25. Annabelle
Annabelle
Grant: I mailed the card. You can’t take it back
Annabelle: I don’t want it back
Grant: Sleep okay?
Annabelle: I woke up in sex-smelling sheets
Grant: Yikes or Hooray? Not sure
Annabelle: Hooray and also I’m doing laundry
I’m not worried about the card. If Magnus and Jacqueline are petty enough to invite me to their wedding, they’ve earned a petty response. My only regret is that I didn’t take a picture of it to show Kat.
She’s the one who told me about the pregnancy. She said she almost stabbed Jacqueline with her scissors when she found out Magnus was the father. Kat and I went around and around, asking each other what we knew and when. How could we both be fooled like that?
But that’s not the real question. The question is, why don’t I care anymore?
Part of it is Grant. But only a small part. Maybe I threw away my heartbreak when I threw those plates against the rage room wall. Maybe sleeping with Grant stitched my heart back together.
But mostly it’s me.
At the bakery, Dove always pretends to guess which cupcake I’m going to order, even though it’s always carrot cake.
The ROMEOs are filling me in on Echo Creek history, and it’s some of the best gossip I’ve ever heard.
The other day, I stumbled on story time at the library, and sat spellbound while a librarian spun tales of ice caves and lost lumberjacks.
On the way home, the Saint Nick Sledder, whose real name is Nicholas Goudreau, waved a red-mittened hand and offered me a ride.
I said no, because some kids got there first, trying to pet the huskies and climbing aboard.
But I could have had a dogsled ride from a man who looks like Santa Claus.
Tonight, Sophie and I are going to the fish fry at the VFW and then to a hockey game.
Sophie’s little brother plays for a co-rec team.
It’s super local, but we’ll cheer as if he’s playing for the Red Wings.
I know how to dress in team colors, and I know to leave my coat in the car when we get our dinner, unless I want to smell like fryer oil all night.
It’s not a story I’d tell someone back home because it sounds like nothing.
But add it all up and it says I live here now.
I’m remaking my bed with clean sheets when I get a FaceTime call from Kat. She starts talking the moment I answer. “Before you ask, no, you’re not being dramatic, yes, it’s still extremely bad, and no, she has not stopped saying our when she means herself and your ex.”
“Hi, Kat.”
“Sorry. I just didn’t want to waste time pretending we weren’t going to talk about Jacqueline.”
“Aren’t you at work right now?” I can see her station behind her.
“Yeah, but get this. Jacqueline’s moving to the Thirteen Shears salon over in Kerrytown.”
“Oh?” I’m not sure what that has to do with me.
“Before she left, she gave a speech about personal growth, hugged everyone goodbye, and threw all her stuff into a tote bag that says boss babe. Nobody helped her pack. Nobody.”
“Uh-huh.” I put the phone down so I can put the cases on my pillows. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Aren’t you at least curious?”
I pick up the phone again and smooth out my blankets. “I’m curious about why you’re more invested in my ex than I am.”
Kat pauses. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Because if I don’t care loudly, it feels like she wins.”
“There aren’t any winners.”
“She also took half the magazines,” Kat says. “Including the Vanity Fair with Pedro Pascal on the cover, which we all agreed was community property.”
“Kat.”
“I know, I know.” She presses her hand to her eyes for a moment. “I just miss you. Paulette keeps asking if she should get curtain bangs and I don’t have anyone to make eye contact with while we silently judge.”
I sit down on the bed. “That is a loss.”
“I’m sorry I was instigating. I shouldn’t have called just to be messy.”
“You could come visit. Be messy in person.”
“I should,” she says, with a tilt of her head. “I can bring my scissors. You need a trim.”
“Do I?” I try to smooth the layers around my face.
“You’re getting really raggedy,” she says.
“That’s just hat hair. No point in fixing it when I’ll be wearing my hat again in five minutes.”
Kat pulls at her bottom lip. “At least tell me it’s a cute hat.”
“My yellow one.”
“Very cute. Just…don’t let yourself go.”
“I’m not.”
It feels more like I’m finding myself.
Annabelle: The laundry room is free
Grant: Glad the detergent monsters didn’t get you
Annabelle: Maybe I’ll run into you down there. Accidentally. Casually
Grant: Probably. We share a building
Annabelle: Buildings are very noncommittal
Grant: That’s what I like about them
Annabelle: Makes sense
Grant: There’s something else I like
Annabelle: Oh?
Grant: My landlord. I like her a lot
Annabelle: Wait I know her! She’s awesome
Grant: She is
My creativity has broken wide open and I spend the next few days in an inspired fugue state.
I’m drawing without erasing, making reels with no edits, and uploading everything raw and uncut.
I don’t split test, I don’t ask my newsletter subscribers for their opinion, and I don’t second-guess my captions.
I just go, making birthday cards that are fresh, feisty, and relatable.
Icicles hang from eaves, one broken and dangling. Caption: Another year. Still sharp, slightly damaged, all you. Happy birthday!
A snowplow emerges from a giant drift. Caption: Congratulations! You made it through another year without getting stuck.
A moose stares blankly at a tipped-over ice-fishing shack. Caption: Another year older, another year of questionable decisions. Nailed it!
I place an order with my printer that’s so big I’m scared to look at the total cost. I pace around my apartment a few times, considering.
I scroll through my cards again, my finger hovering over my best design. I designed it. I drew it. But when I read it, I hear Grant’s voice.
Front of card: Two pine trees covered in snow. One is wearing a party hat. Curly lines indicate strong wind.
Front caption: Birthdays are like snowstorms.
Inside caption: They hit hard, pile up fast, and leave you with a mess you didn’t ask for. Congrats on surviving another one.
I add fifty more of that design to my cart and send in the order.
Then I take an everything shower, lotion up with the yummiest-smelling lotion I own, flat iron my hair, and knock on Grant’s door.
He doesn’t answer.