Page 111 of The Overtime Persuasive

“Eva?” the driver asks, and I nod. “I have you going to Old Town. Is that right?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He pulls away from the curb, and I look through the window as the studio disappears behind us and my stomach does a lame somersault. If it was in the Olympics, it would have been called a face plant.

When I thought about coming here today, I never saw this in my daydreams.

I pictured coming out of the studio bursting with everything that happened in there and finding Liam waiting for me. I’d tell him about the lights and the cameras and the terrifying moment one of the producers asked why anyone should trust my taste enough to buy a box without knowing what was inside. I’d reenact my answer—wittier and far more eloquent without a camera pointed at me—and he’d laugh in all the right places.

I even pictured admitting how badly my hands shook before the camera started rolling.

But what I didn’t picture was climbing into the back of a car alone with no one to unload any of it onto.

My phone remains face down in my lap. I’m not going to look at it, but I’m also not going to be sad nor disappointed. I refuse.

The last six weeks have been huge for me. They contained a city fine, a closed café, several hundred subscription boxes, one famous father, one television competition, and a professional hockey player working his way into parts of my life where I had not issued him a permit to enter.

And we all know now that permits are the true life-source.

Come to think of it, I don’t need to talk about any of this right now. Maybe I need an hour in which I don’t have to solve, explain, organize, defend, or prepare for whatever comes next. A zen-like moment, wouldn’t that be a novel idea?

We stop at a traffic light, and I glance through the opposite window. Afternoon has softened Old Town. Sunlight catches in the upper windows of the row houses while the sidewalks below remain busy with strollers, dogs, and people who have apparently never experienced the pressure of an unanswered email. The sight of it settles something in me. These streets. These buildings. Home.

The light changes, and a few minutes later, the car pulls up outside Side B.

The driver glances at the subscription box beside me. “Would you like some help with that?”

“Awww, thank you, but I’ve got it.” I reach for the door, then look at the subscription box beside me. “Actually, can I ask you a strange question?”

He turns slightly. “Sure.”

“Are you a fall person?”

One eyebrow arches. “A fall person?”

“Pumpkins. Cinnamon. Decorative leaves. Owning more blankets than any household could reasonably require.”

He laughs. “My wife is the autumnal goddess in our house. She starts talking about fall in August.”

“Perfect.” I pick up the box and hold it toward him.

He looks from it to me. “What’s this?”

“An autumn subscription box from my store. It has a book, some music, and several seasonal items inside. Give it to your wife.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I’d rather someone enjoy it than have it sit in my apartment while my cat tries to sleep on it.”

He accepts the box carefully. “Thank you. That’s incredibly kind.”

I climb out and wave as he pulls away, taking the box and a small piece of today with him. Maybe, just maybe, we don’t have to clutch everything we think is so important so tightly to us all the time.

And I can start today with one box.

I unlock the door and step inside. The stairwell holds the familiar scent of old wood, books, and whatever candle I burned last night. Behind me, the door swings shut on the noise of Alexandria, leaving only the quiet tap of my shoes as I begin to climb.

One set of footsteps. Mine. This sound usually feels like victory, but today that feeling is a little bittersweet.