Page 11 of The Overtime Persuasive

The money I set aside to hire part-time help. It was a nice dream while I had it.

The warm scent of apples and cinnamon hangs in the air, because apparently my apartment has decided this moment of utter failure needs seasonal ambience. I carry the binder into the kitchen and drop it onto the table. It lands with a heavy thud, followed by the much quieter slap of the notice on top of it.

I drag a chair out from under the table and plop down. For a moment, I do nothing but look around my apartment, from the fall-themed throw pillows on the overstuffed couch to the small ceramic pumpkin on the kitchen counter and the beautiful new stained-glass art piece I hung in my back window only yesterday. Beside the pumpkin sits my pile of orange and red maple leaves I meant to take down to the shop for decoration. Oh, how I yearn to feel comforted and cozy.

However, no amount of autumnal decorating can make a twelve-thousand-dollar fine feel cozy.

Something soft brushes against my ankle bringing a semblance of a smile to my face. I put my hand down and wiggle my fingers.

“Come here, Mitch.”

My sweet tabby cat winds around my legs, pressing against me as if he knows I need the distraction. Mitch is short for Mischievous, which isn’t technically how shortening a name works, but it suits him. I found him in the alley behind Side B not long after I bought the building. I’m still not sure whether he was a kitten or simply a small, underfed alley cat who considered himself part of the property. Either way, he came with the building.

It took a couple weeks before he trusted me enough to come inside. Now he acts as if the apartment has always belonged to him and I’m the stray he graciously allowed to stay.

I lean down and lift him onto my lap. He settles against me, purring as I run my hand along his back, and some of the tightness in my chest eases.

According to the city official, it could have been much worse. The twelve thousand dollars is their version of being lenient. A courtesy extended because I didn’t knowingly break the rules and stopped serving coffee as soon as he told me to.

They’re only assessing penalties for five days. Five. The café has been open for almost roughly five months, give or take.

If he had decided to count every day I operated without the right permits, I don’t even want to know what the total might have been. He also made it clear that the city could have shut down all of Side B while they determined whether the unapproved café affected the rest of the building. Not only the café. Everything.

The records. The books. The shop I’ve poured every available dollar and every waking hour into.

My stomach twists. My father told me I should let him help. When I first mentioned expanding Side B, he offered money. Contacts. People who could oversee the renovation and make sure everything was done correctly.

I refused before he finished making the offer. My friends were shocked, even my mother told me I was being ridiculous. But I couldn’t. Because I wanted to do this myself. I wanted Side B to be mine—not another thing James William Barlow paid for, arranged, or rescued. That decision felt principled at the time.

Tonight, it feels expensive.

I press my palms against my eyes and all of the thoughts pinging around my brain come rapid fire, like a movie montage. The fine. The permits. The contractor. The café. The employee I can no longer afford to hire. Spending the day explaining to customers and regulars why the machine is sitting behind the counter but no one is allowed to use it.

There’s too much to think about. It all makes me sick.

My phone dings on the table, and for once I choose to ignore it. Mitch presses harder into my lap, twisting into a tight and happy ball. At least one of us is feeling the cozy vibes of autumn.

I’m daydreaming about a hot apple cider and being away on a weekend trip to the mountains to witness the changing colors of the leaves, when my phone dings again, reminding me that someone is trying to get ahold of me. I lower my hands and look at the screen.

Lucy

Just checking in. You okay?

My fingers hover over the screen. She wanted to help yesterday, to stay and talk to me about it after the official left. But, I couldn’t. I told her to go, leave me be. I’d be okay. But, when she left, all I did was put a BACK IN FIVE sign on the door and then stand in the storage closet and cry for twenty minutes.

I could tell her I’m fine. I could say I’ve meditated on things, and by meditate I mean slept fitfully, yet I am feeling empowered because I’m burning some sage.

But, instead, I type the truth.

Honestly? No.

I’m really not.

Lucy

Is there more than the permits?

So much more.