of the viewpoint.
Unlike the random growth elsewhere, these flowers, purple coneflowers and black-eyed Susans, showed signs of care.
“The garden?” Ethan said, following my gaze. “That’s Mrs. Collins. Her husband proposed to her here in 1958. After he passed, she started tending that little patch. Said it was his favorite spot to sit.”
I turned in a slow circle, seeing the overlook through fresh eyes. What I’d categorized as a simple scenic viewpoint had layers of meaning and function. People didn’t just visit here; they invested in it, maintained it, and integrated it into their daily lives.
The runner finished her stretches and approached us, water bottle in hand. “Morning, Ethan,” she said with a nod, then turned to me. “You must be the consultant everyone’s talking about.”
“Do you come here often?” I asked, noting her comfort with the space.
“Three mornings a week, year round,” she replied. “It’s the halfway point in my run. Best view in the county, and that bench is positioned perfectly for stretching.” She took a drink from her water bottle. “My running group meets here on Saturdays too. About eight of us.”
After she continued her run, I walked to the edge of the overlook, camera in hand.
Below, Cedar Hills spread out in the morning light, smoke rising from chimneys, cars moving along the worn streets.
From here, I could see how the upper bend road connected everything, not just a transportation route but a lifeline.
“Would it kill you to include something just a bit more meaningful than the numbers?” Ethan asked, coming to stand beside me. He nodded toward my notebook where I’d been recording technical specifications.
“This project needs hard data,” I snapped, closing my notebook sharply. “Feelings don’t exactly have space on a spec sheet.”
His eyes narrowed as a frown pulled at his mouth. “Specs are hardly what bring people here. You can’t ignore why these people come here, why it matters to them.”
I clamped my pen between my fingers. “You don’t understand, Ethan. It may matter to them, but it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of these plans. It can’t. Otherwise nothing would ever change. My assessment needs to be about function, safety. There’s no place for emotions.”
“Do you not hear how callous that sounds?”
“I’m not here to build a theme park, or a memorial to all of the cozy relationships this town has built. I’m sorry, but I’m here to develop a professional report.”
“Have you ever considered that actually caring might make your report stronger? Might make you better at your job?”
I whipped my head over to meet his gaze. “Are you implying that I don’t do my job well enough?”
“All I am saying is that objectivity without empathy is empty. And in the case of this town? It’s going to make you miss something that will likely just cause more problems for you down the road.”
A sudden flurry of clicks interrupted our standoff. I glanced over at the photographer adjusting his tripod, framing the overlook below.
I’d structured my career around temporary engagements precisely to avoid this kind of entanglement, this knowing of names and stories, this awareness of who meets where and why it matters. Professionalism had always meant maintaining distance, seeing the project rather than the people.
That was the way that things should be in my line of work. It was the only way that things got done.
Something about that line of thought had me taking Ethan in again.
Up close, it was harder to ignore how ruggedly handsome he was. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up just enough to show his forearms, and the farmer's tan that glinted in the sunlight. The quiet steadiness of him that made you feel grounded, way before you realized it.
He stepped a fraction closer as he gestured towards the overlook, and his shoulder brushed lightly against mine.
The touch was nothing, barely there, and very clearly accidental.
Still, heat flickered low in my chest, catching me off guard, both unexpected and unwelcome in its timing.
I dragged my attention back to my notebook, pulling at the edges of the paper.
“I still need to make objective recommendations,” I said, more to myself than to him.
“Objective doesn’t have to mean disconnected,” he replied.
“That’s idealistic, but not reality.”
“How would you know? Have you ever stayed anywhere long enough to see what things look like after your plans get built?”
“I do my job, Ethan. I do it well, and then I go home. Fuzzy feelings don’t cushion dangerous roads.”
As annoyed as I was about his comment, as we prepared to leave, I took one more photograph.
Not of the view or the path or any technical element, but of the people using this space: the coffee group on the bench, the photographer with his tripod, even the distant figure of the runner making her way down the path.