30. Grant
Grant
Felix: Did you see that bullshit TripAdvisor review of my glow and arrow party?
Grant: I don’t read TripAdvisor reviews
Felix: Definitely don’t read this one
Grant: You got paid so who cares?
Felix: That reminds me, I need to Venmo you guys
Grant: Keep it. We had a good time
Grant: The Lovey Dove has those almond croissants you like
Annabelle: Putting my coat on now
Grant: I got you one. It’s waiting for you downstairs
Annabelle: On my way
Grant: Move fast. June is circling
Annabelle: Tell her I’ll share
Grant: You are way nicer than me. I told her to touch it and die
“It’s just paper,” I grumble as I haul the fourth box up to Annabelle’s apartment. “Why is it so heavy?”
“Must be all that sincerity.” She holds the door open. “And premium cardstock.”
Inside, the apartment is more cluttered than ever. A folding table has become a packing station. The label printer is making dying noises. Stacks of cards and envelopes share space with sticky notes, each holding a thought she couldn’t afford to drop.
I toss my coat on the couch, open the nearest box, and remove a bundle of cards.
“You don’t have to do that,” she tells me.
“You need help. Tell me where these go.”
She shows me her system—new cards on the left, restock on the right, envelopes in the back. Annabelle peels tape off another box, the sound squeaking in the quiet apartment. Outside, a delivery truck beeps as it backs up. Early March light slants through the window, pale and unforgiving.
“I thought that selling more cards would make it easier,” she says. “But it got harder, and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Should I expand my offerings? Focus on my bestsellers? Hire out the fulfillment part of it?”
“I assumed you were doing well.”
“I can afford small print runs. I can reorder before I run out. Barely. My cash flow sucks.” She fans out a handful of white envelopes. “If I failed completely, I could accept that. Wrong idea. Bad timing. But this feels like I’m almost making it, which is somehow worse.”
I pick up her newest card, the one with a capybara and a turtle on it. “You have customers. People don’t order bad products repeatedly.”
“Sure they do,” she says. “Big Macs, e-scooters, single-use plastic water bottles.”
“Your cards are better than Big Macs.”
She sits on the floor, legs stretched out, back against the couch. “I keep thinking I’m missing something. Like maybe if I had better ads, or a truly viral moment, I’d actually be making it.”
“Welcome to winter in the Upper Peninsula. Almost making it is what we do here.”
“Ohh, harsh.”
“Realistic,” I say. “Same thing, different font.” I open another box, taking my time, my thumbs brushing the corners. I finish unloading the last box and circle the room, picking up a few cards. The one with the tipped-over fishing shack makes me chuckle.
“You believe in this?” she asks me.
I don’t know how to tell her in words. I don’t know how to say that I believe in her cards because they’re hers.
That all I want is for her to be happy. That if she fails, it will hurt right down to my bones.
I can’t say any of that. It’s too serious.
It’s too soon. It sounds too much like a word I never say.
Instead, I put my coat on, go to the door, and lift the stack of outgoing orders. “I’ll put these in your car.”
“I was going to bring them down tomorrow morning.”
“I’ve got them,” I say. “I was going that way anyway.”
“You’re the worst liar.”
“I’m not lying. See? I’m going.” I pause in the doorway. Annabelle is still sitting on the floor, surrounded by almost and maybe.
“Hey, Annabelle?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t give up.”
Annabelle: Did you knock on my door?
Grant: Wasn’t me
Annabelle: You sure?
Grant: I think I saw a DoorDash driver lurking in the hall
Annabelle: They don’t have DoorDash in Echo Creek
Grant: Then who left you a burrito?
Annabelle: Thank you, neighbor. I needed this
Grant: Hope it helps