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“How am I making fun?” He widens his blue-gray eyes in a show of innocence.
“You know exactly how.”
“Okay.” His shoulders shake a few times in silent amusement. “I’ll leave you to get back on schedule. I need to get Grandma her orange juice soon anyway.”
“Just take the mug with you and give it back this evening. Thanks again for the donut.”
“No problem.” He slides the handles of the bags back on his wrist before picking up his coffee. “See you later.”
I say goodbye as he heads for my front door. There’s a bleach stain on the back of his jeans, and I’m smiling as I notice it.
I have no idea why it makes me smile.
THAT SAME DAY AFTER work, I glance up from my laptop when someone pulls out one of the chairs at my table and flops down without invitation.
My friends spend a lot of time in this coffee shop, so I’m not surprised someone is joining me at my favorite table in the corner by the window. I am surprised at his frown.
Dan Mills has been in my social circle on and off for years—ever since his family moved to Green Valley when he and I were in middle school. Unlike most of my friends, he didn’t stick around after high school, and he’s only recently moved back to town after his grandmother died.
“Hey, Paige,” he says rather glumly. “How’s it going?” Dan has always been a friendly, easygoing guy, and I’m not used to seeing him without at least a small smile.
“I’m fine. What’s wrong with you?”
He gives a slight shrug. “Nothing. Are you still working? They don’t expect you to work extra hours, do they?”
I was born and raised in Green Valley, a small town in North Carolina about an hour outside Charlotte. The town is disproportionately wealthy, making it rather insular and ingrown. I went to college in Durham, majoring in business administration, but came back here after graduation six years ago and got a managerial job at a local day spa. I’ve been promoted twice, so now I’m the supervising manager, but I’ve always been a fast, competent worker, and my job responsibilities are straightforward enough that I never have to work overtime. In fact, many days I end up with little to do in the afternoons.
“Nah, I almost never work extra.”
“Then this is your side hustle?”
“Yep.” I glance back down at my laptop screen, on which is the website for the business I started four years ago.
I’m the kind of person who likes to do things, meet goals, check off accomplishments. I’m not very good at sitting around and relaxing, and certain friends have often chided me for having workaholic tendencies. The only way I can maintain any sort of social life is to come here most evenings and hang out. I still get work done, but I’m constantly interrupted by friends and acquaintances, so it prevents me from working late into the evening, which is what I’d do if I was at home by myself.
“How’s that going?”
“Pretty good. I keep getting new vendors. Working on setting up a new one right now.”
For my senior thesis in college, I put together a business plan for a website that could function as a central hub for regional arts and crafts, and shortly after I graduated, I started working on establishing it as a business. I’ve connected with craftspeople from the Carolinas, Virginia, and Tennessee, and I’ve put together a polished site to sell their work online. It’s more locally and thematically focused than Etsy but still centralized enough to market and manage effectively.
It took a couple of years for me to start breaking even on costs, but now the extra income is a great supplement to my regular salary and it gives me something of my own to pour my energy into, which is important to me.
“That’s great. I’ve been hearing more people around here talking about it.”
“Really?” There might be a touch too much excitement in my tone. Overall, I consider myself a fairly secure person. I’m twenty-seven. Smart and organized and ambitious and good at the kind of work a lot of people hate. I’m nothing special in the looks department, but I figure I’m pretty enough with straight brown hair and hazel eyes and a medium height and build.
But I’ve never been the life of any party. I’ve never been the center of attention. I’m the person who would work for hours preparing and implementing a big event but never the one out on the stage, getting the applause.
The idea that people might be talking about me—pleased or proud of what I’ve accomplished—makes me ridiculously happy.
And kind of surprised.
“Yeah. I heard it was about to take off and go really big.”
I give a little snort. “I’m not sure about that, but it’s growing, so that makes me happy.”
Dan’s attention drifts, his face growing sober, and I know he’s thinking about whatever was depressing him before. I continue, “So you’re not going to tell me what’s bothering you?”
