Page 5 of Patch Perfect

I put my finished pumpkin next to his. Mine looks worried. Beck’s looks surprised. We decide they go together.

That evening, I scrub the garage dirt from under my nails, lay out a clean shirt, and check the spare helmet twice. At nine, Kate sends me a sketch of the children’s party: a crooked map of the patch with an Iron Saints wheel at every activity station. I reply instantly.

Me: I’ll be there.

Kate: I know.

I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at those two words. Sometimes people make promises without knowing how much they mean to someone else. I set my phone on the nightstand and decide I want to be the kind of man who keeps every promise.

five

Kate

By nine, fifty children and their guardians are expected, and a hundred small paper bags are waiting in the barn. Each bag contains a cider doughnut, an apple, and a packet of pumpkin seeds. I'm tying the last bag when a group of motorcycles pulls into the lot.

I look through the open barn door and count eight riders. Eight leather jackets, eight men dismounting and trying not to look lost. Roan spots me and comes over with the same shy smile he wore on the wagon. I lose track of which bag I was tying.

“Morning.” He stops at a respectful distance, though his eyes flick to my mouth.

“Morning.” I hold up a spool of orange ribbon. “Your first assignment involves a dangerous amount of knotting.”

“I've survived worse.” He takes the ribbon, then lowers his voice. “Can I hug you?”

I step into his arms before I remember my mother can see us. He holds me carefully, one hand at the middle of my back. My cheek rests against the rough cotton of his shirt. I would gladly spend the entire morning here, but a boy in the parking lot yells that one of the motorcycles has a skull on it.

“That's a wrench,” Roan murmurs, his breath near my hair. “We need a better artist.”

I step back, laughing. He introduces each man. Beck brings a box of colored pencils. Mateo brings a toolbox, saying kids and collapsible tables are a risky mix. Deacon brings a huge stuffed bat he won at a fair and calls it the event mascot.

The first bus pulls up a few minutes later. Children pour out in coats of every color. A small girl with pink glasses stands at the bottom step, holding a community center volunteer's hand. Her name tag reads Mia. She studies the motorcycles, then the pumpkin stacks, then Roan.

“Are you a giant?” she asks him.

“Only when I forget to duck.” He bends until they are eye to eye. “I'm Roan. Are you here for the pumpkins?”

“For everything.” She considers his jacket. “Do you know how to draw a cat?”

“Badly.” He points to my drawing station. “Kate knows how.”

Mia gives him her free hand. Roan takes it without looking at me, and the look on his face makes my heart ache. He treats her question as if it matters. She walks between us to the barn, swinging our arms together.

At ten, Mia returns to my table with a blank sheet she has folded into quarters. She wants a portrait of the giant, she says, but doesn't want Roan to see it until it's finished. I outline it, and she chooses the colors. She gives him bright green boots, a purple motorcycle, and an orange cape.

Mia gives him a cape because he helped her find her mitten. I almost say that Roan would never wear one, but I stop myself. She notices what I did—he pays attention to what people need before they ask.

We carry the picture across the barn. Roan kneels beside a low shelf, helping another child count the tiny pumpkins in a row. Mia waits until he stands, then holds out her drawing. He looks at the giant's green boots, then at her.

“Is this me?” he crouches again.

“You can keep it,” she tells him. “The cape is for when you're helping.”

“I'll put it somewhere safe.” He accepts the paper with both hands and glances at me over her head.

Later, as I refill the paint cups, he slides the drawing into an empty folder in my supply box. “Can you keep this flat while I work?” he asks.

“I can.” I close the folder. “She thinks you're a hero.”

“I found one mitten.” He moves a paint cup before a small elbow knocks it off. “I'd come back next year.” He says it casually, as if this day already has a place in his future.