Page 38 of The Overtime Persuasive

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” I say, flatter than I intend.

The bell chokes behind him, leaving only Eva, me, and the flickering pumpkin candle.

“Oh my gosh. I am so relieved! That’s a load off,” Eva says, mostly to herself, as she files the lease away. “I really thought I’d be showing that apartment for weeks.”

“No, it is great.” I pick up a record, pretend to inspect it, then return it to the exact spot it was already in. “Really great.”

Something crawls across my skin. It feels like nothing I’ve experienced before.

Wait. No.

I had this feeling one other time. Sixth grade. Johnny Turner came to school with his new iPod Touch and I spent the whole day half out of my mind because I didn’t have one. It made me crazy. Bonkers jealous.

Oh no.

I’m…jealous?

Of Mercer?

I keep my face neutral, not wanting Eva to get wind that there’s a small war happening for me internally. If anyone was to ever ask, I honestly don’t know when Tripp Mercer became the answer to every question I didn’t realize I was asking.

I glance at Eva. She’s already back to her order sheets, already moving on to the next hurdle. She has no idea I’m standing near her, doing math on a problem that doesn’t exist. Or, at least, doesn’t exist yet.

“So…” I point to a pile of labels. “Can I attach these to something for you?”

Eva looks at the labels, and pulls a stack of empty subscription boxes from beneath the worktable.

“One in the center of each lid.” She sets the boxes in front of me. “Straight, please. I don’t want these people thinking I assembled these in a moving vehicle.”

“Eva.” I stand back, holding my arms out by my side. “Have we met? I play hockey. Hand-eye coordination is part of the job.”

She sighs, closes her eyes, and I think (judging from the way her lips move) she might be praying. Or asking for divine intervention.

“Well, tonight you’re not playing hockey.” She points to the stickers. “This is an exciting opportunity for us to discover whether your amazing coordination extends to stickers.”

Spinning on her heels, she leaves me at the table and returns to the counter, where she starts sorting packing slips into neat stacks.

A song comes on I recognize—Tony! Toni! Toné!’s “Feels Good,” a blast from my R&B listening days past—as I peel the first label from its backing and line it up carefully.

“You like R&B?” I ask, though I quickly realize of course she does, given she owns a record store. It’s practically a job requirement.

She smiles as she folds the tissue paper around a book and places it inside a box. “I do, but in all fairness, I try to give every genre a chance.”

“Diplomatic answer.”

I press the label into place and smooth my thumb across it. It’s navy with the Side B logo stamped across the center in gold. Same colors as the Dominion. I like it. I smooth my thumb over it, then reach for another box.

This is good. A task. Something straightforward with a clear objective and absolutely no room for me to get in my head about Tripp Mercer.

Except Mercer was here. Tripp lives upstairs now. Or he will. Soon.

Eva moves along to the rhythm of the song floating in the air around us, and I press the next label down harder than necessary.

Before tonight, Tripp Mercer existed in specific, containable locations. The rink. A locker room. Team functions. Now, my nemesis is going to be twenty feet from Eva, dropping downstairs whenever he feels like it. Watching television with her. Getting her mail.

From there, it’s only a matter of time before he’s leaning on her counter.

Shirtless.