I've been on this block for fourteen months, and I've never once crossed the street to Lou's Barber Shop.

This isn't an oversight. I wave. He nods. Sometimes, if the weather's particularly noteworthy, we exchange a word or two across the asphalt—"Cold one" or "Finally stopped raining"—but that's the extent of it. Lou has been cutting hair in that shop for forty years. I've been making coffee in mine for just over one. There's a hierarchy to these things, a seniority I haven't earned, and also I'm mildly terrified of him in the way you're terrified of someone who seems to know things without being told.

But today I pour a cup of drip coffee—black, medium roast, nothing fancy—and I cross the street.

I don't know why. Maybe it's the Linda visit still rattling around in my chest, the raw feeling of belonging somewhere you're not sure wants you. Maybe it's the fact that I've walked past this man's shop nearly every day for over a year and I still don't know if he takes sugar. Maybe I'm just tired of being a stranger to people who aren't strangers anymore.

The bell on his door is different from mine—lower, almost a chime instead of a jingle—and the smell hits me immediately: Barbicide and aftershave and something woody, like the inside of a humidor. The shop is narrow and deep, three chairs along one wall though only the first one's in use, mirrors and photographs and a small television playing the news on mute. A man I don't recognize sits in Lou's chair getting his edges cleaned up, and Lou looks at me in the mirror without turning around.

"Miss Champion."

He knows my name. Of course he knows my name. I've had a sign with my name's implication on it for over a year.[^1]

"Hi. Hello. I brought—" I hold up the cup like evidence. "Coffee. I just thought, you know, we've been neighbors for a while now and I've never actually—I mean, I don't even know if you drink coffee? Some people don't. Which is fine. Medically valid. I'm not here to push caffeine on anyone, I just—"

"Black's fine."

I stop talking. This is a miracle.

Lou finishes with his customer, brushes off the man's shoulders with a small whisk broom, accepts payment with a nod. The man leaves. The shop is quiet except for the silent television and the hum of something electrical I can't identify. Lou takes the cup from my hand, sips, sets it on the counter next to a row of combs in blue liquid.

"Good coffee," he says.

"Thank you." I'm still standing in the middle of his shop like I'm waiting for permission to exist. "I should let you—I mean, I don't want to interrupt your—"

"Sit down."

It's not a question. I sit in the waiting chair against the wall, the cracked vinyl creaking under me, and Lou leans against his counter and looks at me the way I imagine he's looked at this block for four decades: patient, observant, in no particular hurry.

"You're doing fine," he says.

I blink. "What?"

"The shop. You're doing fine." He sips the coffee. "Earl said you had a rough first month. Espresso machine trouble. Thought you might not make it through winter."

"Earl said—" I'm processing. Earl, from the antique shop. Earl talks to Lou. Lou has been getting reports. "You all talk about me?"

"Block talks." He shrugs. "Jamie says you pulled her van out of a snowbank last week."

"I didn't pull it out, I just—I helped push, and I fell in the ditch, and honestly she did most of the—"

"Milly says you're too skinny. Thinks you don't eat enough. Worries."

Milly. From the diner. Milly worries about me.

I don't know what my face is doing, but Lou almost smiles. Almost. The corner of his mouth moves approximately one-eighth of an inch, which I suspect is the Lou equivalent of a grin.

"Thought you should know," he says. "You're not just renting space here."

Something loosens behind my ribs.

I've spent fourteen months feeling like I'm on probation—like the block was tolerating me, waiting to see if I'd last, reserving judgment until I proved I belonged. And maybe that's true. Maybe they were watching. But watching isn't the same as waiting for you to fail.

Sometimes people watch because they're ready to catch you.

"I didn't know," I say, and my voice comes out smaller than I intended.

Lou picks up his coffee again. "Now you do."

I stay for another ten minutes. Lou doesn't say much else—asks if I've met the woman who runs the gallery yet (I haven't), mentions that the empty storefront across the way has been getting some interest (news to me), tells me that Tuesday afternoons are slow if I ever want to stop by again.

When I leave, I trip on the threshold. Catch myself on the doorframe. Lou doesn't react, just lifts his cup in my direction like a salute.

"Miss Champion."

"Rena," I say. "Just Rena."

He nods. Doesn't say it. But the nod feels like agreement.

I cross the street back to The Hot Mess, and the block feels different now. Not the buildings—those are the same. But the spaces between them. The people in them. The net I didn't know was there, stretched out under me this whole time, ready to hold if I fell.

Two are better than one, the verse says. But it doesn't say anything about how many "two" can multiply into, when you're not paying attention.

[^1]: Okay, the sign says "The Hot Mess," not "Rena Champion," but it's a small town. These things get around.