Theo Mercer's Claim

Chapter 2: Terms

I stayed at the Strand until after midnight, but I didn't sign the offer.

I sat alone in the front row and held my phone until the screen went dark. Theo left without asking me to walk him out. I heard the front door close and his car start, then fade down Harbor Street.

At 12:07, I called my lawyer.

"Tell me you didn't sign," Lena Ortiz said when she answered.

"I didn't."

"Good. I can ask for an extension in the morning. Don't make any promises to Mercer Development before we talk."

"I wasn't planning to."

"Do you believe the building can be saved?"

I looked at the chipped gold lettering on the screen. "I believe it's worth trying."

"That isn't the same answer."

"No," I said. "It isn't."

The next morning, Theo was waiting outside my apartment with two coffees. I didn't invite him in.

"I don't need coffee," I said.

"I thought you might."

"I also don't need you to show up before I've decided what to do with last night."

He lowered the cup in his hand. "I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes." His eyes met mine, then dropped to my front step. "I'm sorry I chose the timing."

"You chose the timing because you thought I might sell."

"I chose it because I was afraid I'd lose the chance to tell you. That doesn't make it better."

It was an honest answer. I hated that it was.

I took the coffee from him, mostly because refusing it would have made me feel childish. "What is the other option?"

"Come to the planning meeting tonight. The town has a cultural preservation grant. It's competitive, but the Strand qualifies."

"Grants don't cover the mortgage."

"No. But there may be a way to use the grant to cover the repairs, then refinance the remaining debt."

"With what money?"

"I've been talking to a lender."

"On my behalf?"

"Not exactly."

"Then say exactly."

He exhaled. "I asked for preliminary terms. Nothing's been approved. Nothing's in your name."

"Did you tell them you were speaking for me?"

"No."

I held his gaze. "Good."

He nodded once. The old Theo would have filled the silence with a promise or a joke. This one let the silence sit.

I went inside without inviting him up.

At the planning meeting, the town's small conference room smelled like burnt coffee and wet wool. I sat between Lena and a retired teacher named Mrs. Avery, who had volunteered at the Strand for almost as long as I'd been alive. Theo sat across from me, not beside me.

The grant coordinator explained the requirements: a public program, a matching contribution, proof of long-term financial viability. The Strand had to remain open and independent for at least five years.

"Could the theater keep its own programming?" I asked.

"Yes," the coordinator said. "The grant is meant to preserve local access, not dictate the calendar."

Theo leaned forward. "If the Strand partnered with the Harbor Arts Foundation, it might strengthen the application."

I frowned. "Why?"

"They have the donor network and the nonprofit infrastructure."

"And who controls the theater?"

"Your trust would retain ownership."

"Would I still control programming?"

"We'd have to negotiate the partnership."

"Then we don't have an answer."

The coordinator looked between us. "A partnership could be structured in several ways."

Theo said nothing. That restraint was better than an easy reassurance, but it didn't make me feel safe.

After the meeting, Lena walked with me to the parking lot.

"You're allowed to care about him," she said. "You're also allowed to keep business and romance separate."

"I don't know if they can be separate when his company wants to buy the building."

"Then don't let him make that your problem. Get the full terms. Get independent advice. Decide what you want without making his feelings part of the price."

I thought of the confession, waiting in my mind like a light left on in a room I hadn't entered.

"What if I've wanted this for years?"

"Wanting it doesn't mean you owe it a yes."

That night, I found Theo's coffee cup still in my car's cup holder. I rinsed it out and put it in the recycling.

I didn't text him.