Page 80 of Never Your Valentine

Grant: Wasn’t me

Annabelle: You sure?

Grant: I think I saw a DoorDash driver lurking in the hall

Annabelle: They don’t have DoorDash in Echo Creek

Grant: Then who left you a burrito?

Annabelle: Thank you, neighbor. I needed this

Grant: Hope it helps

Chapter 31

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—”