27. Annabelle
Annabelle
Things are different between us. Grant has opened up to me in a way he hasn’t opened up to anyone else, and we’re more comfortable with each other now. We still give each other a hard time, but it’s lost its edge. It’s become fond. Easy. I like knowing him. I like that he knows me.
So one day, when he starts teasing me about sex toys, I go ahead and show him mine. Why not?
It turns out to be a fantastic choice. Grant is intrigued by the contents of my secret drawer. He demands some show and tell. I’m doing the showing. He’s doing the telling, giving me details about how much it’s turning him on.
Then he gets, I don’t know, competitive? Tells me he can do it better than an inanimate object. And he does. After that, I show him what I do best. It’s hot and sweaty and all kinds of delicious.
I tell him a vibrator can’t cuddle, and he gets the hint. He rearranges the pillows, pulls on an extra blanket, and positions my leg over his as he wraps me in his arms. We’re boneless, melty, and way too satisfied. Neither of us wants to move.
“Mmm,” I mumble against the hard wall of his chest. “Can I ask you something?”
“Six inches,” he says. “Six feet. Sixth grade.”
“Huh?”
“Answering your questions.”
“I don’t want to know about that last one.”
“First kiss,” he says.
“What I want to know is, do you want to be on my Instagram?”
Grant pulls away from our comfortable puddle. “Why?”
“My followers like inspiration photos. I showed them the lake, and the snowdrifts, and Ernie Keebes shoveling his driveway in a ski jacket and shorts. I showed them the St. Nick Sledder. They loved him. And his dogs.”
“So what do you need me for?”
“You inspired me to make my cards snarkier.”
“You call those snarky?” He reaches for his phone and pulls up my Insta. We scroll through it together. He stops on the card I made for LeVar Burton, with the cartoon spaceship and the books. “How did that one do? Get lots of traction?”
“No,” I admit. “But there’s lots of competition out there.”
“You need to stand out.” He scrolls some more. “These sassypants cards are nice, but they won’t get people talking.”
I pull away from our shared pillow. “Sassypants?”
“I’m making a point here. Who’s next on your list?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Who?”
I fling off the blankets and scoot to the other room. I return with my tablet and jump back under the covers. I snuggle up to Grant’s body heat and open my notes. “Truly Penrose. March ninth.”
Grant snorts. “Ugh.”
“You don’t like her?”
“Everyone likes her. It’s impossible not to.”
“That’s why I’m sending her a birthday card.”
Truly Penrose is the rare actress who grew up in front of the cameras without ruining her life in the process. She’s more popular than ever, has become an activist for literacy and women’s rights, and has three movies coming out this year.
Grant taps the edge of my tablet. “What’s this card going to look like? Sunshine and rainbows holding hands?”
“I’ll make something nice. She’ll love it.”
Grant acts like I’ve just announced that I like airline food. “You’re adorable when you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“You are. Her manicurist is going to send her a nice card. The maid who cleans her toilets is going to send her a nice card. Nice cards disappear into the confetti pile. If you send her an interesting card, you might—” He makes a small popping noise with his mouth. “Get her attention.”
I pull in a pillow, prop myself against the headboard, open my drawing program, and unhook my stylus. “Attention, huh? I’m thinking—”
“Not a rainbow,” he says. “Not a smiling cupcake wearing a party hat. Definitely not a smiling cupcake wearing a party hat on a rainbow.”
“I don’t even draw cupcakes,” I say. I absolutely draw cupcakes.
“You know what gets opened twice?” Grant asks. “A card that makes you feel both seen and attacked.”
“That’s not a birthday sentiment.”
“Bet it is in Hollywood. In the land of fake, they’re dying for something real.” He’s on his back again, scrolling through my Instagram photos.
I scowl. “You want me to insult her?”
“God, no. She’d cut you with those cheekbones. I want you to be honest. What do you actually think about her?”
I hesitate. “I think she’s…unfair. Like she was engineered in a lab to make the rest of us look sloppy. She’s talented and nice and she somehow never went through a phase where she wore cargo pants unironically.”
Grant looks at me over his phone. “Go on.”
“It’s annoying that she makes being a former child star look easy. Like, sorry the rest of us didn’t have a PR team by age nine. God, that sounds bitter.”
“That sounds human. Keep going.”
“I also think,” I say slowly. “That she seems, I don’t know, grateful? Like she knows she’s fortunate and she’s not pretending otherwise.”
Grant sits up, suddenly excited. “That’s your hook. What if the card had something like a movie clapboard on it? The movie could be titled Adulthood. Under it, you say, ‘Happy birthday to the woman who made growing up look easy.’”
“A movie clapboard? Do they even use those for real?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know what says Hollywood to me? The red carpet. Wait, I’ve got it.” I’m sketching now. The red carpet is worn out, fraying on the edges. It’s rolled up in a corner like an unused yoga mat. No ropes, no stanchions. No crowds.
“I like it,” Grant says. He’s snuggled up to me now, watching me draw. He kisses my shoulder. “Put an exit sign above it.”
“Yes. That makes sense.” I’m still drawing.
“And on the inside, you say: ‘It’s impressive, unsettling, and frankly, a little rude to the rest of us.’”
My head snaps up. “No.”
“Yes. You sign it, ‘from someone who survived her own awkward phase and appreciates the hope.’”
I cover my eyes. It’s awful. And dammit, it just might work.
Grant nudges me with an elbow. “Add a p.s. Make her laugh.”
I think for a second. “p.s. Still cringing about my eighth-grade cargo pants, but some of us didn’t have stylists.”
Grant’s laughing now, but I barely hear him. I’m already making notes on my tablet. A few minutes later, the card is roughed out. It’s not sweet. It’s not safe. “She could hate this,” I say.
“She could frame it,” he counters. “Or post it online.”
“Or laugh quietly and feel superior.” My finger hovers over the delete key.
Grant folds his hand over mine and pulls my finger away. Our eyes lock. “Draw it. By hand. On your fancy paper. I dare you. Send it. I double dare you.”
“I can’t.”
“If she responds, I buy you dinner. Somewhere with cloth napkins and wines we can’t pronounce.”
My breath is bottled in my throat. I feel floaty. Unreal. “And if she doesn’t?”
He shrugs. “Then you buy me dinner.”
Grant puts his arms around me as I go back to my tablet and add a few lines to the artwork.
This is sharper and more personal than anything I’ve made before.
It’s also funny, like I’m making a private joke with a friend who happens to be famous.
Isn’t that what I’ve kind of wanted all along? “Deal,” I say.
“Deal?”
“I’ll draw this on real cardstock and send it to her. We’ll see who pays for dinner.”
Ted Ender: You’ve been avoiding my calls
Annabelle: Correct
Ted Ender: I don’t want to harass you
Annabelle: Could have fooled me
Ted Ender: At least look at my offer? You won’t get better than mine
Annabelle: [Number blocked]
Grant: Are you home?
Annabelle: I’m at the diner playing low-stakes euchre with the ROMEOs
Grant: Have they bankrupted you yet?
Annabelle: I’m up ten bucks
Grant: You know they’re letting you win
Annabelle: Who cares? Beers at The Driftwood are on me tonight
Grant: I’m working until 11
Annabelle: In that case, I’ll just cross the hall and knock on your door
Grant: I’ll be up
I’m sitting at The Grind, sketching and drinking coffee. I’m drawing a capybara riding a tortoise (Caption: No rush. We’re in this together.) when I run into both Lia and Sophie.
Lia’s supposedly on a short coffee break and Sophie’s only picking up a pound of dark roast for her mom, but they both crowd around my tiny table and we spend twenty minutes talking about the weather, and hockey, and summer plans.
Lia shows us the Zillow listings in warm states that she’s bookmarked because she likes to pretend. Sophie tells us about a tour to Tahquamenon Falls last week where someone asked if the water was frozen on purpose or by accident.
They both turn to me, eyebrows raised, expectant.
“What?” I ask.
Sophie moves her hands in an impatient circle. “This is where you tell us what you’ve been doing.”
I point to my sketches. “You’re looking at it.
I’m making a new card line and I’m trying to scale up.
I’m constantly at the post office or the UPS store.
Robert keeps bringing me huge boxes and I think he kind of hates me for it.
I could order twice as much inventory if I had the money and the space, which I don’t. ”
“Your Insta is fire.” Sophie pushes her phone toward Lia. “Look at this. Look, Lia, look.”
Lia clicks on a speed drawing where you can see me create a card in two minutes. “Very creative.”
“Love the new reels,” Sophie says, looking over Lia’s shoulder. “Not your usual.”
“There’s something about this place,” I say. “The other day, I asked Grant—”
I stop short as Sophie and Lia pop up their heads and stare at me.
Lia puts down the phone and leans in. “Asked Grant what?”
“I asked Grant…” I’ve got a trainwreck feeling in my stomach. Am I not allowed to mention my tenant/neighbor? Is my tone off? “If he wants to be on my Instagram,” I finish quickly.
“And why would you ask him that?” Lia’s in cross-examination mode.
“Because we’re friends?”
“Just friends?”
I look back and forth between them, a small smile leaking from my lips. “Close friends. That’s all I’m going to say.”
Sophie’s lips tip upward. “You could say a little more.”
“I could, but I’m not going to.”
“You don’t have to,” Lia says. “It’s written all over your face.”
Sophie gives me a high five. Lia shakes her head in mock sadness. “Good thing June isn’t here or she’d have to cover her ears again.”
“Poor June,” I say. “Cursed with hot brothers.”
“Are they?” Lia asks.
“Yes. Admit it.”
“She’s right,” Sophie grumbles. “They’re all hot. They know it too.”
Grant certainly does. How could he not? He’s got the body of an underwear model and a face that could sell bad decisions at full price. He’s financially stable, has grown-up manners, good hygiene, and creative bedroom ideas.
He’s not arrogant, but he’s got the confidence of a man who knows he’s a catch. Too bad he doesn’t want to get caught.
As much fun as it is to giggle about him with my girls, I know there’s no long-term solution to that problem. Grant likes me, but he’ll never choose me, and I’m not sure that will ever change.