Page 25 of Common Grounds

Really. How hard can it be?

Chapter twelve

Trevor

No one is coming in for coffee at noon on a Tuesday, so I send James out to water the flowers in the planters outside the windows, and then I ask him to grab more milk from the store. We don’t need milk, but I also don’t need him around while I nervously reorganize, waiting for some word about this scheme.

Sometime before lunch, my phone buzzes, and my heart stupidly jumps into my chest thinking it might be Emery. But it falls again when I remember she doesn’t have my number. When I pull it out of my pocket to answer, I see Mom at the top of the screen.

“Hi, honey,” she greets me.

“Hey, Mom.” I try not to sound too dejected, but she’s known me for forty years. She can see right through me.

“What’s wrong? You sound a little sad.”

I sigh. “Nothing. I was just waiting for a call.”

“Not my call, I take it,” she teases. “Maybe a call from a nice woman?” My mom isn’t pushy about my relationships or lack thereof, but that hasn’t ever stopped her from hoping. And there is a distinct note of hope in her question.

I scrub my hand over my face. “Not exactly,” I hedge. “Well, sort of. But we’re working together. She’s a writer, and she’s doing a few pieces about the shop to help me out.”

My mom hums as if she doesn’t quite believe me. Then she’s silent for a moment before she says, carefully, “Don’t turn down an opportunity for something deeper just because of that place.” It’s not disdain for “that place” in her voice, exactly, but it’s not endearment either.

“It’s complicated. You know I want to keep the shop open, and this could really help.”

“It’s okay if you close it, you know,” she offers gently. “Your dad wasn’t too far from shutting it down before…” She trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

“I know,” I reply quietly. Then, I take in a deep breath. “I don’t think she’s interested, anyway.”

My mom’s response is bright, as if the heaviness of her previous statement has been thrown off by her love for me. “Who wouldn’t be interested in you? Everyone is interested in you.”

“Mom, stop.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll let you go. Just think about what I said about the shop, okay? When one door closes, another opens and all that,” she parrots.

We say our goodbyes, and I’m left alone again, pondering her words. Would I ever close this shop? Could I really walk away from a place that means so much to me? One that holds so many memories?

No, I don’t think so. And I’m filled with a renewed hope that Emery can pull this off.

***

By the time one o’clock rolls around, I’m cursing myself yet again for not getting Emery’s number. I kind of figured she’d ask for mine last night as part of her work on the story, but it must have slipped her mind with everything going on.

Slipped her mind. Right. Even I can’t fully believe the lie I’m telling myself.

I wish I had a way to reach her to at least ask how the pitch went. I don’t know a thing about how online magazines work, but it seemed like there was a possibility this wouldn’t happen at all, and that would be disappointing on a number of levels.

I’m kneeling on the ground, shifting bags of coffee and tea around on the shelves underneath the appliances for the third time when the chime above the door rings. I try to stand up so fast that I hit the back of my head on the lip of the counter.

“Shit!” I cry out, covering the spot with my hand and rubbing.

“You okay?” a man asks. I try to keep my shoulders from slumping. I jumped up hoping it was Emery and banged my head for nothing. I guess at least I don’t have to be embarrassed in front of her. Again.

“Yeah. The counter jumped out at me. What can I do for you?” I turn around, still rubbing the back of my head, to see the man who came in with Emery last night standing there, a small smirk on his face.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” He swallows his laughter. “Ethan,” he reminds me, offering me his hand.

I shake it over the counter, mustering up all the good cheer I have left. “Not at all. It’s good to see you again.”

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