The Trouble With Brent Woods
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Epilogue
Morning sunlight spilled across the sidewalk outside the bagel shop, catching on the metal café chairs and turning the glass storefront into a mirror of soft gold. The air was warm and humid, pointing toward a scorcher of a day. The neighborhood felt different in summertime—more awake, less hurried. Brent paused at the corner for a moment, watching people drift past with coffee cups and canvas totes, and allowed himself a quiet breath before pushing open the door.
The familiar bell chimed overhead.
A few months ago, he might have walked in scanning for who mattered, who might be useful, who might open the right doors. Now he just looked for Maggie.
And there she was, seated near the window, one ankle crossed over the other, reading something on her phone with an expression that suggested equal parts skepticism and amusement. A half-finished bagel rested on her plate. When she noticed him, her face lit up—not dramatically, just a warm, steady smile that felt like coming home.
“You’re late,” she said, though her tone held no bite.
“Five minutes,” he countered, sliding into the chair across from her. “And technically, I’m early for the rest of my life.”
She snorted softly. “You’ve been saying that since you launched your ‘creative consultancy.’”
Brent couldn’t help grinning. The words still felt new in his mouth—my consultancy. It wasn’t flashy. No glossy office or loud parties, no late-night deals made in dark clubs. Only a small studio space he rented with too many plants and a window that overlooked a quiet street. A handful of clients who valued thoughtful work over spectacle. It was slower, more deliberate—and somehow more alive.
“I had a call with that nonprofit this morning,” he said. “They want to expand the project. Real storytelling stuff. Not just branding fluff.”
Maggie’s eyes softened. “See? Turns out you didn’t need neon lights and overpriced drinks to find good work.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re still going to hold that over me forever, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.” She took a sip of her coffee. “But I’m proud of you, Brent. Seriously.”
The sincerity in her voice landed deeper than any compliment he used to chase. Earlier, he might have deflected with humor. Now he simply nodded, letting himself accept it.
Outside, a cyclist whirred past, and the shop filled with the quiet murmur of morning conversations. Maggie leaned back in her chair, studying him. There was still the sharp wit, the quick spark in her eyes—but it was tempered now by a calm steadiness that hadn’t been there when they first met.
“You seem ... lighter,” she said.
“I feel lighter,” he admitted. “Like I’m not performing all the time.”
She smiled knowingly. “That’s because you’re not.”
The bell above the door jingled again.
“Am I interrupting something scandalous?” Lily’s voice cut through the air before they even turned around.
Brent laughed as she approached, camera slung across her shoulder like an extension of herself. Lily slid into a chair at the edge of their table, eyes flicking between them with a quiet, satisfied expression.
“Look at you two,” she said. “Actual morning people now.”
“Don’t push it,” Maggie replied, but her tone held affection.