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His eyes crinkle. “Where’s your critique? Aren’t you going to lecture me about a world water shortage? That kids shouldn’t have fun when half the planet’s drying out?”
I snort. “Is that what you want? For me to rain on your parade? To be some kind of fun-stealer?”
He shakes his head slowly, still looking at me. “No, I really want your input. If we can pitch this right, show that we have real commitment to sustainability, then I’m all for it. So go on, let me have it.”
I take a breath. This is why I’m here after all. And yeah, my family teases me constantly about wanting to save the world, but that’s not it. I can’t save it, I know that.
But I can at least point out where we can stop making things worse.
“What water system are you going to use?” I ask him.
The corner of his lip quirks. “I’m not completely sure but I can check. It’s gray water though. I can get the designer to send you the specs.”
I nod. “That would be good.” I’m not stupid, I know this isn’t a real job. And I’m pretty sure that any impact I make will be minimal. But something about him asking – about him listening – makes me want to try anyway.
“If it’s gray water, you’ll want to make sure they’re filtering it with natural biofiltration too,” I tell him. “Reeds, gravel, UV light. I saw a similar system at an eco-hotel in South America. They managed to reduce their output by forty percent without compromising guest experience. And if you tie that in with the landscaping, use some native species that don’t guzzle water, maybe add some kid-friendly signage that explains how it all works, then it’s not only about making it sustainable. It’s making it cool.”
My words tumble out faster than I expect, hands gesturing as I talk. I’m not even thinking anymore, I’m just word vomiting.
When I glance at him, he’s watching me.
“What?” I ask, wrinkling my nose. “Did I say something wrong?”
His expression softens, and for a second I think he might smile. But instead, he shakes his head.
“No,” he murmurs. “That was interesting.”
“Was it?” I frown. “Okay. Let me tell you all about my composting obsession next.” I wiggle my brows. “And black water recycling.”
He huffs a soft laugh, his eyes still locked on mine. “Black water? As in...”
“Sewage,” I say gleefully. “You filter it, treat it, reuse it. It’s a total game-changer.”
“Great,” he says. “I can see the billboards now. ‘Come swim in your own shit’.”
“Recycled shit,” I correct him. “And okay, I can see you’ll need some persuading. But if we can pitch it right…” I fade off, a smile pulling at my lips. “It’s not just any shit, it’s luxury grade, eco-certified shit…” I say in a deep, advertising-like tone.
His lips twitch, and he parts them to respond, but a voice calls out from behind us.
“Hey, boss.”
One of the site workers – a tall man with a deep sun-tan, maybe in his mid-forties – hurries toward us, a grin on his face.
“Hey Matt.” West sounds genuinely pleased to see him.
Matt looks at us, and I realize we’re standing too close. I step back from West, welcoming the space.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Matt says. “I just wanted to thank you. My kid he’s…” he shakes his head. “He’s buzzing. Or as buzzing as you can be in a hospital bed.”
“How’s he doing?” West asks.
“Much better now that he has an iPad to watch Youtube on.” He looks at me again. “My son’s just had surgery. Dropped hisold tablet on the floor and smashed it. And this guy sent a new one to his hospital room.”
“Oh,” I say softly. “I hope he’s feeling better soon.”
“Getting there.” Matt grins. “I should head back. We’re about to start pouring the concrete for the support columns and I got to make sure it’s done right.” He slaps West on the arm like they’re old friends. “I just heard you were here and wanted to stop by. Thanks again. I owe you a beer.”
He walks away, adjusting his yellow hat, and I turn to look at West. “Do you buy iPads for all your employees’ kids?” I ask him.
