Page 28 of The Valentine Agenda

"That's Hannah's usual spot," Mr. Thompson called out as James reached for a folding chair. "She likes to sit where she can see everyone's cards, help them if they're struggling."

James's hand froze above the chair. Of course it was her spot. Everything in this room seemed to revolve around her—the way the residents kept glancing at the door, their inside jokes he didn't understand, their casual mentions of her name like a gentle rebuke.

"I'll... take a different one."

"Afraid of her ghost?" Mrs. Chen asked sweetly.

"I'm not thinking about her at all." The words came out sharper than intended. "I'm just trying to help."

"Are you?" Mrs. Chen's eyes saw too much. "Or are you trying to prove something?"

Before James could respond, he caught himself against a table, knocking over a cup of water.

"I'll get paper towels," he muttered, feeling their eyes on him. Judging his gracelessness, his obvious discomfort, his completeinability to handle simple tasks that Hannah probably did in her sleep.

In the supply closet, he took a deep breath and tried to regroup. His suit looked absurd here. His cultivated professional distance seemed pathetic in a room where real connections happened every day.

"B-17!" Mr. Thompson's voice carried from the main room. "Hannah usually does the funny little dance when she calls that one..."

James closed his eyes on a groan. This was supposed to be easy. One hour of community service to balance his karma. To prove he wasn't the villain in their whispered conversations.

Instead, he felt more exposed with every passing minute. More aware of his own inadequacies. More conscious of the genuine warmth these people shared—warmth he'd never bothered to notice before.

"Need help finding the paper towels?" Mrs. Chen appeared in the doorway. "Or just hiding?"

"I'm not hiding." But his voice lacked conviction. "I'm trying to..."

"To what? Show us what a good person you are?" She shook her head. "Hannah doesn't help because she wants to prove anything. She helps because she cares."

"This isn't about Hannah."

Mrs. Chen's knowing smile made him feel about two inches tall. "Of course not, dear. Just like you're not wearing your most expensive suit to volunteer at a bingo game."

James looked down at his Tom Ford ensemble, suddenly aware of how performative it all was. Even his attempt at kindness came with a price tag.

"The paper towels are on the bottom shelf," Mrs. Chen said finally. "Unless you'd rather stand here questioning your life choices?"

He really would. Instead he grabbed the towels and followed her back to the bingo tables, where Mrs. Peterson's spill was already cleaned up—probably by one of the other residents while he'd been having his crisis in the supply closet.

"Thirty more minutes," he reminded himself under his breath. Thirty minutes, and he could check "community service" off his mental list of penance.

James was starting to suspect that real redemption wouldn't be found in a carefully scheduled hour of performative helping.

He just had no idea what else to do.

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"...and that's when my Harold proposed," Mrs. Peterson was saying, her arthritic fingers smoothing a worn photograph. "Right there on the dance floor at the Starlight Ballroom."

James made a noncommittal sound, half-listening as he sorted bingo cards. He'd started staying after the official games.It was just easier than dealing with rush hour traffic. It had nothing to do with the way Mrs. Peterson's face lit up when she talked about her late husband, or how Mr. Thompson's tremor eased when someone took time to really listen.

"He was a terrible dancer," Mrs. Peterson continued, laughing. "Stepped on my toes through the entire song. But he was trying so hard to be perfect for me..."

James's hands stilled on the cards. "What did you do?"

"Hmm?"

"When he stepped on your toes. Were you... disappointed?"

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