Page 42 of The Overtime Persuasive

My finger hovers over the button, about to take the photo—when Mitch picks this very instant to launch himself onto the table and thrust his butt directly in front of the camera. I don’t have a chance to stop it, I don’t even have a chance to wish it was his face there instead before the photo snaps.

Laughing, I stare at the result. The box is beautifully lit in the background, and the candle glows. The gold sticker catches the light like I wanted it to...and in the center of it all is an enormous, blurry cat arse.

“Perfect,” I say out loud to no one but Mitch. “National television will love this.”

Side B’s afternoon rush arrives all at once, as if everyone in the vicinity of the shopping district collectively decided they need a new book or some new tunes before the weekend can officially begin.

I’m in the middle of ringing up a woman with an armful of paperbacks when the phone in my back pocket starts vibrating.

“Hey, Eva, do you have another copy of this somewhere?” a man calls from the R&B record bins, holding up an empty divider card. “I really need that Mary. J. Blige album for my daughter’s birthday.”

“One second,” I call back, then smile at the woman across the counter. “Sorry. Apparently, we’re experiencing a birthday-vinyl emergency.”

“That is an emergency of the most serious kind,” she agrees.

By the time I tuck her receipt into the bag and tell her to have a good day, my phone has stopped ringing. It starts again almost immediately, but I ignore it and head to the R&B section.

I look in the bin where the album should be, and of course it isn’t there. That would make this easy. I check the display above it and find the last copy tucked behind another record.

“Found it.” I hold it up, handing it to the waiting customer. “Mary J. was waiting for her moment to shine.”

“Thank you.” His shoulders drop with relief. “You may have just saved a birthday.”

I head back to the counter and clap my hands. “Good! I’m putting that on the store’s website.”

He laughs as I slide the album into a protective sleeve and ring him up. By the time I tuck his receipt into the bag, the rush has thinned to only a few people browsing near the front. I wish him luck with the birthday and watch as the last customer follows him out, leaving Side B quiet for the first time all afternoon.

My phone rings again. I pull it out, prepared to silence it, but Dad’s name fills the screen.

“Hi,” I say, answering while I move toward the end of the counter. “You’ve caught me in the middle of a small retail uprising.”

He laughs in my ear. It’s a sound that always makes the distance between us shrink, opening up a slew of memories from childhood. Yes my dad can write music that makes the world happy and can pack concert halls around the world, but his laugh? It’s my favorite sound of his.

“Should I call back?”

“Nah, you’re fine. I’m sure I have a few minutes before someone needs me to locate some rare album they’ve been hunting for or asks me to order some books for them. How are you?”

I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder and duck beneath the counter, where I keep the overflow stock list.

“I wanted to check in about when I’m in town. I’ll be there in two weeks,” Dad announces, joy floating in his voice. “Are you still free for your pops to take you to dinner?”

“Abso-flipping-lutely.” I run my fingers through my hair as I stop and actually take a breath for the first time in probably an hour. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Good. I made a reservation for seven and I can have a car pick you up. That work?”

Of course he’ll send a car for me. That’s how James William rolls. “Perfect.”

“And the show is the following night. Am I holding tickets for you?”

“Oh, I don’t—” I start, then pause, because I have no idea how that sentence is supposed to end. I don’t know? I don’t need them? I don’t want to decide this right now?

Okay, Eva. Let’s unpack this the way emotionally stable adults do: rapidly, internally, and while pretending nothing is happening.

I have never had trouble deciding how many tickets I want for one of Dad’s shows. I usually ask for anywhere from two to four. If I say two, he assumes I’m bringing Lucy. If I end up going alone, no one cares about the empty seat, and I don’t have to feel ridiculous for only asking for one. It’s a perfectly good system.

I could bring Vivian or Juliette. Neither of them has been to one of his shows. I could ask for four tickets and bring all three of them. Simple.

My gaze drifts to the table in the far corner of the store. Or, I guess I could bring Liam. The thought appears so easily that it takes a second for me to realize I’ve had it.