Page 35 of Common Grounds

“Keep the change.” I grab my drink off the table. Ethan waves and leaves. I start to follow him out but turn to face Trevor again before I can think better of it.

“I’m sorry about the first article. I know it wasn’t great. I let my personal issues get in the way of doing a good job, and it won’t happen again.”

He tilts his head, regarding me, but before he can say anything, I rush out the door.

Chapter fourteen

Trevor

The encounter with Emery leaves me full of questions for days. I don’t understand what she could possibly have to feel sorry about. I mean, sure, that first article wasn’t great, but it was something. It was more than anyone has done for me in a long time, and if her expression during our conversation is any indication, she’s invested now. I know she’s going to find a way to succeed. And my heart dares to hope that she’s not writing these articles only for herself. She’s doing me a huge favor. All I can offer in return is a latte, and she wouldn’t even let me give it to her for free. I can’t get her clicks on these articles. It sure feels like one of us is doing the heavy lifting here, and it isn’t me.

When Mike walks in for his afternoon dose of caffeine on Thursday, the night before Emery’s next article is going to be posted, half of my brain is filled with thoughts of her—how stunning she looked on Monday with her hair in a messy bun and her flowy skirt showing a perfect amount of skin. The inexplicable desire I had to lightly run my fingers over her thighs just under the hem of her skirt. The number of times I had to remind myself that she was very clear nothing could happen between us, and I need to keep myself in check when she’s nearby.

The other half is a jumbled mess of worry and concern over the state of my business. I’m standing in the middle of the shop, one arm folded in front of me, and my other hand on my chin. I’m sure I look like a cartoon, scowling at the tables and chairs and walls, but I don’t bother to put on a happy face when he walks in. Mike doesn’t say anything; he just stands there, staring at me.

After a few minutes, he breaks the silence. “This is weird.”

“Yeah,” I agree.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking.”

He’s silent for a moment, and I can feel waves of confusion coming off him. “At… what?”

I sigh and drop my arms, sliding my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “The shop,” I say, turning toward him. “I’m trying to figure out what it must look like to someone who has never been here. Who didn’t grow up in here.”

Mike’s face is blank. “Why?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Is the space not welcoming enough? Is there a reason people don’t want to come in?” I look around again, scrutinizing. “I’m worried I’ve kept things the same for too long, and I’m letting my nostalgia get in the way of progress.”

At that, Mike takes a look around the shop. He walks over to the counter and runs a finger over it, inspecting it. “It’s clean,” he says, unhelpfully.

“I know it’s clean. I’m not trying to get a health code violation on top of everything else.” My voice has an edge to it that’s new for me. My frustration is showing.

Mike must hear it because he raises his eyebrows at me. “Okay… What’s going on here?” He slides into the nearest chair and motions for me to sit.

I sink into the chair across from him. “Well, as you know, Emery was here earlier this week.” He nods, shifting forward in his seat a little, and I carry on. “It’s nagging at me how she apologized for the first article. Which got me thinking that she’s the one doing all the work here. I should be doing…” I trail off, looking around helplessly. “Something.”

“What, exactly, do you feel like you should be doing? And what does that have to do with you standing in the middle of the shop looking constipated?”

“Jeez, Mike—”

He throws his hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying. You’re not your usual, glowing self today. Something’s got you stuck. Obstructed. Stopped up—”

“Please. Stop.” I’m used to his antics, but right now, the only thing I want is for him to stop talking. He takes the hint, folding his hands in front of him and leaning forward on the table, waiting.

I look around the room again. “The ultimate goal is to get people in here. And for Emery to get what she needs out of this endeavor,” I add. “But the only part I have any control over is getting people through the door.”

“And yet,” Mike starts, “If you could have done that, you wouldn’t have needed Emery in the first place.”

I nod slowly. “True. But maybe this thing with Emery is the kick in the pants I need to find some motivation to change things up a little.”

“You love this place, though, just the way it is,” Mike protests.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t seem anyone else does.” I look around at the well-worn tables and the chairs that have eroded from people sitting on them over the years. The brown laminate counter has a distinct 1950s vibe, but not in a cool, hipster way. The display cases for food are clean, sure, but look like they’ve seen better days. “I think I might have been a prisoner of my own nostalgia all these years,” I admit. “Dad didn’t want to change anything after Dida died, and I fell into the same trap.”

Mike takes in the space, too. “What are you thinking of doing to the place with only a little time and even less money?”

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