Page 61 of Never Your Valentine

“Hey,” I say. “Do you think I can get a glass of water?” I do this at work a lot. Getting my customers to agree to small things makes it easier to get them to agree to big things.

She pauses. “Um, sure?”

“You should drink some too.”

“I guess.”

She’s out of bed now, looking more confident. She can fulfill this easy request. She finds a robe. I find my clothes. We meet in the kitchen, where she pours us water from a pitcher she keeps in the fridge.

Her apartment is an interesting mix of girly girl and working office. It’s the same floor plan as mine, with some of the same furniture, but that’s where the similarities end. Mine has a lonely boot rack and a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen table. Hers has shelves lined with bins that hold envelopes, tape, and pens arranged by color. The desk I helped her move is alive with sketches, and a corkboard floats above it, crowded with half-finished card designs.

Then there’s the decor. Pink everywhere, but not aggressively so. It’s more like the color snuck in. Her sofa pillows are pale pink, and the throw blanket has little flamingos on it. The standing lamp is the same model as mine, but hers has a rosy bow around the neck. The walls hold frames with inspirational quotes in pastel colors.

Same bones as my place. Completely different soul.

I make sure she drinks several ounces of water, then lead her to the desk. I have an idea that’s guaranteed to make her feel better, but she’s going to need my help. I scan her shelf of paper. She has at least five kinds. “What paper do you make cards on?”

“Depends on the⁠—”

“What’s the best one?” I ask. “You know, for special cards? And don’t say they’re all special.”

“They are.” But she points to a stack labeled 270 gsm.

I take out a sheet and hand it to her. “This will do. It’s time to get to work.”

“Work on what?” Annabelle pulls her robe tighter and puts her heels on her desk chair, drawing her knees up to her chest. She looks adorable, and way too vulnerable. It’s time for her to take some of her power back.

“A card,” I say. “For Jacqueline and Magnus.”

She bolts upright. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t—I don’t—what would I even—” she sputters. “No. It’s impossible.”

“Impossible for you. I’ve seen your cards. But for the two of us? Totally possible. Let me help you.”

Annabelle’s mouth falls open. She blinks. She touches the card stock, picks up a pen, and then drops it on the desk. She blinks at me some more.

“Fuck me,” she whispers with a tiny smile, and I know I’ve got her. This is going to be savage. It will be cathartic. It will be fun.

I pull a chair from the kitchen and sit next to her at the desk. She’s using the tiered tray she made at The Break as a pen holder. I pick up a pen at random and hand it to her. “Write this down. ‘Congratulations on your engagement and your pregnancy. It takes a special couple to turn a secret affair into a public milestone.’”

I mime opening a card. “On the inside it says, ‘I want to wish you success in everything you’ve worked so hard for: a man who cheats, a relationship that started with lies, and the lifelong bond that comes with both.’”

She’s not writing. I point to her pen. “Are you getting this?”

Annabelle covers her mouth. “It’s awful. Do you know what will happen if I make that card? Jacqueline will pass it around the entire salon. All the stylists. The bookkeeper. Whoever replaced me as the receptionist. I’ll be the bad guy.”

“How can you be the bad guy? The only thing you did wrong was endure that asshole for so long.”

Annabelle droops at that and I immediately realize my mistake. I cup her chin and lift her head. “She did you a favor, you know, taking him off your hands.”

“True, true, but this card…”

“We’ll tone it down,” I say. “Write a version that will pass HR but still ruin their week, the way they tried to ruin yours with that wedding invitation.”

Annabelle squints. “Is that possible?”