Page 62 of Never Your Valentine

“Sure. Something like… ‘Congratulations on your engagement. Wishing you clarity, trust, and peace as you prepare for what’s next.’”

Annabelle sorts through the pens on the tiered tray, picking colors. “Not bad. That will keep them up at night, wondering how much I know.”

“You can sign it: ‘Take care of each other the way you found each other.’ Or, better yet: ‘I hope everything unfolds the way it began.’”

Annabelle bounces in her seat. She’s got a pencil now and is already blocking in letters. “The way something starts often matters most.”

“Not that.” I swipe the pencil out of her hand. “That’s a throw pillow you buy at Target.”

“Is it?” She scans my face, gauging my expression. “Dammit, that’s exactly what that is. We need to start over.” She gets up and paces the room, then touches all the supplies on her shelf with her fingertips, like she’s counting off her inventory. She does it a second time, and I realize I’m witnessing a creative ritual that I’m lucky to see.

“Got it,” she says after the third pass at the supplies. She bolts for the desk and nearly takes the chair out with her knee.

“Are you sure?” I ask, bracing myself for another bland platitude. “Because I can⁠—”

“Shh.” She covers my mouth. “The muses are speaking.”

She puts her head down and gets to work. Her jaw locks, her head dips, and her breath smooths out. Her hand is sure and fast, like she’s struck a private deal with the idea. The apartment collapses to the sound of pencil swooping across expensive paper. Annabelle is beautiful in her concentration. The lamplight haloes her hair. Her pink robe matches the room. It strikes me that people make paintings like this.

I want to butt in, but it’s not my place. I won’t lean over her. I won’t kiss the back of her neck as she works. I won’t make this moment about me. Besides, she’s so deep in a creative trance, I might as well not exist.

I slip across the hall to my apartment. I pick up a tin of butter cookies and resume my place at her side. I feed her bites of cookie as she inks in letters and erases pencil lines. She puts a few last touches on it and hands me the card.

The front is a minimalist illustration done in fine gray lines. She’s drawn two champagne flutes, raised mid-toast. This isn’t Annabelle’s usual cartoon style. These glasses are fit for an elegant celebration. I take a second look. Both flutes have almost invisible cracks running from the rim to the stem.

Centered above the illustration in neat script is the word Congratulations.

Printed below it is the caption: Some beginnings tell you everything you need to know.

The line isn’t emphasized or bolded. It simply exists.

Inside the card: Wishing you all the happiness you deserve.

I open and close it a few times, admiring its searing precision. “Hallmark wishes they could make a clapback this subtle.”

“Hallmark could never.” Annabelle takes the card from me and signs it with a flourish. She keeps the pen in her hand, loose but deliberate, like she’s decided the moment isn’t over yet. Then she caps the pen and returns it to the tray. Her posture opens as she leans back, chin lifted, eyes certain. She knows exactly what she’s done.

“Envelope?” I ask.

“Second shelf, far left.”

I select a gray one and hand it over. She seals the card in, adds the address, and pounds a stamp on with her fist, as if making sure it will stick.

I slide the card off the desk. “I’ll take it to the post office in the morning.”

“Worried I’ll change my mind?” she asks.

“I know you will. But you can count on a heartless bastard like me to mail it.”

I tap the card against my palm. Annabelle gathers her pens. We smile at each other. It’s easy. Unguarded. And I realize that whatever we are to each other—Neighbors? Friends? Vexations?—it’s going to be okay.

She’s going to be okay.

“Now I can leave,” I say.

“One more hug?” she asks.

“I’d like that.”