Page 33 of Common Grounds

I shake my head vigorously, cutting him off. “No. I know that already. That’s just a fact. Tell me something I can’t find on the internet.”

Trevor leans back in his chair and scrubs a hand over the top of his head, which shifts his hat back so I can see his hairline. The hair there is a shade darker than his stubble—almost bronze. He readjusts the hat so it’s back where it was as he tilts forward again, and a secret smile graces his lips.

“Okay, I’ve got one. See that spot on the wall next to the door to the back room?” He motions to an area behind the counter. I squint at it and shake my head slowly as I scan the area for what he’s talking about. All of a sudden, I see it. It’s a patch that’s slightly raised, but if Trevor hadn’t pointed it out, I never would have seen it.

“Oh, what is that?” I ask. Ethan turns his attention to the space, as well, walking a little closer to it and taking some pictures along the way.

“That,” Trevor says with a grin, “used to be a hole that my dad made in the wall when he was a teenager. I don’t remember how it happened. He was careless or something. Nothing dramatic. But my grandpa made him patch the hole and match the paint. Now, mind you, this was the seventies, so there weren’t computers at home improvement stores to do paint matching for you. Dida sat him down with buckets of brown paint and made him mix up the perfect match. Wouldn’t let him see his girlfriend until he got it right.”

Ethan squints at the spot, leaning in. “He definitely got it right.”

Trevor chuckles. “Yeah, well, he really wanted to see his girlfriend. And my grandfather was an exacting man. He wasn’t going to settle for anything less than perfection.”

“How long did it take him to match the paint?” I ask.

“The way my dad told it, it sounded like it took months, but Dida said it only took about a week.”

“A week that felt like months, huh?” I say, and, against my better judgment, a smile rides my lips. “She must have been some girl.”

Trevor’s smile turns soft. “She was. Turns out she was my mom.”

We’re silent for a moment, looking at each other. Color starts rising on his neck, and I realize he’s embarrassed telling me that story. I don’t know why; it’s a beautiful story. I try to smile reassuringly as Ethan says, “Well, if that isn’t the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

That knocks me back into the present enough to remind myself to jot down a few notes. That is actually one of the sweetest things I’ve ever heard, and it’ll make great material. Community and family—that’s what I need. Tug on the heartstrings a little.

“Where’s your mom now?” I ask without thinking as I finish writing my note.

“She moved to Atlanta.” His expression hasn’t changed, but I think he sounds a little sad. “She has family there, and they always talked about living there in retirement. After Dad died, she couldn’t be around here anymore, you know?”

I do know. It’s not the same at all, but after I kicked Derek out, the first thing I did was pack up all my stuff and find a new apartment. It has been five years, and I still can’t go to the restaurant where we had our first date or sit on the bench in the park where he proposed.

But Trevor doesn’t need to know any of that, so I just nod. I tap my pen to my lips, considering, before I finally ask gently, “How did your father die?”

His gaze drops to the table as he takes in a breath. For a moment, I’m sure I’ve lost him. It’s a fine line in reporting, asking the questions you need answers to without pushing your subject too far. I wasn’t sure if I should even ask. He hasn’t offered the information yet, and there must be a reason for that, but it was bound to come up eventually.

There’s a notable lack of camera clicks, but I don’t dare tear my eyes away from Trevor to see what Ethan is doing. When Trevor finally speaks, his voice is soft, and he doesn’t meet my gaze. “My grandfather had cancer, and that’s eventually what took him.”

I nod, even though Trevor isn’t looking at me. It doesn’t escape me that this isn’t the question I asked. He’s working his way up to an answer, and I don’t want to interrupt whatever inner war he’s fighting.

When he does look at me, his eyes are so full of unrestrained sadness that it stalls my breath in my throat. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around someone who is so open about their pain. Usually, people try to hide their grief, at least outwardly. They make it smaller, shove it down, steel themselves against it. Not Trevor. Not right now. Not with me, my brain seems to scream. Or maybe it hopes. And my sudden desire to pull him to me and hold him until it passes catches me completely off guard.

He swallows hard but doesn’t break eye contact with me. “Dad had a pulmonary embolism three years after my grandfather passed. I had just left their house. He seemed fine when I left, but…” He trails off, then shrugs.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Ethan says quietly. “Both of them.”

I nod, unable to speak. Sorry doesn’t seem nearly enough, and now I’m not sure where to go from here.

“Thanks,” Trevor says as he scans the shop. I look, too, with a new appreciation for what this place means, not only to Trevor, but to generations of people who must have loved this family. The smiles they must have exchanged over cups of coffee and bites of pastry. The good-mornings and have-a-good-days they must have shared. The comfort they must have found in the warmth of a beverage and the presence of a neighborhood friend.

When my gaze lands back on Trevor, he’s looking at me like he wants to ask me a question when I hear a couple of clicks directly to my right. I whip my head to Ethan, who is pointing his lens at us.

“I’m not in any of these pictures, am I?” I ask tersely.

He looks at me over his camera, the portrait of innocence. “Of course not.”

I narrow my eyes at him. I’m definitely in those pictures, but I decide not to push it. I can always crop myself out later.

I turn my attention back to Trevor, deciding to move us back on topic. “Thank you for sharing that. I know it couldn’t have been easy.” Understatement of the century. “Anything else you can tell me that’s similar to the story about the hole in the wall?”

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