The Trouble With Brent Woods
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 11
The subway car rattled beneath Brent like a memory he’d been avoiding.
He sat near the window, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, watching the blurred tunnels give way to light as the train pushed toward Queens. Jackson Heights hadn’t felt this far away before. For days he’d avoided it—avoided the café, the familiar streets, the possibility of running into Maggie and reopening wounds that still felt raw.
Now, with each stop, the knot in his stomach tightened.
What am I even doing? he wondered.
The doors slid open at Roosevelt Avenue, and he stepped onto the platform, the scent of roasted nuts and city air greeting him like an old friend. The neighborhood buzzed with its usual energy—vendors calling out, families weaving through the crowd, snippets of Spanish and Bengali and English blending into a lively rhythm.
Everything looked the same.
He wasn’t.
Brent walked slowly, taking in the storefronts, the small grocery where he and Maggie had once debated over the best brand of empanadas, the bodega where she’d teased him for pronouncing a name wrong. Each corner held a memory.
The familiar exterior of Mr. Pollard’s Café came into view at the end of the block, its warm lights glowing against the early evening gray. Brent paused outside the door, hand hovering over the handle.
For a second he considered turning back.
Instead, he pushed it open.
The familiar chime sounded, and the comforting smell of coffee and cinnamon wrapped around him. A few regulars sat scattered at tables, murmuring quietly. But Maggie wasn’t there. Neither were Tamika, Aiden, or Rosa.
A flash of disappointment passed through him before he could stop it.
Mr. Pollard looked up from behind the counter, polishing a mug as always. His brow lifted slightly when he spotted Brent.
“Well,” he said, voice warm but measured. “Look who finally wandered back.”
Brent offered a small smile. “Hi, Mr. Pollard.”
“The usual?” the older man asked.
“Yeah. Please.”
Brent took a seat near the window, the chair creaking softly beneath him. He wrapped his hands around the coffee when it arrived, letting the heat seep into his palms. For a while he just sat there, watching the street outside and trying to quiet the storm of thoughts in his head.
A shadow fell across the table. Mr. Pollard slid into the chair opposite him without asking, setting down his own cup. “You’ve been absent,” he observed.
Brent let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. Work’s been ... busy.”
Mr. Pollard’s eyebrow arched. “And?”
Brent hesitated, then gave a small, resigned smile. “And I had an argument with someone.”
“Ah,” Mr. Pollard said, nodding as if that explained everything. “The kind of argument that makes a place feel different when you walk back into it.”
Brent glanced around the café. “Exactly.”
They sat in companionable silence for a moment. Mr. Pollard didn’t rush him, didn’t pry—just waited.
“I think I messed things up,” Brent admitted finally. “Or maybe I just didn’t fight hard enough to fix them.”
Mr. Pollard took a slow sip of coffee. “People often assume relationships break in one loud moment,” he said. “More often, they bend quietly under misunderstandings.”
Brent stared down into his cup. “She thinks I’m someone I’m not. Or ... someone I used to be.”
“And are you?” Mr. Pollard asked gently.
Brent shook his head. “No. But I can’t blame her for thinking it. I gave that impression for a long time.”
Mr. Pollard studied him for a moment, eyes thoughtful. “Growth is strange,” he said. “The person who changes sees it immediately. The rest of the world needs time—and proof.”
Brent nodded slowly.
“I stayed away because I didn’t want to make things worse,” he admitted. “But staying away just made me feel ... disconnected. Like I lost a piece of something important.”
Mr. Pollard’s expression softened. “Running from discomfort rarely brings clarity.”
A small laugh escaped Brent. “You always make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t simple,” Mr. Pollard said. “It is honest.”
Brent leaned back, letting the words settle. The café felt like a sanctuary again—quiet, grounding. He realized how much he’d missed this place, how much he’d missed the version of himself that existed here.
“I don’t know if she’ll even want to talk to me,” he said quietly.
Mr. Pollard shrugged. “That is her choice. But showing up with sincerity is yours.”
Outside, a bus roared past, headlights streaking across the window. Brent watched the reflections dance on the glass, thinking about everything Luke and Sophia had said, everything he’d begun to understand about himself.
“You think it’s worth trying?” he asked.
Mr. Pollard smiled faintly. “If someone matters enough to change your path through the city ... they are worth honest effort.”
Brent let out a slow breath, feeling a steadiness he hadn’t felt in days. He wasn’t here to chase or demand or fix everything at once.
He was just ... here.
At that very moment, Maggie turned the corner toward the café. Her hands were tucked deep into the pockets of her jacket, her steps slower than usual. Tamika had a late shift, Aiden was visiting family, and Rosa had texted that she wouldn’t make it tonight. For the first time in a while, Maggie was heading to the café alone.
She told herself it was for the best—she needed quiet.
She pushed open the door, the soft chime announcing her arrival—and froze.
Brent sat at one of the small tables by the window, a half-empty coffee cup in front of him. Mr. Pollard occupied the opposite chair, leaning back with his usual calm composure.
Maggie’s breath caught. For a split second, instinct told her to turn around and leave before anyone noticed.
But Brent had already looked up.
Their eyes met. Something flickered there—surprise, relief, maybe uncertainty. Maggie felt heat rise to her face, her pulse quickening.
Mr. Pollard glanced between them, reading the room with quiet precision. He set his mug down and rose smoothly to his feet.
“Well,” he said, his voice light, “I believe I’ve taken up enough of Mr. Woods’s time for one evening.” He nodded toward Maggie. “Miss Vallejo.”
And with that, he retreated behind the counter, leaving a gentle pocket of silence in his wake.
Maggie stepped forward slowly, the floorboards creaking beneath her boots. “Hi,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.
“Hi,” Brent replied.
She hovered for a moment, unsure whether to sit. Finally, she slid into the chair Mr. Pollard had vacated, smoothing her hands over her knees. The air between them felt fragile, like glass that could crack if either of them moved too quickly.
Neither spoke. The quiet stretched until Maggie finally exhaled and forced herself to meet his gaze.
“Can you ... tell me what really happened that day?” she asked. “Outside the building. With that guy.”
Brent’s shoulders eased slightly, as if he’d been waiting for the question.
“His name’s Jace Ramirez,” he said. “Old friend. Used to be my wingman back when nightlife was basically my whole personality.” He let out a faint, self-aware smile. “He ran into me on the street and started pushing me to come back to the clubs. Said I should cash in on the attention, be ‘fun Brent’ again.”
Maggie listened carefully, her fingers curling around the edge of the table.
“I told him no,” Brent continued. “More than once. I said I wasn’t interested anymore. That I was done with that scene. But Jace ... he doesn’t let things go easily. So the conversation probably looked more intense than it actually was.”
He paused, watching her reaction. “I didn’t see you there,” he added quietly. “I didn’t even know you’d overheard anything until ... later.”
Maggie swallowed. The knot in her chest loosened just a little.
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