Page 32 of Common Grounds

“That obvious?” he grins.

I run my thumb over the glass right above his grandfather’s lips. “You have the same smile,” I say quietly.

Ethan’s camera clicks a few times, pointed right at me. I shoot him a warning look, but he just shrugs and walks away.

I flip to the next picture. It’s a color picture of a young man wearing a light blue button-down and jeans. He’s smiling, too, but what’s striking about this one is his eyes. Intense, amber pools peer up at me through time and space and film. They’re Trevor’s eyes. I meet his gaze over the photos. His smile has softened, and his own eyes crinkle at the corners as if he can read my mind.

“This is your dad?” I ask quietly.

He swallows hard. “Yeah.”

I can see the pain written plainly across his face, even though he keeps his lips trained in a smile. It wavers almost imperceptibly. He misses them deeply. He must feel close to them here. This is not just a second home. It’s a place that houses the memories of his family.

I look back at the picture in my hands. “People always said I have my mom’s eyes,” I say quietly. I’m not sure why I even say it. I’m not one to openly share information with anyone.

And, suddenly, I can see her eyes—our eyes—narrowed in disappointment, darkening in anger when I told her I wouldn’t be running back to my ex, nor would I go back to The Gazette and beg for a job that didn’t even exist anymore.

It’s a far cry from the pride on the face of the man in this picture.

Ethan’s camera clicking has conspicuously stopped, as if he’s afraid to break the moment. Trevor takes a step closer to me. “You said you don’t talk to her much anymore?”

“Not at all, actually,” I admit. “She…” I trail off and inhale deeply. My gaze meets his again. He’s closer to me than I expect, and my breath hitches.

What am I doing? This isn’t about me, and I certainly don’t need to be getting all personal with a man I am trying my best to stay away from.

But he tilts his head, his expression open and patient. My parents’ rejection of me and Cass isn’t something I’m ashamed of, but it is something I’m tired of carrying around. I don’t know why, but it seems like sharing this grief with Trevor—even though it’s different in a lot of ways—might feel good.

“She didn’t agree with my relationship choices,” I say, leaving it open-ended enough for him to come to his own conclusions. My parents being assholes is one thing, but my divorce is another. That’s not something I’m ready to just blurt out in the middle of his shop. “My sister’s either,” I add. I can feel Ethan’s mouth gaping. He knows how private I am, so it must be a shock to hear me say it out loud.

Trevor nods, but I don’t give him a chance to speak. I walk past him to the counter and set the pictures back where I found them. I look around more slowly, taking in the space with this history in mind. I’m aware of Trevor’s gaze on me and Ethan’s camera clicking through more test shots as I do, but I take my time, letting myself linger on the dark, well-worn laminate on the counter, the warm lights of the display cases housing muffins and bagels, the cozy tables and chairs that were clearly selected and placed with love many years ago, the tin ceiling tiles that a vintage enthusiast would love.

Now that I’ve let myself see it, I can’t unsee it. This really is a perfect space. People should be in here right now, working on homework, listening to their podcasts while watching passersby, reading a good book with a muffin and an iced coffee. It should be the space people meet for conversations.

It shouldn’t be empty.

Donna was right. A space like this is a cornerstone of a community. It’ll never make sales like the big coffee shop on the next block, but it should have a steady stream of regulars and new customers who are after a different vibe than that place provides.

I was supposed to help with that. And I didn’t.

“Right,” I say, crossing to a table by the window and setting my own bag down. “It’s not too late to turn this around. The next article needs to do better than the last one, and I have some ideas. Trevor, do you have a few minutes to chat with me?”

Trevor gives me a wry smile as he looks around the empty shop, then back to me. “I’ve been in here all morning playing around with flavoring whipped cream.” He purses his lips against a larger smile at what I’m pretty sure is an inside reference to my love of the topping, and I have to try hard to ignore the flip my stomach does at the memory. “I have pretty much nothing but time.”

Ethan sweeps by me, camera in hand, and mutters as he passes, “There’s that fire you’ve been missing.”

I clench my jaw because he’s right.

He starts taking pictures of the ceiling. Clearly, he noticed these details, too, which is why I love working with him even when he’s pointing out my flaws. He often knows what I’m after before I do.

I pull out a chair and motion for Trevor to sit across from me, which he does. I tap my pen against the open page of my notebook for a second, thinking. I watch it bounce up and down and tell myself it’s not to avoid looking directly at the man sitting with me.

“Okay,” I finally say. “Can you tell me a little more about what this place means to you? I mean, I know it was your dad’s, and your grandfather’s before that, but I’m after something deeper.”

Trevor takes a deep breath in through his nose. “We’re going to get personal, then, huh?”

That’s when I finally meet his gaze, and I shouldn’t be surprised to find his eyes already on me, but somehow it unsteadies me nonetheless. I quickly try to regain my balance. “I think we have to, right? I mean, let’s be realistic. You’re never going to make big box sales.” I raise my chin in the general direction of the newer store. “But you shouldn’t have to. Yeah, they’re a competitor, but your shop is different. It’s got a different vibe, and it has a history that place doesn’t. So, tell me about that.”

“Well, my grandfather opened this place in 1954—”

---