Page 9 of The Overtime Persuasive

Lucy

Perfect. You’re cooking.

You’re bossy.

Lucy

You’re younger.

By four minutes.

Lucy

Still counts.

I slide into the driver’s seat, and for a second, I consider taking the turn toward Old Town. Showing up at Side B, again, and harassing my sister.

Yes, all to maybe get a little face time with Eva.

It’s pathetic, isn’t it, how easy it is for me to pretend that Lucy is the reason I’d be going there. Show up to harass a family member just to stand across from a woman who may or may not roll her eyes as she makes a sharp little dig at me.

At least I’d be standing in front of Eva when she did it.

But, instead, I start the car and head home.

Probably the smarter choice—but I’ll still overthink it the whole drive home.

CHAPTER 3

EVA

After locking the front door, I turn the sign to CLOSED and switch off the lights over the coffee bar. The coffee bar that is, according to the City of Alexandria, not currently allowed to provide anyone with coffee.

My shoulders tense. These are dark times, akin to prohibition if you ask me.

I tuck my bright orange binder beneath my arm, pick up the single sheet of paper that ruined yesterday for me, and head toward the staircase at the back of the shop. Should I have adulted and dealt with this last night? Probably, but when I went home I only wanted to do one thing and that was collapse. Then, decompress and let the news settle while I plowed ice cream into my mouth and thought about all of my life choices and where I went wrong.

Usually, each step I take toward my apartment excites me. I am an introvert to my core. I love going home right after work and sitting by myself. There’s nothing sexier to me than a morning stroll alone. And being able to commandeer my remote to watch the documentaries I want to watch, at any given time, and all the true crime I can handle?

Yes, please.

But tonight, each step I take feels like a death knell. There’s a cadence as I place one foot on each step and push off moving to the next; and it’s not positive. I’m regretting not mourning all of this more last night, because today, it’s pretty depressing.

By the time I reach the second floor, I’m trying to talk myself out of selling everything, moving to the desert, and admitting defeat when the door to the studio unit cracks open.

Les, the elderly tenant who came with the building when I bought it, smiles as he flings the door open wider. “Hey, Eva.”

I stop on the landing and grin. Can’t be upset when an Irishman says hello. That accent is everything. “Hey, Les. Having a good day?”

“I am, despite the chaos.” He chuckles. Newly discharged from the hospital after a fall, Les has been recuperating at his son’s nearby. We’d been in touch, mostly so I wouldn’t worry, but I haven’t seen him in at least a week. “How are things at the store?”

I shrug, then hold up the binder and the paper. “Well, the city stopped by yesterday.”

“Uh oh.” Les looks between them. “What did they want?”

I shift the binder beneath my arm. “Before I explain, I should probably warn you that you won’t be getting your afternoon coffee for a bit, because apparently if I sell it, it’s illegal.”

He bites his lower lip, his eyes sparkling. “Coffee is illegal?”