13
We’re all in the studio early Monday morning. The windows are pearled with condensation, Sofia’s playlist drifts softly from the speaker, and the light filtering in is that hushed, golden kind that only shows up before the world fully wakes up.
The studio smells like lavender tea, old paper, and the faintest hint of vanilla from the candle Tess insists on lighting every morning.
The place is a mess in the way that only means something wonderful is about to happen.
Washi tape spills out of an open drawer and ribbon scraps decorate the floor.
Our big cork board calendar is overflowing with upcoming campaigns, scribbled post-its, and reminders that feel more like affirmations. Breathe. Eat. Launch. Cry later.
Tess sits cross-legged on the armchair in the corner, her laptop balanced on a pillow, brow furrowed as she taps out a line of verse she’ll read aloud five times before letting it go. At least she’s not pacing. She only paces when she’s trying to resist the urge to throw her laptop out the window.
I sit at my desk, a mug of tea cooling by my elbow as I contemplate my sketch of a snail hauling an envelope tied with a ribbon on its back.
We’ve been working on the concept all week, a card design we’ve labeled Snail Mail .
Something about the sketch still feels off. Like it’s missing something.
I tap my pencil on the desk while I think.
“Kenzie!” Sofia barks from her desk, where she’s surrounded by a half-empty bag of cashews and three separate Google Docs on her screen demanding attention.
I immediately stop tapping. “Sorry.”
She lets out a sigh. “No, I’m sorry for snapping.”
We’re all a little on edge, running on too many late nights spent brainstorming design ideas.
I stare at my snail. I shade in a slight blush on its face. Much better. Then I add a tiny trail of hearts spilling from the envelope flap.
Tess gets up from her chair to peer over my shoulder. “Ooh, that looks incredible.”
I frown. “It needs a little something more.”
“Maybe a flower somewhere?”
“Hmm, a flower could be just the right finishing touch,” I say thoughtfully.
“What about a forget-me-not?” Sofia suggests from her desk.
Tess gives a tiny handclap. “Genius!”
A forget-me-not would fit the theme of the card beautifully. I smile to myself. I have a pressed forget-me-not in the heart pendant I wear around my neck. “So you always remember who you are,” my grandmother said when she gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday. I wear the necklace every day.
I quickly sketch the delicate spring flower tucked into the snail’s shell.
“That’s it,” Tess breathes out. “It’s perfect.”
She’s right. It is perfect, especially with the copy Tess came up with for the inside of the card: It might take a while, but love always finds its way .
Sofia joins us, nodding in approval at my design. “Fantastic work, Kenz.”
“We did it,” Tess says, and hugs us both.
I feel a swell of affection for the two of them, so grateful we took the plunge and started our own greeting card business. Every day, I have the privilege of working with my two closest friends, doing something we love.
Tess brings me a fresh cup of tea, and then they leave me to get on with the final touches.
My brush dips into the paint like muscle memory, and I begin layering the ivory base of the snail’s shell with gentle shadows.
I select a soft moss green and dab it gently to the spiral edge of the shell, letting the pigment bloom across the textured paper.
I never rush this part. It feels sacred. Like a promise between me and the page.
I can’t control how many people will fall in love with this card and decide to buy it. What I can control are the thoughts in my head. And right now, there’s only the page, the paint, and this tiny, hopeful snail on its paper journey.
Until my phone rings, loud in the quiet. I don’t recognize the number on the screen. With a tired sigh, I switch it to silent.
“Another one?” Sofia asks, frowning.
“Another one,” I confirm.
The calls and texts haven’t stopped. Ever since Joel dropped me off on Saturday night, I’ve been bombarded by well-meaning townsfolk wanting to know how I am and what they can do to help.
My fridge is packed with sympathy casseroles, and my living room is overflowing with flowers.
Someone even left a stuffed llama on my porch with a note that read, “Spit happens. Stay strong.”
At this point, I’ve stopped answering my phone altogether. And I always answer. Even when the screen says Suspected Scam , I pick up, because maybe even a scammer could use a cheerful voice now and then.
I set down my paintbrush and shake my head in bewilderment. “I was hoping all the fuss would’ve died down by now.”
Sofia and Tess exchange a loaded look. Unease courses through me. “What?”
“Huh?” Tess replies, trying to look innocent.
“What was that look?”
“It was a nothing look,” Tess replies.
“Tell her,” Sofia says at the exact same time.
“Tell me what?” I ask, my uneasiness climbing. “What’s going on?”
There’s a long, awkward pause.
“I spoke to Kate last night,” Tess says carefully. “All of Joel’s photo sessions for today were canceled.”
I don’t immediately grasp what she’s telling me. “I don’t understand. What does that have to do with me?” Then it hits and my stomach drops with horror. “Oh, no. Because of Saturday night?”
Tess’s expression is grim. “Uh-huh.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “People wouldn’t be that mean.”
“The townsfolk are protective of you, Kenz,” Sofia says. “This is their way of standing by you.”
“But this is affecting Joel’s livelihood,” I whisper, the words tight in my chest. I can’t believe it. My spectacular meltdown on our fake date is damaging his business. And in Brown Oaks, grudges aren’t just held; they’re passed down like heirlooms. This could ruin him.
Tess’s lips flatten. “Even Kate has had a shoot cancelled, simply because she works with Joel.” She waves her pen in the air. “You have to set the record straight.”
“I’ve tried ,” I tell her, guilt prickling my skin. “I’ve told anyone who’d listen that it was the movie, but no one believes me.”
“Some people are just professional busybodies,” Sofia huffs. “They’ve got nothing better to do than stick their noses in other people’s business. Unfortunately, those people hold a lot of sway in Brown Oaks.”
I’m still reeling from the news when the bell above the studio door jingles, and in sweep Liz and Lucy, two of the town’s most relentless gossip couriers. They’re in matching floral sets, hair perfectly set, each carrying a glass casserole dish like it’s their passport to entry.
I straighten warily. “Liz, Lucy, what a...surprise.”
“Not,” Tess mutters under her breath.
“Hi, sweetie,” Liz sing-songs, heading straight for me, her brown eyes gleaming with nosiness barely disguised as sympathy. “We thought we’d pop in to check on you.”
“We were just so worried ,” Lucy adds, clearing a space on my worktable and setting her dish down with the ceremony of someone presenting evidence.
“I’m fine,” I tell them, forcing a smile. “Really.”
“You don’t look fine,” Liz says. “You look pale.”
“I’m not surprised,” Lucy cuts in, nostrils flaring. “After what that man did. Black hair to match that black soul of his.”
A surge of protectiveness toward Joel flares in my belly. “Thank you for the casseroles,” I say, keeping my tone even. “I’ll be sure to return the dishes.”
Liz ignores the hint. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you all of yesterday,” she says, pulling out a tissue from her handbag. “You’ve always been such a lovely girl. So kind. So gentle.” She dabs at her eyes. “And there you were, crying your little heart out. You poor thing.”
I can see Tess swallowing down her impatience.
“Actually, I was crying because of the movie,” I tell her. “It was a sad movie.”
Liz knits her brows in disapproval. “Oh, sweetie, you don’t have to protect him.”
I bite back a groan. “I’m not.”
Lucy pats my hand like I’m made of tissue paper. “You know, you don’t have to pretend you’re fine here.”
Sofia lifts her head like a lioness disturbed from a nap. “Oh, she’s not pretending. She is fine.”
Lucy doesn’t hear her. Or pretends not to. “We all just want to see you happy.” Her voice dips. “Which is why it’s so shocking to hear how he treated you.”
“It was just as shocking to hear you were with him,” Liz adds. “ Joel Adams ? Not that there’s anything wrong with him exactly, but...you know.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t, actually.”
The hint of challenge in my tone clearly catches Liz by surprise. I hear Tess give a strangled sound in her corner of the studio, and I’m guessing she’s trying her best to disguise her laughter.
“He’s not what we pictured for you,” Liz explains. “You’re the type who settles down. And Joel is...not that type of guy.”
“We always knew there was something off about him,” Lucy interjects. “The man keeps to himself. Never talks about his past.”
Sofia has already turned back to her laptop, her fingers clicking so fast it’s like she’s daring the keyboard to argue with her.
Liz tilts her head. “Sometimes you don’t really know a person. Not until it’s too late.”
Lucy nods gravely. “Men like that, they can charm you one minute and hurt you the next.”
Part of me wonders if they’re both speaking from experience. My heart goes out to them, but they’re wrong about Joel. “Joel didn’t hurt me.”
Liz’s mouth presses into a thin line. “We just want you to be careful. No one knows where he came from, why he’s really here. People don’t keep that many secrets unless they’ve got something to hide.”
“We’re all just looking out for you,” Lucy insists.
“Of course you are,” Tess says sweetly, pushing to her feet. “And now that you’ve looked, you’re welcome to leave. I’m sure you both have lots to do today.”
Their faces sour, but they reluctantly turn toward the door.
Misery lodges in my throat as the weight of their words presses on me. I know Joel is guarded about his past, but hearing it twisted into something dark and ugly sparks an unexpected urge to shield him from the whispers and half-truths floating around.
And it’s not only Joel I worry about. His business depends on this town, on people trusting him enough to book him, and right now they’re treating him like a villain in their favorite soap opera.
And Kate relies on him too. Their partnership has built both of their careers here.
If Joel’s bookings dry up, hers will take a hit as well. The thought makes my chest ache.
I rub my thumb over my pendant. This won’t die down anytime soon. And it’s all my fault.
“You want to know the real reason I was crying?” The words are out before I can think them through.
Everyone turns to look at me, Sofia and Tess included.
And then, in a moment of pure insanity, I blurt out what has to be the most impulsive, most monumentally stupid thing I’ve ever said.