Page 14 of Never Your Valentine

Her eyebrows slam together and she tilts her head like I’m not making sense. “Do you have a lot of followers?”

“Define a lot.”

“No idea,” she says. “I have, like, thirty.”

“I have a few more than that.” Last time I looked, it was over ten thousand on Instagram alone. I have a decent following on Facebook and TikTok too, but Instagram is my bread and butter.

“Can I follow you?” June asks.

“Sure.” I’ve never had someone ask before. It’s sweet.

I show her my Insta and a moment later, I get a new follow from @OneJuneSolstice. I follow her back.

She looks at my pinned posts, where I show my best greeting cards. “Damn, you’ve got talent. You sell these?”

“I do.”

“Where?”

“Online mostly.”

“Emerald Gifts might take some. My aunt owns it. I could ask her.” She’s still scrolling. “Do you have a card for every occasion?”

“Only happy ones.” I make cards for birthdays, new babies, graduations, and my personal favorite, weddings.

She shoots me a silly grin. “Are you saying ‘I’m sorry you fell on your ass twice this winter’ isn’t a greeting-card occasion?”

I grin back. “Not yet.”

“Give it a few months.”

I’m still thinking about June’s words as I leave the boardwalk and head toward Cedar Street. By the time I finish my French toast and bacon at The Up and Away Café, I’ve got the whole card designed in my head.

Front of card: A serene scene of pine trees and snow, contrasted with a cartoon figure flailing mid-spill, her purse flying one way, coffee flying the other.

Front caption: Sorry you fell on the ice twice this winter.

Inside caption: Gravity is undefeated. But so are you. You keep getting up.

I dismiss the idea as I walk down the freshly shoveled sidewalk. I’m not going to make that card. It would have a very narrow audience.

Trying to make a viable business means my greeting cards must have mass appeal. At the same time, I can’t lose the handmade aesthetic. People need a reason to buy cards from me instead of at the drugstore. It’s almost impossible to thread that needle, but I’m determined to keep trying.

The lawyer’s office is on Elk Street, in the building next to mine. It shares space with an accountant and a vacation rental agency. I locate the right office and a woman about my age meets me at the door, takes my coat, and introduces herself as Lia Sellers.

She’s striking, with dark hair parted down the center and a warm, open smile. Her eyes seem to take my measure, but with acceptance rather than judgement.

“So glad to finally meet you,” Lia says. “I feel like I sent you a hundred emails. But let me tell you in person, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. It’s hard to believe it’s been—” I almost say three years, but Lia isn’t talking about my Nana. She’s talking about Stan Piro, Nana’s husband. “He was a good man,” I finish and sink into the visitor chair.

“Everyone loved Stan,” Lia says. “His funeral outgrew the church. We had to have it in the school gym.”

Nana met Stan on a Mississippi riverboat cruise. The engagement was short. Nana said that at her age, she didn’t have time to waste. Six weeks later, she was married and living in Echo Creek. She was deliriously happy. Nana adored Stan and he adored her. We knew they’d be together for the rest of their lives. Which for Nana, was less than a year.

It was so unfair. They loved each other so much, and ran out of time to enjoy it. I never had the chance to celebrate their new life, or get to know Stan well, or even visit Echo Creek. We had phone calls and FaceTime and plans to get together, and then we had nothing at all.

Stan came to Ann Arbor for the funeral, where we buried Nana in her pre-paid plot. We cried and hugged and promised to stay in touch, but we were both hit hard by grief and we kind of folded into ourselves, letting our phone calls fade away. I couldn’t even go Up North for Stan’s funeral, thanks to a burst appendix that put me in the hospital the week he died. I sent the biggest flower arrangement I could afford and would have sent a condolence card, but Stan had outlived all his relatives and there was no one to send it to.