"So you want me to invite this woman I've known for two weeks out on a double date so you can prove to your boyfriend—who, by the way, doesn't like me—that there's nothing between us?"

     "Yes."

     I could hear the smile in Henry's voice as he said, "Okay cool. So, should I dress casually or is this a semi-casual affair."

     I relaxed into my chair. "You're very cavalier about this."

     "It's not like we've never pulled this shit before."

     That was true enough. We'd learned way back in high school that some people some of the time would have a problem with our particular friendship. And when it came to significant others, well, they were often less than supportive.

     But we'd gotten hip to the game as we'd aged, and created strategy, so to speak, for dealing with the inevitable fallout. The first step was meeting each other on neutral ground—which is what I'd tried on Saturday to little success. In case of failure with the initial meeting the next step was to double date.

     "What about on your end?" I said into the phone. "Will what's-her-face be cool with this?"

     "Sure. As soon as I tell her about you."

     "She doesn't know?"

    "What part of two weeks don't you understand?" He didn't mean to yell. I suspected he was having trouble hearing me over the noise happening behind him.

     "Is she going to be cool?"

     "We're keeping it casual. She'll do fine."

     "And you?"

     "What about me?"

     "What'd you think?"

     "Seemed like an asshole if I'm being honest." On his side of the phone voices yelled. "Is it absolutely necessary that I make nice with him?"

     "It's been four months. It's starting to feel permanent. I need my two permanent things to get along. If they don't, then I'll probably have to get rid of one of them and we both know which ones been grandfathered in."

     "Alright then." His voice got distant for a moment, then he cursed. "That's my editor on the other line. Call me later."

     I sat the phone down and stared loathingly at the stack of resumes still littering an otherwise tidy desk. Was there nothing more urgent I had to do? Jackson had just left—his shift over. Pasha could handle the after-lunch crowd. It was a little after one—the time when Trudy Bergman's appointment was scheduled for—and there was little to do in the next fifteen minutes.

     I sighed, gave an eyeroll, but of course caved and decided it was in my best interest to act like the adult I was. First name on the pile was Darryl Rowe. Let's see...two years experience working at a Burger King...yada yada, customer service, blah blah this is torture already. I ended up filing him under...maybe. My cellphone chimed once. It was a text from mom asking me to stop by after work. I told her I would then went back to the resumes.

     Next name. Erika Mendoza. Mostly the same thing written. Worked in retail. Customer service experience, experienced cashier, la di da. They all mostly said the same thing. I had expected that. The position was part-time, entry level, and paid minimum wage. It's not like I was expecting the cream of the crop in applicants.

     But damn it, how I hated resume reading. I was too soft-hearted when what was necessary was to be swift and decisive. But I always imagined the real people on the other end of the words living and dying by my choices. People who needed this job—low level as it was. Should I choose a young person just starting out, or an older person trying to start over? I could choose someone with less experience who maybe needed it more, or someone with more experience who had a better shot elsewhere...unless they didn't.

     And there could only be one. That's from The Crow. Or—wait a minute, that's from Highlander. Why do I always get those two confused?

     "Evie," Pasha stuck her head in the door and yanked me back from the edge of procrastination. "Trudy Bergman is here to see you."

     "Thanks. Send her in please." I grabbed the handful of resumes and slide into the drawer.

     When I looked up Pasha was still standing there, a hesitant hand tapping on the doorknob. "Sure. One question."

     "Shoot."

     "Am I a secretary on top of a barista now?"

     "You're my employee. A sassy one at that."

     Her eyes grew larger like she was suddenly afraid of what I'd do. "But I'm specifically your barista. And when you hired me the description for this job was making coffee, bussing tables, and occasionally cleaning the bathroom. Not being an errand girl."

     "I don't think alerting me to the presence of people asking to speak directly to me is that far outside the realm of your job duties." She bit her bottom lip. "I sense this is about something else."

     She glanced away as she said, "Okay, so, you know Jackson?"

     "My cousin? We've met I believe we share a couple of grandparents but don't quote me on that."

     "That's exactly it. I think you favor him because you're related."

     "How so?"

     "You give him more room for creative growth than me."

     I spoke slowly. "So, you're upset because I allow him to experiment with the recipes on the menu, and you want to do that too?"

     "Yes!"

     "Jackson bakes. You make the coffee. Coffee's kind of straightforward."

     "Yes! And I have some ideas for how to—"

     "I don't mean to interrupt but could this wait until later?"

     She expelled an exhausted sigh. "Sure." With that she went and retrieved the woman who'd give me my next job.

     Trudy Bergman was on the far end of middle age, but beauty still clung to her. Her shoulder-length brown hair, likely dyed, was still full and shiny. Her skin had sparse wrinkles, and her big blue eyes were surrounded by laugh lines that somehow made them seem more worldly and mysterious than old.

     She stepped forward with all the dignity of a well-groomed lady; her professional pencil skirt was pressed to perfection and her tasteful jewelry shined like new.

     "Mrs. Bergman," I shook her hand and sat back down in my seat. "So, what can I help you with."

     She sat down across from me, "I need you to find someone." Even her voice was smooth like fine silk. Not too deep or too high; but clear and assertive like a Hollywood starlet from the Golden Age.

     "Who?"

      "My son." She snapped open the pocketbook that sat on her lap and pulled out an old polaroid. "His name is Peter. I haven't seen him in fifteen years."

     She handed the photo to me and I got a good look at an average looking kid with brown hair and sad eyes. "What happened?"

     "Nothing. When he turned eighteen, he left, and I haven't heard from him since."

     "Sounds like he doesn't want to be found."

     "I realize that, but...it's important." Her big doe eyes started to glisten like she was on the edge of tears. "My husband and I adopted Peter when he was a child. He's always had...problems."

     "What kind of problems?"

     "Behavioral problems," she took a deep breath. "His birth mother was an addict. By the time he was nine he'd been moved from her custody to three other foster homes and back. My husband and I became foster parents after we discovered we wouldn't be able to have children."

     "I'm sorry." Saying sorry like that always felt a little false. I didn't know her, and I didn't really care, but I could empathize at least and what could you say to someone about such a thing anyway?

     "It's okay," she smiled a smiled that made her even prettier. "I've made my peace with it long ago. Peter was the second child we fostered and the first we adopted, but, a lot of damage had been done by the time he came into our care."

     Almost out of nowhere tears sprang forth. I passed her the tissue box from the shelf behind me and she took one and dabbed at her eyes in such a way as to lessen the damage it would do to her make-up. "After my husband died, his behavior got worse. He got angrier. He got distant. I started receiving calls from the school. The teachers were ready to expel him."

     More tears and more tissues. I waited patiently but watched the clock. "Then, one night when he was seventeen he went out to visit one of his friends and never came back."

     "Why did he leave?"

     "I don't know. Maybe it was something I did..."

     "I'm sure it wasn't," my voice softened. "You said he was troubled."

     She nodded. "It wasn't until months later I got a call from one of his school friends; Chelsea Greer. She'd been trying to get in contact with Peter for months. Apparently, she was having his baby and needed his signature to give the child up for adoption."

     "Oh." I felt my face about to scrunch up in distaste, but I relaxed it. I'm not here to judge...

     "They were only teenagers. She was too young..." Her voice pleaded with me to realize the dilemma. As if she'd anticipated how that reflected on her parenting skills and was doing damage control before her newfound reputation with me went too far south.

     "I understand."

     "Anyway, during the process I fell in love with the little guy. The baby was the spitting image of Peter. I worked out an agreement with Chelsea and her parents and adopted him myself."

     "Wow," I was struck by a sense of admiration. "I can't even imagine."

     "It wasn't all for him." She looked pained to admit it. "Some part of me wanted a chance to start over with a child who wasn't..."

     She was about to say damaged. As harsh as that sounded. "It's okay," I reassured her. No one was perfect, right?

     More tears broke free and streaked down her cheeks. "I just can't go another day without knowing..."

     "And you want me to find him?"

     "Yes. I don't know if he's dead or alive, or successful or in complete destitution. I just need to know what's happened to him. I can't stand the not knowing."

     "Alright."

     "If I find him, are you interested in meeting or do you only want to know how he's doing?"

     Her eyes rolled upward as she thought it over. The effect made her look like a doll. "I'd want to see him," she said at last. "And I want to reunite them. My Peter and my Derek."

     "Okay. When I find him we can set up a reunion. I'd like to be there too if you don't mind."

     "Why?"

     "Most people are happy to meet someone they've lost contact with. But sometimes, for people who may not want to be found, they're less than thrilled. It's best to meet in a public place—especially since you said he's been violent in the past."

     "And if he doesn't want to meet with me?"

      "Then you won't meet him, but you keep fifty percent of the fee."

     "How much is it?"

     "For this? The initial price is sixty."

     "Oh. That's not so bad. It's less than the other places."

     That was intentional. I brought in plenty of people looking to hire a cheap P.I., but I was part-time and less experienced than others who'd been in the industry for twenty years or more. If I couldn't handle the demands or the workload I'd recommend the client to the fellas over at Wolff Investigations Inc.

     "Give me a day or two. I'll see what I can dig up."

     She graced me with a casual smile that must have stolen many men's hearts when she was younger. "Thank you."

     I spent the rest of my day as usual; making coffee, handling difficult customers, and on the phone with suppliers. At around three thirty, when Taste Teas typically had one of its slow periods, he walked in. I smelled him first, as weird as it sounds. He always carried this smell like, hard labor, dark clouds, and cheap cigarettes.

     "Tell me spirit!" I said with a theatrical flair. "Are you here to collect the soul I sold to the devil long ago?"

     "Well, you haven't changed. Still dramatic."

     I smiled when I heard the warm timbre of his voice. "Still cute, charming, and hilarious too."

     He raised an eyebrow. "Still able to get on my nerves in under a minute."

     "Oh, are you still pretending like you don't enjoy my company. I mean, you keep coming back in here so—"

     "You're the one who keeps allowing me to come back, girlie."

     "It's a free country I can't stop every tacky vagabond from orbiting me like the star I am."

     He chuckled at that. I don't think I've ever heard him chuckle. "It's more like being sucked into an inevitable black hole of disaster."

     "Harsh. And maybe a little true." We stared at each other for a moment in the kind of silence that was both comfortable and tense. "I haven't seen you in months, Johnny. I thought maybe you left."

     "I was around."

     "Just not around here, I guess," I sounded hurt even though I had no right to be. "If you're looking for work I don't have anything in particular in mind, but—"

     "Actually, I was hoping you'd help me out."

     "Oh! That's different. What do you need? Please say 'personal stylist'. I know just the thing that will elevate your style from bum to babe."

     "Still arrogant too."

     "It wouldn't be an ordinary Tuesday if I wasn't clowning someone. And Jackson already left so..."

     He ignored that. "I started painting again. For real."

     "That's great." I meant that. He was talented—at least to my eye, and he'd sat on that talent for four long years while he hid from the world. Maybe he was ready to move on.

     "Yeah. Well, I was trying to find some place to paint. You know the boarding house isn't exactly spacious, or quiet," he shrugged.

     "You want to rent the upstairs."

     "Yeah. I just—if you can fit me in somewhere."

     "Let me check the schedule." We walked to my office with ease; no anger or resentment for once—just friends who'd reached that stage of comfortability with each other.

     On top of the file cabinet was the schedule. I had a chalkboard posted up in the dinning area where I wrote down that months activities—the anime club, the film club, the LARPing committee, the Kitty Knitters, the quilting circle—all of them. But that was limited to one month, the copy in the office was a simple excel printout that showed the schedule up to the next three months.

     It was stapled together at one end. I flipped through it. "Let's see. I usually use the first room for routine reservations every month, and the second room is usually left free for any last-minute scheduling. That'll make it hard. Is there any day you prefer?"

     "No. Whatever's open."

     "How long do you want to rent it for?"

     "That's the thing. I don't know. Ideally I would have it for more than one day a month..."

     My eyes skimmed over the month. "What about Sundays?"

     "Sundays?"

     "It's always open. Taste Teas closes at one on Sundays, so usually nobody's here but me, and since we're friends I'd let you have any Sunday you want."

     He nodded. "That could work for me. I don't always have work on Sundays. A lot of stuff is closed for church."

     "Welcome to the Bible Belt." I grabbed a pen and made a note at the top of the page. "Alright, I'll put you on all four Sundays. And I'll give it to you for the low, low price of sixty dollars a month."

     "That's it? That's half of what you'd charge anyone else."

     "You're not just anyone." It sounded a little flirty—not on purpose! Just one of those unintentional moments where no matter how you say it, it comes out with a certain edge. I rushed through the next sentence in hopes that he wouldn't interpret it the wrong way. "And anyway, I expect you to keep the room clean. If I catch a spot of paint anywhere after you're gone—especially in the kitchen—"

     "Deal."

     "Okay...and you can store your easel and stuff up in the closet too."

     "You saved me the trouble of asking."

     I smiled up at him. "Like you were going to carry that thing on and off the bus every Sunday."

     The day was done by six. I got in my car, hit the expressway, and headed east toward Normandy Boulevard. That side of town wasn't exactly anything to write home about, but then the same could for most of the city. There were pockets of the city that were more country than urban and seemed to retain a certain small town charm.

     Most of the kids in our high school had lamented that when they turned eighteen they were destined to leave Burenville behind for the excitement of places like New York or Miami. The Eastside was especially devoid of entertainment as it mostly housed subdivisions full of lower to upper middle-class residences, outpatient clinics, Publix, Walmart, gas stations, and honkytonk bars. Post-divorce my mother had bought a house on Rushing Road—off Normandy, and five streets over from Plumtree Drive.

     Driving down Rushing was as comfortable as hearing an old favorite song again after a long time. Same old man sitting in his lawn chair. Same old tree that reached into the sky much higher than all the others. Same old Confederate flag clipped to the front gate. Same old Puerto Rican Flag flying on the opposite side of the street. Same old yappy dogs barking. Same old white and green house I'd called home for half my life.

     I pulled the car up the slight incline of the driveway, parked behind the silver Mercedes that made its home under the car port, and casually strolled to the front door. Green, like the trim. I didn't bother knocking. There were only two keys for this door and the spare was on my key ring.

     "Mom?" I called as I closed the door behind me.

     "I'm in here!" Her voice bellowed from my right. I followed it to her bedroom.

     "Hey," Her room had always been cluttered—a predicament she solved by buying storing bins from Walmart and then stacking them in the middle of the room—but today paper was thrown across the grey carpet without regard. I knew what that meant.

     "Hey. Grab a bag." She sat on the edge of her bed surrounded by piles of clothes, papers, and objects that had never served any purpose except to exist in case she needed it.

     "What is all this?"

     "Clothes."

     "Ah." Her room was technically two. They'd knocked the wall down and made a master right before we moved in. That meant she'd always had two closets and two dressers full of clothes at any moment. Though one closet and dresser had been closed off behind piles of boxes for damn near fifteen years. We wouldn't even be able to get to them without making a dent in the clothes she'd piled up on the floor.

     "What's sparked this sudden need to empty your closets?"

     "I don't know. I was just lying in my bed the other day looking around at all the stuff. I got sick of it!"

     "Well, you've been saying you would clean your room for the last twenty years."

     "Oh, not just my room. I'm cleaning the whole damn house!"

     My mouth pouted in disbelief. "You know spontaneity gives me hives."

     "I don't know how you got so...so..."

     "Neurotic?"

     "Yes. You are," she grabbed a handful of old documents and stuffed them into the white garbage bag that lay half empty on her bed.

     "Only when it comes to you."

     "Funny. Hold this open." She handed me a fresh garbage bag and picked up a small box so stuffed it was falling apart at the seams. As I struggled to pull the edges apart, the sudden shrillness of her voice startled me, "Hurry up! This is heavy!"

     I felt a familiar creep of panic settle in my stomach, but managed to finally get it open with trembling hands. "Sorry." I said meekly.

     But she'd already moved on to the next thought. "Don't be sorry. Be efficient." She lowered the box into the bag and it finally burst apart.

     "So, you want me to help you de-hoarde the house?"

     "Stop calling me a hoarder. I want you to help me de-clutter the house."

     "Okay."

     "And since I'm doing the whole house, that means your room too. I thought you might want to see if there's anything you wanted before I throw it all away."

     "That was thoughtful."

     "Yeah, well, I know how irritable you get when I throw your junk away."

     "Right," I sighed but kept my thoughts to myself. "What are you going to do with it?"

     "Your room? I think I'll turn it into a gym."

     "You've been saying that since I was in middle school."

     "I mean it this time. Now grab a bag and help me. It's gonna take a while." 

     Not to be disrespectful, but I'd believe it when I saw it.