Page 99 of The Overtime Persuasive

“I have a nephew in Baltimore,” Mrs. Green goes on. “He’s opening a café near the ballpark. I don’t know how far along he is or what he’s already purchased, but I could speak to him.”

I blink at her. “You mean ask whether he might want to buy some of it?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” I glance back at the espresso machine and conduct the calculations again. The total does not get any less appealing the second time. “No. I definitely don’t mind.”

“Although”—she raises one finger—“I would like to formally request that you keep the tables and chairs.”

“For book club?”

“Obviously.” She smiles. “This is my outlet, Eva. I loved Side B from the moment you opened it. Do you know how long our club looked for somewhere to meet? Now we have you and this place and…” Her gaze travels over the store. “Well, we have a community.”

For a moment, I forget about the television, the city, and the thousands of dollars sitting unused behind her.

A community.

I’ve spent so much time worrying about whether Side B is stable enough to stay open that I haven’t stopped to see what’s already taken root here. People come back. They bring their friends. They meet among the shelves and argue about books they may or may not have read. They’ve made this place theirs too.

“That’s…” I blink against the sudden pressure of surprise tears behind my eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Green. Seriously. I can’t tell you how nice it is to hear you say that.”

She reaches across the counter and takes my hand. “I wanted you to know you have something special here, whether the café is part of it or not. Your coffee was good,” she adds.

I screw up my face. “Was?”

“But it wasn’t why we kept coming back.”

A laugh escapes me, taking some of the tightness in my chest with it.

“You could open that area up,” she continues, releasing my hand. “Give yourself more room for events. Add some shelves, maybe. Keep enough tables for groups like ours, though, please. Honestly, that is great retail real estate there. There are all sorts of things you could do with it.”

I look toward the café again.

She’s right. Take away the machines and the pastry case, and the space changes. There could be more seating. A proper event area. Room for readings, album-listening nights, workshops, or subscription-box packing sessions that don’t swallow every available surface.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess that’s true.”

The music filling the store fades between songs, and from the café, the muted broadcast cuts to center ice. Players take their positions while the official steps forward with the puck. I spot Liam in white at the edge of the frame, knees bent and stick against the ice.

All this time, I’ve been focused on asking myself what Side B would lose if I let the café go.

I haven’t once asked myself what it might gain.

“All right,” I tell Mrs. Green. “Have your nephew get in touch with me.”

“You got it.” She taps the counter as she heads to the door. “I’ll call him tonight.”

On the television, the puck drops, and Liam pushes into motion. While I stand here, behind the counter, looking around me. What else have I been so blind to?

I thought fixing everything meant holding tighter—keeping every piece of the original plan firmly in place until I could force it all to work again.

Maybe I don’t have to.

Maybe letting go of one part of ourselves doesn’t mean giving up on the whole thing. Sometimes it simply means we’ve finally made room for whatever comes next.

CHAPTER 24

LIAM