2. Chapter 2
When I got to my Prius, I blasted the heater and unfolded the sticky note, careful not to tear the wet paper. The letters dripped down it, an inky mess, but I could still make out the address.
Georgia, you’d better come to this baby shower. Better not just bring diapers either,I thought, pulling out of my parking spot. Better be a car seat or, at the very least, a fancy sound machine. One that can belt out Ava Maria or have such a high resolution of sound that you can feel salt spray when you pick the ocean setting.
I squirmed in my seat. Nothing like the feeling of your wet ass on pleather. I fantasized about getting to my apartment: I’ll start with a steaming hot shower and end bundled in a fleece blanket. The thought could have made me purr. But home sat just outside Houston, a thirty-minute commute, which equated to an eternity when converted into dripping-in-wet-clothes time.
Hailey’s apartment, on the other hand, was a ten-minute drive—if the red lights were favorable. Besides, I was supposed to be watering the plants for my sister while she sipped mai-tais with her new boyfriend. And shit. Hailey had been gone for five days, and I hadn’t stopped by once. Most house plants would be fine, but, of course, Hailey had to have a high-maintenance Boston Fern and a depressed orchid among a plethora of other leafy problem children.
I should have let Hailey’s neighbor take care of them like she’d suggested. But I’d felt so guilty for abandoning her and the trip, I thought watering her plants could soften the blow. If only by a little bit. Now I imagined Hailey coming home to a living room of crumpled brown.
Not if I could help it.
I took the exit for Hailey’s apartment. I could shower at her place, borrow some of her clothes, and hopefully drown the plants in enough water and love that they’d forget all Auntie Emily’s neglect. Heck, I thought sourly, I could conserve water by ringing out my clothes over them.
Hailey’s apartment never failed to smell like some sort of fruit arrangement. Today’s choice was peach. I loved her place. Deep corduroy couches adorned with an eclectic collection of throw pillows made a nest in her living room. Stringed bulbs allowed for softer lighting and a basket of blankets all but said, Cuddle up on the couch. Make yourself at home.
Every time envy crept up on me while at Hailey’s, I tried to remember that her savings account could probably cover a week’s worth of groceries. Meanwhile, mine looked pretty good. Mainly because I was obsessed with saving up for a mortgage.
That’s why planning the vacation to Florida had been such a big deal. It had taken Hailey months to convince me to go with her. Finally, after collecting Groupons, agreeing to drive instead of fly, and finding a dirt-cheap Airbnb, she’d convinced me . . . only for work to veto the trip by needing me.
Still shivering on the way to Hailey’s bedroom, a quick look at the plants lining the sliding glass window told me they were sad but that they would probably, possibly, hopefully, make a full recovery. Preferably before Hailey’s plane touched down on a Texas tarmac in a few days. Hailey had always been my person. And while I practically buzzed with excitement to have her back, I didn’t need the lecture about letting one of the plants shrivel up.
I could hear it now, You’re supposed to be the responsible one! I always had been, even though she was the older of us. On the other hand, Hailey had the most fun and lived life to the fullest.
After a shower so warm and long, I was sure I’d stolen the chance for any of Hailey’s neighbors to use hot water for the next forty-eight hours, I helped myself to a T-shirt and shorts from Hailey’s dresser.
I then grabbed a blanket off Hailey’s floor, wrapped it around my body like a cocoon, and sank into her mattress. After a shitty day, I missed Hailey, but I couldn’t call her and vent. I’d messed up her vacation enough already.
Instead, I called my mom. She answered on the second ring.
“Hey, sweetie.” Her voice was like grabbing a mug of coffee and letting the warmth seep into your palm.
“Hey, Mom.”
“What’s wrong?”
The corner of my lip pulled up. That’s all it took. Two words, and she knew something was off.
“You know that promotion I was talking to you about?”
“Yeah?”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat, feeling emotional. “I didn’t get it. They hired out.”
“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” A tear fell free, and I hastily wiped my cheek.
“I just can’t believe it. Your supervisor said you were in line to get it. Didn’t he?”
I sniffed. “Yeah.” I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see me. “They just found someone better.” I tried hard to keep my voice even, but it wavered at the end of the sentence.
She paused, and I could sense she was contemplating how to broach a subject. “I know you don’t want to hear this. But I think it’s time you find a different job, Emily.”
“It’s a good job, though,” I argued.
“No. It’s a secure job. I know that’s what you crave, but you have a master’s degree and five years of experience. I’m sure there are plenty of opportunities out there.”
Probably. But The Arlow Group was safe, established. I knew what I was doing there. Sure, it came with a crazy workload, but I was good at it.
“Hold on a minute, hun.” Something crinkled on the line, then, “That looks great. What color are you going to use to highlight here?” My mom’s voice sounded muffled, then a clear, “Sorry about that.”
“Mom, are you in the middle of class?” She taught art lessons at a small studio downtown, sometimes late into the evening, to fit around school and work schedules.
“Oh, no!” she denied like it was a ridiculous conclusion. “Not a whole class, just a private lesson tonight.”
“You should have said something,” I said, smacking my forehead. “Go back to teaching. We can talk later.”
“Okay, but please think about what I said.”
“I will,” I lied. “Bye, Mom.”
As I hung up, my gaze drifted to the floor. Where the blanket had been, there, in the middle of a pile of laundry, laid a deep green envelope with delicate gold lettering.
I slipped off the bed, curiosity thoroughly piqued by the envelope. I picked it up, appreciating the lettering—how each swoop was perfectly even. Each descension held the same boldness. Each ascension flicked with the lightest feathery strokes.
The envelope was addressed to Reagan Dawson. California sat on the bottom line of the address. Did Hailey know a Reagan from California? That, in itself, wouldn’t have been too strange, but Hailey’s name wasn’t on the return address.
Why does Hailey have this?I wondered, setting the envelope on her desk.
That’s when I noticed the Dalmatian-like ink blots on the cedar desk. It reminded me of my workspace at home. I removed a hoodie from the desk, revealing a set of pointed pens that would put my collection to shame. Then there was the Rhodia paper. I flipped through it and found rows and rows of drills. Loops and curves, names all in delicate calligraphy. I looked up, flabbergasted, and saw the bookshelf full of stationery. I ran my fingertips over the different color and weight options.
“What the hell?”
Calligraphy was my thing. Always had been. I’d started in eighth grade, and while Hailey had always seemed impressed with the skill, she’d never seemed interested.
I returned to the desk, desperate to know more—either to justify or quell the growing sense that I didn’t really know my sister after simply finding some pens and fancy paper. I opened Hailey’s planner, completely disregarding any right to her privacy.
But it didn’t take long to find names and even some detailed notes: addressing for Victoria’s wedding, bridal party glasses for Jones’s wedding, and live lettering at Henson Winery.
I backed away from the desk, feeling both impressed and hurt. Hailey had done what I’d been too afraid to even consider. She’d started her own calligraphy business.
And she hadn’t told me.
Me? The one who’d taught her how to do a fishtail braid, who settled on being Flounder for Halloween so she could be Ariel, who wrote her finance paper in college because the thought of completing it made her cry. I baked pistachio macarons for her birthday every year; they were an absolute pain, but I did it because Hailey loved them.
Yet she couldn’t mention buying a jar of ink, let alone that she’d decided to make a side hustle off my favorite pastime.
Dazed and a bit shell-shocked, I picked up my phone. Hailey didn’t answer my call, so I settled for a message instead, but as I typed, my hands shook. The betrayal ran hot, and it ran deep.
I found the pointed pens. You have a lot of explaining to do.