Page 40 of Puck You Both

Third, the dark green henley.

It fits across his shoulders without pulling and leaves two buttons open at his throat, sleeves shoved to mid-forearm. I know those forearms. At some point in the last three weeks my brain promoted them from a detail to a recurring problem, and nobody consulted me.

Patrick glances at the corner of his screen. "Six minutes early."

"So are you."

"I sent the invitation."

As though this gives him jurisdiction over time.

I accept the shared screen and give the vendor spreadsheet the left two-thirds of the display, which leaves Patrick contained in the remaining third. The point of the call is now very large, and the man who arranged it has been reduced to a manageable rectangle.

Professional conditions have been achieved.

"Your linen quote is wrong," he says.

It has been eighteen fucking seconds.

"The quote is from the vendor," I say through my teeth.

"The quantity is wrong."

Unhurried, because hurrying would suggest doubt, I click into the cell. "The quantity is based on the floor plan Mama Paws approved."

"The floor plan changed Tuesday." Without looking away from me, he picks up one of his color-coded pages. "At three fourteen."

"And changed back at four-oh-two."

Rather than argue, I open the email and share that it changed back at four-oh-two. Forty-eight minutes of preparation pays for itself in one dark eyebrow lifting on a screen in Milwaukee.

"Fine," he says.

"I accept your apology."

"You received an acknowledgment."

"It was very moving."

The corner of his mouth tries something and gets put away before it qualifies as a smile. Then he turns the linen cell green, and for the next ten minutes the call is exactly what he promised. Logistics. We eliminate a caterer, reject a rental company that prices folding chairs like heirlooms, and go to war over printed programs, a war I lose on superior evidence: I argue that QR codes are free, and Patrick reports that Mama Paws printed an email last week and mailed it to him. We settle on half the original print run, and he logs my surrender in its own cell.

The ease of it gets under my guard. He finds the holes in my plans before they turn expensive, I catch the spots where his contingencies have started breeding, and neither of us ever has to explain why a backup matters. We only fight over whose backup gets to live.

On-screen, Patrick switches to the florist proposals. His hand drifts off camera, ceramic scrapes over stone, and his next breath snags halfway in.

The picture blurs at the same time. Bad connection.

"The shelter wants local flowers," he says, voice half an octave lower for some reason. "This quote includes imported roses."

"Cut them."

"The florist?"

I roll my eyes. "No, the roses."

His mouth presses flat, and even through the pixels I catch the almost-smile underneath. I sit back with the quiet satisfaction of a clean glove save.

The second florist donates labor but prices vases as though each one comes with mineral rights, so I open their itemized proposal and start stripping it for parts. Patrick listens with his chin braced on one fist, gaze aimed at the shared document.