Chapter 8

It was another typical evening at Mr. Pollard’s Café, with espresso steam hissing, low laughter weaving through the hum of conversation, sunlight fading into amber against the windows. Maggie sat with her crew—Tamika, Aiden, and Rosa—at their usual table near the wall, her boot hooked casually around the leg of her chair. She was mid-story when the door chimed.

Brent stepped inside. For a split second, the room seemed to tilt toward him, not because he demanded attention, but because he moved with a quieter presence now—less sharp, less restless. He nodded toward Mr. Pollard, who returned the greeting with a knowing lift of his eyebrow, then glanced at Maggie’s table.

Tamika saw him first. “Look who finally decided to join the neighborhood council,” she called out.

Brent hesitated just long enough to make sure he wasn’t intruding. Maggie met his gaze, something unspoken passing between them, and tipped her chin toward the empty chair.

“Sit,” she said without hesitation.

He did.

The conversation picked up almost immediately, easy and overlapping. Rosa asked about work. Aiden launched into a rant about the subway delays. Tamika teased Brent about his polished shoes, which he accepted with a grin instead of defensiveness.

Maggie watched the way he listened—really listened—to people. The way he laughed at himself, in a self-deprecating manner that—she had to admit— she found endearing. It was different from the man she’d imagined when she first heard his name whispered in office gossip.

“You’re officially part of the group now,” Tamika declared after a while. “No backing out.”

Brent raised his hands in surrender. “I’ll need a membership card.”

“Mr. Pollard stamps those,” Aiden said solemnly.

Mr. Pollard, passing by with a tray, gave Brent a subtle nod that felt oddly ceremonial.

After another few minutes, Brent checked his phone. “I’ve got to head out,” he said, standing. “Early morning tomorrow.”

Maggie nodded, trying not to notice the small drop in energy she felt when he stepped away from the table.

“Later, arrogant party boy,” Tamika called, deliberately using Maggie’s old nickname for him.

Brent laughed. “Come on now. I think I’ve earned a better title at this point.”

“Work in progress,” Maggie replied.

He gave her a brief look—warm, steady—and then he was gone, the bell chiming softly behind him.

Silence lingered for a moment after the door closed.

Tamika turned slowly toward Maggie, eyes sparkling. “Okay,” she said. “You’re smiling.”

“I am not.”

“You didn’t argue once,” Rosa added. “That’s growth.”

Aiden leaned forward. “You used to glare at him like he stole your parking spot.”

Maggie sipped her coffee, gaze fixed on the foam as if it held all the answers. She didn’t snap back. Didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t deflect with sarcasm.

She just ... stayed quiet.

Tamika nudged her gently. “You like him.”

Maggie didn’t deny it. She didn’t confirm it either. She simply shrugged, but the softness in her expression gave her away more than any words could.

The nature of their interactions continued to evolve gradually. It started with small things.

A text from Brent: Coffee walk? Ten minutes before work?

She agreed.

They met on a corner near the building, paper cups warming their hands as they wandered without urgency. Sometimes they talked about work. Sometimes about nothing at all—music, favorite late-night foods, the odd characters they passed on the street. New York was certainly full of those.

One evening they found themselves lingering outside Pollard’s long after closing, sitting on the low brick ledge. Maggie told him about her sister Carmen’s relentless honesty; Brent admitted he’d started waking up earlier just to enjoy quiet mornings, something old Brent would have laughed at.

“You really are changing,” she said once, studying him.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I think I needed to.”

Another night, after a long day at work, they walked through Jackson Heights beneath strings of warm storefront lights. Maggie showed him the bodega that made the best pastelitos. Brent confessed that he’d never learned how to slow down before his leave—he’d always been chasing the next campaign, the next party, the next version of himself.

“And now?” she asked.

“Now I like this,” he said, gesturing around them. “Walking. Talking. Being ... normal.”

She smiled at that word.

They began to share quieter truths too.

He told her about the pressure he felt to stay successful, to stay visible. She told him how protective she was of her family, how she’d learned early not to rely on appearances.

Sometimes they didn’t talk much at all. They’d sit at opposite ends of a table at Pollard’s, laptops open, exchanging small glances that carried more meaning than conversation. The tension that had once flared between them didn’t disappear—it transformed. It softened into curiosity, then trust, then something warmer neither of them rushed to name.

One evening, as they stood outside the subway entrance after a long conversation that stretched past midnight, Maggie realized she no longer saw him as the headlines or the polished stranger from the office building.

She saw Brent.

And Brent, watching her tuck a strand of purple-highlighted hair behind her ear, realized he felt steadier beside her than he had in years.

Neither of them said it out loud.

But the bond between them had shifted from chance encounters to something chosen—built in coffee walks, late-night talks, and the quiet courage of letting someone see you as you really are.