31. Annabelle
Annabelle
The next morning, my alarm buzzes at six. It’s still dark out. I’m warm in my flannel pajamas under two blankets, and getting out of this body-heated bed seems like a crime.
I have to, though. I have to pack more outgoing orders. I have to recycle all those cardboard boxes so my apartment isn’t a fire hazard.
I stare at the ceiling for ten more minutes. I keep thinking about Ender. His smug face. His honest numbers. We both know you don’t belong here. I see Magnus too. I offered him any card he wanted for his mom’s birthday. He got her one from Hallmark.
Then there’s Grant, with his three short words. Don’t give up.
I don’t know why I thought this would work. Owning a building just means owning more problems.
“I’m sorry, Stan,” I mumble into the darkness. He believed in me before I did. So did my Nana. For all I know, she asked him to leave me the building. Stan probably thought I’d sell it right away. That’s what I should have done. Instead, I’m here in his hometown, learning why he loved it.
My phone pings a text message. I can hear it from the kitchen, which is where it’s charging. Another text comes in. Then a third. Who texts at six in the morning? “Jail,” I mutter as I fling off the blankets. “Whoever you are, you deserve jail for a thousand years.”
By the time I get to the kitchen, the phone’s blowing up with messages. My first thought is Grant. Or someone from his family. Did someone spin out on US-2? Fall through the ice on Deer Lake? Is it one of my girls? Sophie or Lia?
But it’s not Grant or his family or anyone from here.
It’s Kat. It’s also Paulette and Bernice and everyone from the salon.
And friends from my craft shows. And someone from California.
Make that two calls from California. Three.
There’s a message from Sophie but I can’t read it because new messages are flooding my screen.
I have to turn off all notifications before I can even read one.
Kat keeps texting in all caps to call her, so I do.
“It’s on YouTube already!” she shrieks when she picks up. “Are you watching it? Do you love it? How many times have you seen it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh my God, Annabelle! Get your computer. Go to YouTube. Last night’s Jimmy Kimmel Live. Just type in ‘Jimmy Kimmel and Truly Penrose.’ Go to the two-minute mark. That’s when she holds it up.”
My hands shake around my laptop but I get it open and load the video. Truly Penrose is on the screen, beautiful and familiar, the way famous people are. She’s showing Jimmy Kimmel a birthday card.
“That’s my card,” I whisper. “Kat, that’s my card.” A rush goes through me, scalp to toes, like my body is rebooting. “I think I’m hallucinating. This can’t be real.”
“That’s your art,” Kat howls. “Your font.”
Jimmy Kimmel is reading. “Happy birthday to the woman who made growing up look easy.” He shoots the audience his signature smirk and they laugh, bright and friendly.
My skin prickles like I’ve stepped into icy water. My brain refuses to believe that card came from me. I drew it three weeks ago, in the middle of the night, wearing a bathrobe, and now it’s in the hands of a movie star.
“She’s opening it,” I say.
Truly reads the inside. Nails the delivery. The audience loves it.
My chest feels too full. I gasp a breathless wheeze and slide down until I’m sitting on the cold kitchen floor. I smell lemon cleaner and something electric, like ozone.
“She’s reading the signature,” I say. “Kat, she’s reading the—”
When Truly gets to the postscript about my eighth-grade cargo pants, Jimmy loses it. Kat and I both giggle like teenagers.
We watch it again. I keep waiting for it to flicker, for reality to correct its mistake. It doesn’t. I’m still on the floor, but I’m also floating. My body is losing touch with gravity. By the third replay, we’re screaming the punchlines.
Someone’s pounding on my door. I get up to look through the peephole. Grant is on the other side, hair disheveled, needing a shave, eyes full of worry.
“I have to go,” I tell Kat.
“Yes, yes, you’re too famous for me.”
“What? No.”
“I’m going to tell everyone that I knew you before Kimmel.”
I say goodbye to Kat and open the door, practically flinging myself into Grant.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “You were yelling.”
“I’m fine. More than fine. I’m ahh!” I drag him into my apartment and do a happy lap around my packing table. I raise both arms, then flop down on the couch with a whoosh. “This is unbelievable. This is— Did you see it? Do you watch Jimmy Kimmel?”
“It’s way too early for this.”
“Agreed. But listen.” I start at the beginning, and show Grant the YouTube clip.
This time, I see things I missed before.
Yesterday was Truly’s actual birthday and she had to spend it on TV.
Boo hoo, right? Except working on your birthday sucks, no matter what your job is.
She says a fan made her a card and she loves it because it feels vulnerable, and funny, and so relatable.
I realize that she’s signaling the audience. She wants them to see her as vulnerable and funny and relatable. It’s all Hollywood optics, but I don’t give a shit because she’s using my card to do it. Truly Penrose said my name in front of millions of people.
“This is all because of the card we made,” I tell Grant. “Can you believe it?”
“You mean the card you made.”
“You basically wrote the whole joke.”
“I did nothing. You’re the designer. The talent is yours. The creativity is yours. Only you would think of sending cards to celebrities. And you were brave enough to do it.” Grant puts his arm around me. He’s warm. Solid. He smells like bed and comfort. “This is everything you wanted.”
The email notification in the corner of my computer screen keeps ticking upward. I cover my face with my hands as disbelief turns to reality. Gravity has returned tenfold, pinning me to the couch. “My website. My email. I’m scared to look at them.”
“Do you want me to hold your hand?”
“No. I need to type.” I open my website. Not the customer-facing side, but the back end that only I can see.
I’m completely sold out of cards. But it’s worse. I’ve sold more cards than I have in inventory. I never told the system to shut off if that happens because I never thought I would have this problem. Holy shit. What now?
“Do I dare ask about your Instagram?” Grant grabs my phone and opens the app. “Is the follower count number supposed to spin like that?”
“Oh God, this is awful.” I show him the laptop and explain what the numbers mean.
“That looks like a nice problem to have.”
“It’s a hideous problem to have. I’m going to have to tally incoming orders and get more from my printer, but deliveries take forever up here. Paying rush fees doesn’t make the trucks drive faster.”
“Go figure.”
“Maybe I can do backorders? I don’t know.” My knees are bouncing so much I might drop the laptop. Backorder won’t do anything but piss off the customers. If they order cards they can’t get for six weeks, they’ll never buy from me again. My fifteen minutes of fame, squandered.
Grant gives me a slow nod and a calming voice. “Tell you what. I’ll close The Break for the day and get June up here. Will that help?”
“Can you mail the ones ready to go?” I’m pacing the room now.
“Wait, they’re already in my car. Maybe I can go to the post office and you can pack orders?
But you don’t know my system. I’ll have to teach you.
” I poke my fingers into my hair at my temples and pace some more, trying to think.
Will adding more people help me or cost me too much time to train?
Grant stands in front of me, and when I try to veer around him, he takes my shoulders and bends to look in my eyes. “Have you eaten?”
“I can’t eat,” I say, throwing off his hands. “My card was on TV! The art. The words. Truly Penrose showed everyone. She made Kimmel laugh. She said my name.” I gesture wildly toward my cards, my computer, my mess. “I have so much to do.”
“You still have to eat.” In two strides, Grant is standing in the kitchen, looking into the fridge and then the cupboards. “How about toast and eggs?”
“Yes?” I won’t taste them, but he’s right. I should eat. “I’ll make coffee. No, I don’t need coffee. I’m already buzzing.”
Grant puts down the frying pan. He takes my shoulders again and steers me to a kitchen chair. “This is going to be a long day and who knows when you’ll be able to eat again. So sit. Call June. Put her on speaker so I can talk to her too. But please, don’t do anything else until I’ve fed you.”