He looks down at the word, then back up at me. “I don’t get it. It comes every year. Right after February.”
“Yes, but it’s, you know—every year, you’re all, ‘March! This is going to be great! Start of spring!’ But it’s definitely not, right? Because there will be a weird, freak snowstorm, and it’s like winter’s started all over. Unexpected things happen in March.”
He stares at me, and I think he might argue. He might say, for example, that if one feels this way every March, then it can’t be truly unexpected. Which would be a good point, but I’m telling you. My M-A-R-C-H is making the case.
Instead he says, “You match the lettering to the”—he turns his teacup—“the feeling.”
“Yes,” I say, relieved. I take a sip of my soil-flavored tea. The warmth I feel—it’s not from the drink. It’s from this evening, these games, this moment. This understanding, or at least the attempt at it.
But then Reid says something that makes everything turn cold again.
“Avery,” he says, his voice steady. “I can see why you picked those letters for her. The ones on our . . . on the wedding things.”
“Oh,” I say, stunned. Reid is so—direct, really. Being with him sometimes—it’s as if I’m learning a whole new language.
“The fairies, those suited her. She was—” He pauses, looks down at the notebook between us. I don’t remember doing it, but at some point in the last few seconds I’ve closed it. My right hand is resting on top, palm flat, bracing myself against everything about this that is uncomfortable.
“Unreal, in a way,” he finishes. “Beautiful, and powerful.”
The only thing I can seem to do is nod. She was those things. Even I thought so, and I barely knew her.
He looks up at me, that trace of sadness in his eyes until he seems to see something in mine. His gaze sharpens, and he straightens in his chair. “I apologize.”
“No!” I say, too hastily. “I’m the one who . . .”
I trail off, pressing that hand flatter against my notebook. I doubt I’ll open it again tonight. The a that Reid chose—right now it doesn’t feel all that unexpected. It doesn’t feel like he chose it because he was curious about what I’d do with it. It feels like he chose it because it’s a way into this—this constant, looming confrontation between us. What I did. What I put into those letters.
It’s so hard to have that confrontation looming there.
The tower we started building—it’s near collapse.
“It’s getting late,” he says, seeming to know.
Quite late, is all I can think. I nod, but don’t move to pack up.
“Shall I walk you to the train?” Those starchy, lovely manners. I wonder if he knows how unexpected he is. How unreal, in this city.
I smile up at him. My truest talent, this feigned lightness, no matter what this book of sketches resting underneath my hand contains. “I’m going to stick around. I’ll call for a Lyft in a while.”
He tips his head in a nod, but he seems disappointed. “I hope you”—he gestures at my notebook—“I hope your work goes well.”
“Thanks.” I still feel shaken, as if I’m the tower now, wobbly and uncertain. Game over, I see in my mind, blinking and computerized, not a hand-drawn letter in sight.
Then I think Reid takes a risk of his own.
“I had fun,” he says, as serious as ever, and I look up at him. The severity in the lines of his face now looks to me like sincerity. Hope.
“Me too,” I say honestly, the memory of all those photos on my phone a blinking, deleting cursor, backspacing over that Game over.
“Maybe we can play again sometime.”
Maybe, I’m repeating in my head, still wobbly. I tuck one of my fingers inside the notebook, feeling the indentations my sketches have left there, the slight grit of the graphite on my skin.
But he turns to go before I can answer.
Chapter 8
“Yes. No, wait. No, I think. Or—I don’t know?”
Beside me, Lark is staring down at nine different sheets of paper, all of them covered in some of my most common lettering styles, the ones I seem to rotate through my various clients’ planners and wall calendars. It may be true that I have left out the most popular brush lettering, but it also may be true that if I have to do one more client project with that as the sole focus, I will find some way to break my own fingers, and where’s that going to leave me?
Nowhere, that’s where.
Nowhere, however, is also where this appointment is going, because Lark is having an incredibly difficult time making literally any decision. The question that has prompted this latest round of existential dread is whether she wants black accents. It’s Tuesday afternoon at three thirty and we’ve been here since shortly after noon, or, perhaps, since the actual birth of Christ. I raise my gritty eyes toward the front of the shop, where Lachelle is standing behind the front desk. Every once in a while she looks back here and gives me a sort of cringe of sympathy.
At Lark’s house last week, I’d realized she seemed tentative, preoccupied with her husband’s opinions, small and lost-looking in that big townhouse. In fact, that’s partly why I’d suggested we meet elsewhere today, our first effort at going through possibilities for the two walls—I thought it might be less overwhelming for both of us not to stand before the full, blank canvas, more blank somehow by virtue of the unfinished space of the house.
Of course I’d also suggested it partly because what if Cameron had been there in the awful beanie and black wrist cuffs? What if he’d brought up not liking rom-coms in front of me? I’ve got to keep clear of temptation, is the thing.
Initially I’d proposed one of my standard haunts for client meetings, but Lark had been hesitant; then I’d remembered what she’d said about privacy, so I’d papered over my misstep quickly, promising that the shop’s back workspace would let us review ideas “uninterrupted.” Since Lachelle has never seen The Princess Tent (“What do you mean a poet-sandwich boyfriend?” she’d said, when I’d tried to explain after showing up early to prep her), so far that’s seemed to work out fine.
Except for, you know. The fact that my leg bones are calcifying under this table. The fact that I’d thought I’d be out of here an hour ago. The fact that I’d wanted to already be back at my apartment and in front of my desk, working on the new sketches I’ve started for Make It Happyn.
Since Saturday night, I’ve done more sketches for Make It Happyn than I’ve done in all the weeks since I first got the call. The game I’d played with Reid—however awkwardly it had ended—seemed to ignite something in me. For each of the sixteen letters we’d gathered together, I’d tried a word—sometimes a month name, sometimes a day name, sometimes the sort of banal general terms that show up in planners and on calendar pages: “TASKS,” “REMINDERS,” “TO DOS,” “BIRTHDAYS,” filling them out with decorative details and sketches. None of them yet seem exactly right for the job, but they’re all—on the way to something, I guess. On Sunday, I’d been so absorbed that I hadn’t even heard Sibby rustling around the apartment. When I’d finally come out of my room late in the afternoon, determined to forage for snacks, I’d blinked in shock to find a set of boxes already lining our narrow hallway.
“Oh,” I’d said, nearly bumping into her as she was emerging from her room. “I didn’t realize . . .”
There’d really been nothing to do but trail off. It’d been painful, of course it had been. But it hadn’t been stomachache painful; it hadn’t been I’d-better-get-back-behind-a-closed-door-to-cry painful. I’d even helped her—once I’d shoved a granola bar in my mouth—take apart an old, particle-board bookshelf that we’d put together a couple of years ago over slices of pizza and too-sweet cans of wine, her phone blaring music as we’d worked. This time, though, we’d worked quietly, politely. I’d suggested she wrap some of the shelves in a couple of the old beach towels she has under her bed, and she’d thanked me. She’d asked if I’d maybe want to keep one of the
nightstands she won’t be needing in her new place, and I’d said no.
Then I’d gone back to my room, eager to keep working.
Now I shift in my seat, my eyes tracking down to the pages in front of Lark. I really shouldn’t be frustrated—I’ve agreed to this job, and I need this job, especially because of all those boxes lining my hallway. Most of my clients these days have a pretty firm sense of what they want already, or they’re happy for me to keep doing what I’ve been doing for them. But Lark’s new to this, and new to town, and also I guess new to being asked to make decisions on behalf of herself and her new husband.
So I need to be patient.
“I know it’s ridiculous,” she says, raising a hand to her forehead, rubbing two fingers along her hairline, right by her temple. I’ve learned in these last three hours that she does this when she’s particularly stumped. Which is often.
Really often.
“It’s only that—it’s going to be on the walls.”
I smile gently. In this kind of situation, all my cheery lightness is useful, and I deploy it fully.
“But if you don’t like it,” I say airily, “you can always paint over it. And the chalk? Pffft.” I wave my hand casually. “Bit of special cleaner and a big sponge, and you’ve got a blank canvas again. No problem!”
Lark blinks at me. “I couldn’t do that,” she says, sounding shocked. She is really not at all like Princess Freddie, who was defiant, unflappable, subversive. “To all your work?”
It’s nice, that she feels this way, that she takes what I do so seriously. But if this is the problem, she’s definitely overthinking it. A fundamental quality of my work is its impermanence. Sure, my planners are inked, and sure, clients could always page back through and admire a particular spread. But really, the point of the planners, of the calendars, is that you make your way through them, that you check off the days and turn the page. That you move on.
I open my mouth to reassure her, but then I have a thought.
A memory.
What if you made it more fun?
It’s not the first time I’ve thought of Reid since Saturday night—his low, serious voice and his stern, handsome face, his secret eyelashes and his soft swoonsh of pleasure. Each letter I’d sketched had been a reminder of the fun we’d had, the game we’d played. But inevitably, I’d remember those last, painful few minutes in the coffee shop, the way we’d left it up in the air, and I’d try to put him out of my head for a while.
But now, I cling to the memory of him in the restaurant, to the walk we’d taken, working out our rules. Without saying anything to Lark, I reach my hands out and messily gather the nine sheets of paper toward me, wrinkling a few. She makes a small noise of distress, but I ignore it, hastily stacking the sheets.
“Okay,” I say. “We’re going to try something.” I look toward the front of the shop, see that Lachelle’s leaning over the counter, casually flipping through a supplies catalog, and I call out to her. She rushes back as though she needs to rescue me from the purgatory I’ve been in, and I give her a grateful smile before explaining my plan.
The rules I make are messy, a bit nonsensical. We each get three sheets, and we’ve got ten minutes—only ten minutes, because I don’t want Lark getting trapped in another decision vacuum—to make some kind of flying projectile out of each one. After the time is up, we’re all going to stand in a line behind this table and, one by one, launch them out into the shop.
The two that go the farthest?
Those are the ones I’ll use for the initial lettering treatments.
I don’t put conditions on it, don’t tell Lark that treatments aren’t final, don’t tell her that I can mix and match pretty much any of the various styles I have spread across these nine sheets. At this point, none of that matters, same as it didn’t matter at first with what I’d ended up doing with the letters Reid and I had gathered up on Saturday night. It only matters that Lark gets out of her own head for a few minutes.
“Am I allowed to use my phone?” Lachelle blurts. You’d think I’ve announced a ten-thousand-dollar prize. I should’ve known; Lachelle has a real competitive streak. Last year some of the local businesses along this street had a window-decorating contest for Halloween, and Lachelle had basically conscripted Cecelia—who’d really had no interest in this kind of contest—and I to work late into the night before the judging. When the shop got runner-up instead of first place, she accused the judges of vote tampering. Every once in a while she still brings it up. “Crooks,” she’ll say, shaking her head.
“Sure, why not?” I say, and before I have it all the way out Lachelle is tapping away, surely searching for how-to videos on paper airplane designs.
I start folding, using the kind of rudimentary tactics you learn in elementary school, and for a few seconds Lark simply looks back and forth between me and Lachelle, as if our different approaches are now the newest, freshest dilemma of her life. But eventually, she takes out her phone, and after a quick search she starts folding, too. Every once in a while Lachelle makes a noise of satisfaction; one time she says, “You’d better get yourself ready, Meg,” and Lark laughs softly.
By the time we line up behind the table, we’ve formed some kind of strange paper-airplane adversarial bond. Lachelle says I have “noodle arms” when my first attempt fails miserably. Lark puts a hand over her mouth when Lachelle squares up the first time like we’re on an actual Olympic field, and when Lachelle sees her doing it she says, “You won’t be laughing when I win, princess!” but that makes us all laugh harder. It’s clear that I am the worst at this game, which provides pretty good fodder for both of my competitors. I don’t really mind their teasing, but before I can stop myself I think about Reid again, guessing that all his math knowledge would probably make him an extremely skilled projectile designer. His broad shoulders, those would be good for the throwing.
But I shouldn’t be thinking about those.
“It’s you and me, princess,” says Lachelle, giving an exaggerated side-eye to Lark before throwing her last sheet. As far as I can tell, it lands right past her first effort, which means two of her three might be the winners. I look over at Lark, and notice her last sheet isn’t folded yet. She looks at me sheepishly.
“I ran out of time.” She’s holding the sheet close to her, the writing facing her body, and even though I don’t know her well, I can tell something.
She didn’t run out of time.
Before I can say anything, before I can tell her to hang on to it, that I can definitely work with that one, no matter the rules of the game—she sets her face and crumples the sheet into a tight ball.
And then she throws it—as if she’s standing on a pitcher’s mound—out into the shop. Almost all the way to the front door.
“Damn,” Lachelle says. “I didn’t know we could do just—balls!”
I shrug. “Wasn’t a rule against it.”
Lark’s smile is huge, and she doesn’t bother covering it.
“Chalk or paint for the winner?” I say, before she can think too hard.
“Paint.” She looks surprised with herself.
I want to raise my fists in the air in victory. Lachelle actually does it, even though she’s probably going to ride me about the balls rule every time I see her for the next few months.
But finally, finally—we’ve gotten somewhere.
By the time Lark has left the shop and I’ve packed up all my things and said goodbye to Lachelle (she does bring up the balls thing again), it’s past four thirty, and while I’m still feeling pretty satisfied, I’m also exhausted. Most of my burning desire to get back to my desk has now left me, since the idea of sitting in a chair again sounds like the worst possible idea. It’s possible my ass has turned into a pancake, or a tortilla. Or a pizza.
Also, I am hungry.
In spite of the fact that I did pretty well over the weekend with Sibby’s packing, I’m not up to heading back to the apartment now. If I’m not planning to shut m
yself up in my room to work it’s likely I’ll feel her impending absence more acutely, and anyway, it’s a nice afternoon, warm and breezy, and I sort of want to . . .
Walk.
Play.
My slouchy bag bumps rhythmically against my upper thigh as I head down the street, and each time I think of my phone in there, about taking it out and sending a message to Reid. I’d been frustrated with Lark and her decision paralysis this afternoon, but had I done any different, working so hard to avoid thinking about Reid, about that almost confrontation? Had he left that coffee shop wondering whether I’d call him again? Has my laser focus on the Make It Happyn job these last few days been, in part, some version of staring down at a table of options, unwilling to make a decision about our . . . arrangement?
I’ve made my way down to Joe’s on Fifth without really thinking, unless “smelling pizza” is a form of thinking. Inside the narrow store—not quite busy with the dinner rush yet—I order a slice, then decide to take it back outside on its already limp paper plate. Reid would like this place, and this pizza. He would not like the paper plate, or the fact that I got only two napkins for what I’m sure is a four-napkin slice, but you can’t win them all, I guess.
I sit on the red wooden bench that’s been constructed around the tree outside of Joe’s and stare up at the crooked awning, the white vinyl sign above. Truthfully, there’s not much interesting to see here—maybe the little serifs on the sign stuck to the cooler in front, advertising some prepackaged Italian ices. But as I finish my last bite and wipe my fingers (two napkins were not enough), I make a decision.
It’d been uncomfortable, those last few minutes with Reid, the reminder of how we came together. It’d been uncomfortable to confront again, even in such a small way, what I’d done.
But so much of it, before that, had been the opposite of uncomfortable. It’d been easy to play those games with him. And it’d made it easier to draw for Make It Happyn. It’d made it easier with Lark today.
Love Lettering Page 11
