Page 72 of The Overtime Persuasive

EVA

With one lone sweep of his paw, Mitch manages to delete my next payment to the City of Alexandria. He leaves his foot planted on the keyboard and looks at me with the serene indifference of someone who has never paid taxes, rent, or a single shipping invoice in his life.

I remove the paw. He puts it back.

“Mitch.”

This time, his tail catches the handle of my mug and sends tea sloshing dangerously close to my computer. Luckily, I rescue it with one hand, then relocate him to the chair beside me with the other, and hit Undo. The number reappears in its pale-yellow cell.

Below me, Side B has been dark for almost two hours, but I’ve brought the store upstairs in the form of my laptop, three receipts, and the color-coded spreadsheet my accountant helped me straighten out earlier today. Six weeks ago, losing one number would have required a search through several open tabs, two notebooks, and whatever information I could retrieve from the wilderness of my memory.

Tonight, I know exactly where it belongs.

I add last week’s subscription-box revenue and watch the total rise. Every dollar has a job now. Some have better jobs than others. The ones allocated to tissue paper and ribbon seem much happier than the ones going to City Hall, that’s for sure.

I know that one good month still isn’t enough to convince myself I’m out of the woods, as they say, and I’m not foolish enough to confuse progress with rescue. But the numbers no longer feel like something stalking me through the dark. They’re here, in front of me, where I can see them.

I finish entering the last receipt, then open the forecast Liam made for me so I can check my work. That man really is the full package. He’s hot, especially in his uniform when he’s on the ice, his kisses are amazing, and he knows how to do numbers.

His projections match mine closely enough to be reassuring and irritating in equal measure. Of course they do. The man probably alphabetizes the condiments in his refrigerator and considers it a relaxing evening.

How is it that the man of my dreams has been right here this whole time and I didn’t see it?

I really hope I get to see the inside of that fridge soon, too.

“Look at that,” I tell Mitch. “We are financially literate.”

Mitch sits between my feet and looks up at me. The apartment is quiet around us. A documentary plays softly from the television, ignored while I work. Beyond the windows, the last glow of the evening has faded, leaving my reflection suspended over the darkened glass.

The temperature dropped sharply after sunset. It’s the first night this fall that actually feels cold rather than autumn merely making enthusiastic promises.

I take a sip of my tea, a faint chill in the air raising goose bumps along my arms, before returning to the spreadsheet. The subscription boxes are doing better than the original forecast. Not enough for me to start making reckless decisions, but enough that the second city payment won’t wipe out every dollar I’ve set aside. If sales hold through the holidays, I may even be able to revisit hiring help early in the new year.

No promises. No fantasies. But, there are options.

I look down at Mitch. “Hey, good news. I am a woman who has options.”

He ignores my announcement, and I enter the final number––check it twice, then add a green check mark beside today’s date.

Done.

I raise my arms above my head as if I were crossing an imaginary finish line, and do a silent scream of joy as a heavy metallic bang comes from inside the wall.

Mitch launches himself beneath the table, and I freeze with both hands still in the air.

The apartment goes quiet again.

“That sounded like it hurt,” I say to no one, and Mitch remains under the table.

“This building makes noises, right?”

Pipes groan. Floorboards creak. The stairwell gives an occasional sigh late at night, as if personally exhausted by all the people walking through it. Buildings this old have character. Although character, as I have learned, is the charming word real estate agents use for problems that will eventually require money.

We stay quiet for several seconds. Nothing happens.

“See?” I lean down until I can find Mitch in the shadows beneath my chair. “Everything is fine.”

The radiator beside the window answers with a violent series of knocks and hissing that sends Mitch bolting out of the kitchen.