Page 81 of Never Your Valentine

When Truly gets to the postscript about my eighth-grade cargo pants, Jimmy loses it. Kat and I both giggle like teenagers.

We watch it again. I keep waiting for it to flicker, for reality to correct its mistake. It doesn’t. I’m still on the floor, but I’m also floating. My body is losing touch with gravity. By the third replay, we’re screaming the punchlines.

Someone’s pounding on my door. I get up to look through the peephole. Grant is on the other side, hair disheveled, needing a shave, eyes full of worry.

“I have to go,” I tell Kat.

“Yes, yes, you’re too famous for me.”

“What? No.”

“I’m going to tell everyone that I knew you before Kimmel.”

I say goodbye to Kat and open the door, practically flinging myself into Grant.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “You were yelling.”

“I’m fine. More than fine. I’m ahh!” I drag him into my apartment and do a happy lap around my packing table. I raise both arms, then flop down on the couch with a whoosh. “This is unbelievable. This is— Did you see it? Do you watch Jimmy Kimmel?”

“It’s way too early for this.”

“Agreed. But listen.” I start at the beginning, and show Grant the YouTube clip. This time, I see things I missed before. Yesterday was Truly’s actual birthday and she had to spend it on TV. Boo hoo, right? Except working on your birthday sucks, no matter what your job is. She says a fan made her a card and she loves it because it feels vulnerable, and funny, and so relatable.

I realize that she’s signaling the audience. She wants them to see her as vulnerable and funny and relatable. It’s all Hollywood optics, but I don’t give a shit because she’s using my card to do it. Truly Penrose said my name in front of millions of people.

“This is all because of the card we made,” I tell Grant. “Can you believe it?”

“You mean the card you made.”

“You basically wrote the whole joke.”

“I did nothing. You’re the designer. The talent is yours. The creativity is yours. Only you would think of sending cards to celebrities. And you were brave enough to do it.” Grant puts his arm around me. He’s warm. Solid. He smells like bed and comfort. “This is everything you wanted.”

The email notification in the corner of my computer screen keeps ticking upward. I cover my face with my hands as disbelief turns to reality. Gravity has returned tenfold, pinning me to the couch. “My website. My email. I’m scared to look at them.”

“Do you want me to hold your hand?”

“No. I need to type.” I open my website. Not the customer-facing side, but the back end that only I can see.

I’m completely sold out of cards. But it’s worse. I’ve sold more cards than I have in inventory. I never told the system to shut off if that happens because I never thought I would have this problem. Holy shit. What now?

“Do I dare ask about your Instagram?” Grant grabs my phone and opens the app. “Is the follower count number supposed to spin like that?”

“Oh God, this is awful.” I show him the laptop and explain what the numbers mean.

“That looks like a nice problem to have.”

“It’s a hideous problem to have. I’m going to have to tally incoming orders and get more from my printer, but deliveries take forever up here. Paying rush fees doesn’t make the trucks drive faster.”

“Go figure.”

“Maybe I can do backorders? I don’t know.” My knees are bouncing so much I might drop the laptop. Backorder won’t do anything but piss off the customers. If they order cards they can’t get for six weeks, they’ll never buy from me again. My fifteen minutes of fame, squandered.

Grant gives me a slow nod and a calming voice. “Tell you what. I’ll close The Break for the day and get June up here. Will that help?”

“Can you mail the ones ready to go?” I’m pacing the room now. “Wait, they’re already in my car. Maybe I can go to the post office and you can pack orders? But you don’t know my system. I’ll have to teach you.” I poke my fingers into my hair at my temples and pace some more, trying to think. Will adding more people help me or cost me too much time to train?

Grant stands in front of me, and when I try to veer around him, he takes my shoulders and bends to look in my eyes. “Have you eaten?”