"What just happened?" I asked myself out loud. That had to be a dream. How did I meet someone in a coffee shop? Who was very attractive and helped me out. No questions asked?
I stood outside the Gilmore Construction building for five minutes before I worked up the nerve to walk inside. The lobby was all glass and steel, nothing like the cramped offices back home where everyone knew your name and your father's name and probably your grandfather's too.
The receptionist directed me to the fifteenth floor, and I spent the elevator ride trying not to think about how my work boots looked against the polished marble floor. Jackson had told me to be myself, but I felt pretty out of place in a building where the bathroom soap probably cost more than I spent on groceries in a week.
"Travis?" A woman in a sharp gray suit appeared in the hallway. "I'm Rebecca Walsh, Mr. Gilmore's assistant. He's ready for you."
She led me through a maze of cubicles and glass-walled offices where people in expensive clothes talked into headsets and gestured at computer screens full of numbers. Everything smelled like new carpet and coffee that probably didn't come from a gas station.
Mr. Gilmore's office took up half the floor, with windows that looked out over the entire city. He was younger than I'd expected, maybe forty-five, with the kind of confident handshake that made you feel like you were being evaluated before you even sat down.
"Travis, good to meet you. Jackson's told me a lot about you." He gestured to a leather chair across from his desk. "Says you're the guy who can make magic happen with limited resources."
"I don't know about magic," I said, settling into the chair and trying not to think about how much it probably cost. "But I've gotten pretty good at making things work when they shouldn't."
Gilmore pulled out a tablet and swiped to what looked like a presentation. "Tell me about the library restoration Jackson mentioned. I want to hear it from you."
For the next twenty minutes, I walked him through the project—how we'd salvaged original hardwood from a demolished house across town, how I'd taught myself to repair the century-old windows instead of replacing them, how we'd turned a building the city wanted to condemn into something the whole community was proud of.
"What was your budget for that project?" Gilmore asked.
"Twelve thousand dollars and whatever we could beg, borrow, or salvage." I pulled out my phone and showed him the before and after photos. "The city said it would cost a hundred and fifty thousand to do it right. We proved them wrong."
Gilmore studied the photos, zooming in on details, asking questions about techniques and materials. His questions got more technical as we went, and I found myself relaxing as I talked about load-bearing walls and foundation repair and the satisfaction of bringing something back from the dead.
"The Portland community center project is different," he said finally. "Bigger scale, bigger budget, more stakeholders. But the core challenge is the same—how do you revitalize a space that's been written off by everyone else?"
He turned the tablet toward me, and I saw architectural drawings that made my chest tight with possibility. The building was beautiful, all brick and tall windows, but I could see the problems too—the structural issues that would need addressing, the systems that would need updating, the delicate balance between preservation and modernization.
"This is what Jackson would be designing," Gilmore continued. "But I need someone on the ground who understands how communities actually work. Someone who can talk to the neighbors, figure out what they really need, make sure we're not just building something pretty that nobody will use."
"What happened to the last guy who had this job?"
Gilmore's expression darkened slightly. "He lasted six months. Spent most of his time in meetings with city officials and contractors, never actually talked to the people who lived in the neighborhood. Built exactly what the blueprints said to build, ignored everything else." He closed the tablet. "The community center opened on schedule and under budget. It's been mostly empty ever since."
I thought about the community center back home, how it had taken months of listening to people complain and suggest and argue before we figured out what would actually work. How the final result looked nothing like what we'd originally planned, but everything like what the neighborhood needed.
"You want someone who can translate between the blueprints and the people who have to live with the result," I said.
"Exactly." Gilmore leaned forward. "Jackson says you're good at that. He told me you can see things other people miss."
"I see what happens when you don't listen to people. When you assume you know what's going on without actually talking to them." I paused, thinking about Mrs. Patterson, Tommy, and all the people back home who relied on me. "Communities aren't just buildings and infrastructure. They're networks of relationships, of people who depend on each other."
Gilmore watched me, his expression unreadable. "And you think you can bridge that gap? Between our corporate design and the community's actual needs?"
"I know I can," I said, surprising myself with my confidence. "Are you willing to give me the chance to prove myself?"
Mr. Gilmore was quiet for a long moment. Then he did something I didn't expect, he smiled.
"You've got guts," Gilmore said finally. "Most candidates come in here with polished presentations and corporate speak. You come in talking about community and relationships."
"The job is yours if you want it," he said, extending his hand again. "Seventy-five thousand to start, full benefits, two weeks paid vacation. When can you begin?"
My hand was shaking when I shook his hand. "Monday?"
"Perfect. Rebecca will get you set up with HR and show you around. Welcome to Gilmore Construction, Travis."
I walked out of that building feeling like I was floating six inches off the ground. The first person I called was Jackson.
"Holy shit, you got it?" His voice was so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
"I got it."
"I knew it! I fucking knew it! We're going to be working together, man. This is going to be incredible."
The second call was to Cali. I hadn't planned to call her, but her number was right there in my phone, and something made me want to share the news with someone who understood what it meant.
"Travis?" She picked up on the second ring. "How did it go?"
"I got the job." The words still felt surreal coming out of my mouth.
"Of course you did." There was something warm in her voice that made my chest tight. "When do you start?"
"Monday. Which means I need to find an apartment this weekend and figure out how to move my entire life in three days."
"I might be able to help with that too," she said. "If you want."
Monday morning came faster than I was ready for. I'd spent the weekend in a blur of apartment hunting, furniture shopping, and trying to cram everything I owned into boxes that would fit in my truck. Cali had been right about the apartment—she knew someone who knew someone, and I'd ended up with a one-bedroom place in a neighborhood that didn't require a co-signer or three months' rent upfront.
But sitting in my new apartment Sunday night, surrounded by boxes and eating takeout Chinese food off a paper plate, the reality hit me. I was alone in a city where I knew exactly two people. The walls were thin enough that I could hear my neighbors arguing through the bedroom wall. The traffic outside never stopped, even at midnight.
I'd called Mrs. Patterson to check on her new heating system, and she'd spent twenty minutes telling me about the nice young man from the county who'd not only fixed her furnace but installed a new thermostat and signed her up for a program that would cover future repairs. She sounded happier than I'd heard her in months.
Tommy had texted me a photo of his algebra test—a B+, his highest grade all semester. He was excited about the tutoring program, and said the college kids actually made math make sense in a way I never could.
Everyone back home was doing fine without me. Better than fine, actually. And somehow that made me feel more alone than ever.
Jackson met me in the lobby of the Gilmore building at eight AM sharp, bouncing on his toes like a kid on Christmas morning.
"First day!" he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "You ready for this?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
He led me through the same maze of cubicles I'd navigated for my interview, but this time he was pointing out departments and introducing me to people whose names I immediately forgot. Everyone was friendly in that polite, professional way that made it clear they were being nice because Jackson was there.
"This is your desk," Jackson said, stopping at a workstation near a window. "Right next to mine, so we can collaborate on the community center project."
The desk was bigger than my kitchen table back home, with a computer that looked like it cost more than my truck and a phone that had more buttons than I knew what to do with. There was a stack of orientation paperwork, a welcome packet, and a coffee mug with the Gilmore Construction logo.
"Pretty sweet setup, right?" Jackson was grinning at me like he'd personally arranged for me to win the lottery.
"It's incredible," I said, and I meant it. But something about the pristine workspace made me feel like I was playing dress-up in someone else's life.
"Okay, so first things first—Rebecca wants to do your official orientation at nine. Then we've got a team meeting at ten to go over the community center timeline. After that, I figured we could grab lunch and I'll show you around the neighborhood where we'll be working."
Jackson's enthusiasm was infectious, but it also highlighted how out of place I felt. He moved through the office like it was his own backyard. I watched him, feeling like an impostor in my pressed button-down shirt and new work boots.
The morning flew by in a blur of paperwork, introductions, and trying to figure out how the office coffee machine worked. By lunch, my head was spinning with information about project timelines, budget allocations, and company protocols that seemed designed to turn simple conversations into formal processes.
Jackson and I were just getting back from a sandwich shop down the street when Rebecca appeared at my desk, looking slightly frazzled.
"Travis, I need to prepare you for this afternoon's client meeting. We've got the Portland Family Foundation coming in at two to discuss the community center project." She handed me a folder thick with documents. "This is a big account for us—they're funding the entire renovation."
I opened the folder and started scanning the client information, but Jackson was already talking.
"Oh, this is perfect timing. You'll get to see how we handle the big clients, see the project from the funding side." He leaned over my shoulder to look at the paperwork. "Portland Family Foundation—they do good work. Foster care advocacy, community development, that kind of thing."
Something about the name tugged at my memory, but I couldn't place it. I kept reading through the project overview, trying to absorb as much as I could before the meeting.
"The CEO is supposed to be pretty intense," Rebecca continued. "Very detail-oriented, asks a lot of questions. Mr. Gilmore wants you in the meeting since you'll be the community liaison on this project."
My stomach tightened. First day on the job and I was already being thrown into a high-stakes client meeting. "What exactly do I need to know?"
"Just be yourself," Jackson said. "That's why they hired you, remember? To be the guy who understands what communities actually need."
At 1:55, I found myself in the same conference room where I'd interviewed just days before, sitting next to Mr. Gilmore and trying to look like I belonged at a table that probably cost more than most people's cars. Rebecca was shuffling through papers, Jackson was pulling up architectural drawings on his laptop, and I was wondering what the hell I was supposed to contribute to a conversation about funding and construction timelines.
"They should be here any minute," Mr. Gilmore said, straightening his tie. "Remember, this foundation has very specific ideas about community engagement. They want to make sure we're not just building something pretty that nobody will use."
The conference room door opened, and Rebecca stood up to greet our client.
"Ms. Reed, thank you for coming. We're excited to discuss the project with you."
I looked up from the papers I'd been pretending to study, and my heart nearly stopped.
Walking into the conference room, dressed in a sharp black suit with her hair pulled back in a way that made her look like she could run a Fortune 500 company, was Cali.
Our eyes met across the table, and for a split second, I saw the same surprise I was feeling reflected in her expression. Then her professional mask slipped back into place so smoothly I almost wondered if I'd imagined the moment of recognition.
"Thank you for having me," she said, her voice crisp and businesslike in a way that was completely different from how she'd sounded in the coffee shop. "I'm looking forward to hearing your plans for the community center."
Mr. Gilmore gestured to the empty chair across from me. "Please, have a seat. I'd like you to meet our newest team member, Travis Kingston. He'll be serving as community liaison for this project."
Cali—Ms. Reed—extended her hand across the table with the same professional courtesy she'd probably shown a hundred other contractors. But when our hands touched, I felt that same warm recognition from the coffee shop.
"Mr. Kingston," she said formally. "I look forward to working with you."
"Likewise, Ms. Reed," I managed, trying to match her professional tone while my brain was still catching up to the fact that the woman who'd helped me reorganize my entire life was sitting across from me in a business suit, about to become my client.
Jackson started his presentation, pulling up blueprints and talking about architectural features, but I was having trouble focusing on anything except the surreal situation I'd found myself in. Three days ago, Cali had been a stranger who'd bought me coffee and made phone calls to help people she'd never met. Now she was the CEO of the foundation funding my first major project.
"The question I have," Cali was saying, and her voice snapped me back to the present, "is how you plan to ensure community engagement goes beyond simply building a structure. How do you plan to actually connect with the residents and ensure this center will serve a genuine purpose for the neighborhood."
Her gaze fell to me. "I believe this requires more than architectural plans. It requires understanding the background of the community.
Mr. Gilmore nodded toward me. "Travis, why don't you walk Ms. Reed through your approach to community engagement?"
I cleared my throat, acutely aware that Cali was watching me with the same intensity she'd probably used to shut down those seventeen corrupt foster homes. "Well, the first thing I'd want to do is spend time in the neighborhood. Not just drive through it, but actually walk the streets, talk to people on their porches, visit the local businesses."
"That sounds very... informal," Rebecca said, glancing at her notes. "Don't we have demographic data and community surveys?"
"Data tells you what people say they want," I said, finding my footing as I talked about something I actually understood. "But it doesn't tell you what they actually need, or what they're afraid to ask for." I looked directly at Cali. "For example, the surveys might show that people want after-school programs for kids. But if you talk to the parents, you might find out they really need a safe place for teenagers to hang out so they're not getting into trouble on the streets."
Jackson pulled up a neighborhood map on his laptop. "What would that look like practically?"
"I'd start by identifying the informal community leaders—the people everyone goes to when they have problems. The woman who runs the corner store, the guy who fixes everyone's cars in his driveway, the grandmother who watches half the kids on the block." I was warming up now, remembering how this had worked back home. "These aren't the people who show up to city council meetings, but they're the ones who actually know what's going on."
Cali leaned forward slightly. "And then what?"
"Then I'd ask them what they think the neighborhood needs, but more importantly, I'd ask them what's already working. What are people already doing to take care of each other? What informal systems are in place that we don't want to disrupt?" I gestured toward the architectural drawings. "A community center isn't supposed to replace the community that's already there. It's supposed to strengthen it."
Mr. Gilmore was nodding. "Can you give us a specific example?"
"Back in Cedar Falls, we had this empty lot where kids kept playing pickup basketball, but the hoop was falling apart and there was broken glass everywhere. The city wanted to fence it off, calling it a safety hazard." I pulled out my phone and showed them a photo. "Instead, we cleaned it up and put it in a proper court. But we also added picnic tables where the older folks could sit and watch the games, because that's what they were already doing from their porches. Now it's not just a basketball court—it's a place where three generations hang out together."
"How long did that take?" Cali asked.
"Six months from idea to completion. But the first three months were just listening. Figuring out who used that space, when they used it, what would make it better without changing what already worked."
Jackson was typing notes on his laptop. "So for the Portland project, you'd want to do the same kind of listening period before we finalize any interior designs?"
"Exactly. The blueprints show us what's possible. The community tells us what's needed." I looked around the table, realizing I'd been talking for several minutes without feeling nervous. "And sometimes what's needed isn't what anyone expected."
Cali sat back in her chair, and I caught something that might have been approval in her expression. "Mr. Gilmore, I think your new community liaison understands exactly what we're looking for."
"I have to ask," Mr. Gilmore said, "how do you plan to balance community input with project timelines and budgets? Community engagement can be... unpredictable."
"That's why you build flexibility into the timeline from the beginning," I said. "You budget for changes, because there will be changes. But the changes you make based on actual community input are usually cheaper and more effective than the changes you have to make later when nobody uses what you built."
Cali opened her portfolio and pulled out a contract. "I think we're ready to move forward. Mr. Kingston, I'll want weekly reports on your community engagement progress. I want to know who you're talking to, what you're learning, and how it's affecting the project design."
"Of course," I said, trying to sound professional while my heart was doing something complicated in my chest.
"There's one more thing," she continued, her tone shifting slightly. "The Portland Family Foundation has a very specific approach to community development. We don't just fund projects. We partner with communities to create sustainable, long-term solutions."
The meeting wrapped up with handshakes and promises of follow-up emails. Jackson was already deep in conversation with Mr. Gilmore about project timelines, and Rebecca was gathering up her papers, but I found myself lingering as Cali packed her portfolio.
"Ms. Reed," I said quietly, stepping closer to her end of the table. "Could I speak with you for a moment?"
She glanced around the room, then nodded toward the door. "Of course, Mr. Kingston."
We stepped into the hallway, far enough from the conference room that we wouldn't be overheard but close enough that anyone walking by would assume we were discussing project details.
"So," I said, shoving my hands into my pockets. "This is awkward."
"Professionally awkward," she agreed, her voice still carrying that crisp business tone but with something softer underneath. "I should have realized when Rebecca mentioned your name, but Kingston is common enough that I didn't make the connection."
"And I should have put together the Portland Family Foundation with the woman who made three phone calls and fixed everyone's problems in ten minutes." I ran a hand through my hair. "Does this complicate things? The project, I mean?"
Cali was quiet for a moment, studying my face like she was trying to solve a puzzle. "It doesn't have to. We both have jobs to do here, and they happen to overlap in a way that could actually be beneficial."
"Beneficial how?"
"You understand community engagement because you've lived it. I understand systems and funding because that's what I do." She shifted her portfolio to her other arm. "As long as we can keep our professional relationship separate from... whatever happened in the coffee shop."
"What happened in the coffee shop?" I asked, then immediately regretted it. "Sorry, that's not—I didn't mean to make this more awkward."
"You were drowning in other people's problems, and I threw you a life preserver." Her expression softened slightly. "It's what I do, Travis. It's literally my job to identify people who need help and connect them with resources."
Something about the way she said it made my chest tight. "So that's all it was? Professional instinct?"
She was quiet for a long moment, and I watched her professional mask waver slightly. "I don't usually give strangers my phone number."
Before I could figure out how to respond to that, Jackson appeared in the hallway.
"Travis! There you are. Mr. Gilmore wants to go over the community engagement timeline with you." He glanced between us. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"
"Not at all," Cali said smoothly, her business voice sliding back into place. "Mr. Kingston and I were just discussing the reporting structure for the community outreach phase."
"Perfect. Ms. Reed, it was great meeting you. I think this project is going to be something special."
"I agree," she said, then looked at me. "Mr. Kingston, I'll expect your first community engagement report by Friday. My assistant will send you the reporting template."
"Of course, Ms. Reed."
She walked toward the elevators, and I watched her go, trying to reconcile the woman in the sharp suit with the person who'd sat across from me in a coffee shop and reorganized my entire life without asking for anything in return.
Jackson was grinning at me when I turned back to him. "Dude, you were totally flirting with our client."
"I was not flirting. We were discussing project parameters."
"Right. Project parameters." He was still grinning. "Come on, Mr. Gilmore's waiting."