Chapter Twenty-Five – Verity
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
VERITY
I ’ve been staring at different fonts for three hours, and I think I’m starting to go a little cross-eyed. The words on the screen just look wrong at this point even though I know they are spelled correctly.
I think.
I pull up the design brief for the twentieth time and check again that, yup, it’s correct.
Sahara Sunset really does have that many A’s.
Since I am currently in a state of project limbo, Jenna assigned me to work on the labels for a new set of candles from one of our longtime clients. It is one of the easier projects, something I am comfortable with, and with the way my week is going, I need an easy win.
Things are going well at work, but after chatting with Hannah about my meeting with Celine, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that her pretty words were actually an ultimatum.
She wasn’t giving me a reward, telling me that I could lead the next big project because I am proving my worth.
She was spelling out a warning, threatening to stall my career if I do anything to sully her reputation. It was just as Jenna had said.
Hannah thought the whole thing was bogus. After talking everything through with her, she’s shifting over to Team Cullen, saying that sometimes love takes risk and I should just embrace it.
I always play it safe. I don’t like to rock the boat.
If I lose my job, I don’t have any money to fall back on.
Saving in the city is impossible and I send what little I can back to my parents.
The job market is a nightmare right now, and the last thing I want is to put Hannah out on our rent or be forced to move back home because I can’t cut it in the big city.
I need to stick it out and hope that Celine stays true to her word. If she makes me the lead for the next high-profile client, it would give me the validation I need as a junior designer to get a leg up in this industry.
The Frankie Jones merch collab seems to be moving forward, and Anne has been buzzing like a queen bee all around the office. As much as I hate the idea of having to work with her, I know Celine has her eye on the project, and staying in her good graces is a priority for me.
The politics of it all is a headache.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a few seconds, trying to combat the stinging feeling in them.
It’s only twenty past five, but I’m not going to figure out this font in the next ten minutes.
After working overtime the last few weeks for the Kelton project, I’m not spending an extra second in the office until I need to.
All I want right now is to collapse on the couch with my leftover takeout and numb my mind with some television.
I shut all my programs down and slip my work laptop into my tote bag before saying goodbye to everyone and heading out of the office.
The streets are filled with every other commuter making their nightly trek back home. It’s a weaving game, slipping in between the bodies into little pockets of space so you don’t get bogged down with the dawdlers.
The train is just as packed, and some tourist guy doesn’t bother to hold on and goes tumbling into a bunch of us, causing a chain reaction of jostling bodies. I’m reminded of the other day when Cullen protected me, using himself as a shield against the other inconsiderate passengers.
By the time I see our apartment building, I want to weep.
I input the code on the keypad and heave the metal frame door wide open.
Packages are piled up along the left-hand wall, and I do a quick scan, picking out two bubble mailers that are addressed to Hannah. Just as I’m about to head upstairs, I snag on a slightly larger box that’s been pushed a bit farther down the hall.
I give the label a quick glance before dismissing it. Only to halt, walk back two steps, and stare at it again.
Odd.
It’s addressed to me.
I readjust my tote before stacking Hannah’s mailers on top of the box and carrying them up the four flights of stairs.
I swear to myself that one day I will be able to afford a place with an elevator. I already spent all day walking around the city to get places. I don’t need the extra workout of a climb at the end of it all. I would rather accept the convenience and laziness of modern technology.
When I get inside the apartment, I toss all the packages on the couch before dropping my ass on the cushion next to them. My body is at war with itself, stuck between wanting to fall asleep and demanding to eat dinner.
My phone chimes in my bag, and I dig it out to see a text from Hannah letting me know she’ll be home soon and asking if I can turn on her curling iron. She’s probably headed out on a date—it is Friday night.
Despite living together, Hannah and I don’t see each other that often.
The company she works for has bonkers hours—she is normally leaving when I wake up and coming home when I am finishing dinner.
She also always has some sort of date Friday and Saturday nights, so the only days we really have together are her “Recharge Sundays.”
Below Hannah’s text chain sits a chain of unread text messages.
I’ve yet to cave and click on Cullen’s texts, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t wasted hours staring at his name and the teeny message preview below it.
I think about him all the time, and it doesn’t help that I see him every single day.
The threads of my resolve are turning gossamer.
I am waking up excited at the idea of him waiting outside, which is totally counterproductive to my plan.
And yet, I can’t stop myself. I’d considered waking up at the ass-crack of dawn like Hannah and heading into the office early to avoid him, but I failed every time.
My rational brain is losing the war to my dreamy heart.
After the incident with Celine, I did my own internet deep dive into him. I told myself it would help me realize that we aren’t a good match, but it had turned into self-inflicted torture.
I looked through articles from the early days of Delute Designs to see if there was any mention of Cullen or a husband.
I came across a couple of photos of the two of them, and it just made it more confusing.
There were two I found of them in college as part of some business fraternity, Cullen smiling at her and seeming so in love.
But then there was one of Celine winning her New Business of the Year award, and he was off to the side, stiff and stoic.
I want to know why things ended.
How did they go from high school sweethearts to two humans who can’t even breathe the same air without getting offended?
Was it something Cullen did? Did I dodge a bullet there because he is a serial cheater or something? Or was it Celine? Did she cause the marriage to break apart, and I’ve just rubbed salt in the wound of a man who is just trying to find love again?
My head pounds.
Work is already stressful; my personal life isn’t supposed to be as well. The benefit of coming home is to decompress, but I’ve made the mistake of intermingling the two and am now reaping the repercussions of trying to untangle them.
I groan, tipping onto my side across the couch cushion and narrowly avoiding poking my eye out with the corner of the box I forgot was next to me.
What the hell is in this thing, anyway?
Determined to do literally anything to take my mind off this grave I dug myself and am struggling to fill back up, I grab the Stanley knife from the kitchen and start cutting open the brown package.
Did I pre-order something and forget about it?
Unlikely. I keep track of all my purchases to the cent.
It could be from my parents. They send me little gifts every now and again. But this seems a touch too big.
Inside the brown box is a slightly smaller forest-green box with a shiny silver G logo.
The designer in me pauses for a second, admiring the way it seems to be a play on multiple letters stacked within one another.
I pick out A, R, and D, which are sectioned out by a central Y and all surrounded by an O, which is placed within the G.
It’s elegant work and has a refined feel to it, which can be hard as a lot of companies try to do iterations of similar monogram designs nowadays and come off looking cheap.
Something about the logo and the repeating pattern on the box seems familiar, but I’m not sure why.
I pluck the green package out, so I can lift off the lid, and then freeze. There’s a gold drawstring bag inside, but this time that G logo isn’t just a logo. Below it, in a Condor-variation font, is the word Goyard in all caps.
What the hell?
I almost fling the box away but stop, worried about ruining the undoubtedly expensive item within. The last thing I need is to scratch what I assume is a handbag and be left repaying the damages, because I sure as hell did not order this myself.
With delicate hands, I carefully lift the box off my lap and place it on the couch, like it’s made of glass. Then I tear back into the larger brown box to confirm that it is, in fact, my name on the shipping label.
Was this Hannah’s doing?
I recognize the brand label because she owns one of their bags. I complimented it a couple of times and then blanched when I learned that it cost an entire paycheck. As much as I want to splurge on items for myself, I put all my spare money into an account for my parents.
Still, this gift would be excessive—Hannah knows that I’d feel bad about not being able to give her something of equal value back.
Maybe she ordered it for herself, and the website autofilled with my name and she missed it?
That seems a little outlandish, but it is also the most plausible reason.
Knowing that she’ll be home at any moment, I slip into her bedroom and turn on her curling wand before heading back to the kitchenette and grabbing some leftover Chinese from the fridge to heat up. The looming presence of the package floats with a haunted aura, and I keep glancing over at it.