Page 19 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
“Hear me out,” she said, palms up in a defensive pose. “He’s a quick study. He’s already taken the lead on many of my tasks, shouldering the burdens without me having to ask. And this last doctor’s appointment, he offered to take over our scheduled Zoom meeting with the family office so I wouldn’t have to be at the meeting during the visit. Do you know what it’s like having to carry on a conversation with your colleagues while in stirrups? I mean, I turn the camera off. But still!”
I shuddered.
“Exactly.”
“How are the doctor’s visits going?” I craftily turned the conversation from my issues with Beck because Anna was talking about him as though he spent his free time rescuing kittens out of trees. “My Gracie Girl being good to her mommy?”
Anna rubbed her tight, round belly. “She’s doing fine. We’re doing fine.” She read my expression. “Don’t worry. I still have another two months before she arrives. From what I’ve read, the first one is usually stubborn about evicting. I’m sure I’ll be here until forty weeks.” Anna let out an exhausted sigh and shifted positions on her office chair.
I hated seeing Anna uncomfortable, and I knew she was so ready to meet her daughter and be a stay-at-home mom. But I was selfish and wanted Anna for as long as possible. Even still, I knew these two months would fly by.
Before I could get choked up at the idea of life in the office without my work wife, I pulled a Ziplock from my canvas bag and placed the neatly stacked pile of envelopes in front of Anna.
The recognition hit her face immediately. “You finished the invites?” Bright, contagious excitement replaced her exhaustion. She pulled them out, carefully inspecting the invitations: black strokes on the sweetest blush paper. “Oh, Emily.”
“You like them?” I asked, that anxious feeling bubbling over my chest at someone examining something I took so much pride in.
“They are beautiful,” she gushed. “Better than I imagined.”
I was good at my job. Over the years, I’d evolved into quite the problem solver. But nothing ever matched up to this, someone appreciating my art—my calligraphy bringing someone joy. That never happened over spreadsheets.
I deflated for a moment until I remembered my secret life, taking over my sister’s business, tucked safely away in my pocket.
Chapter 7
The weekend arrived, and I had to ignore the sick, swelling feeling in my chest that told me I didn’t have time to help my sister pack when I had laundry, groceries, meal prep, checking emails, and support tickets. Saturdays and Sundays were slotted for catching up on work and tending to all the other tasks that ensured I could survive as a functioning adult.
But I didn’t know when I’d have a chance to see my Floridian of a sister, and I looked forward to catching up with my mom, too. So consequences be damned.
Hailey barely got the door to her apartment open before nearly knocking me down with a hug. I squealed and put a foot down like a kickstand to keep us upright.
Then, Hailey pulled back to give me a hard pinch on the arm.
“Ow!” I said, rubbing the area.
“That’s for letting my orchid die.” She moved aside to let me see a shriveled papery flower hanging limply from a woody stem.
“I’m sorry! I lost my sister to Florida. I wasn’t thinking about your houseplants. Look on the bright side. That thing is finally out of its misery.”
Hailey went for another pinch, but I dodged. “I brought boxes,” I offered, trying to extend an olive branch.
“Come on.” She led me past a maze of cardboard and a half-packed living room. “You can get started on my calligraphy collection.”
“You going to let the real expert pack up the supplies?” I asked with a smug smile.
“No. I just want to give you a task I think you can actually handle.” The words were mean, but they held no bite.
“Ouch,” I said, a hand dramatically flying to my chest.
Mom already sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling clothes out of Hailey’s dresser.
“Hi, sweetie!”
I squatted to hug her and got a dose of serotonin that comes with catching the scent of home. “Hey, Mom! How’s it going?”
“Same old, same old,” she answered. I noted the blots of paint on her shirt. Same old, indeed. “What about you?”
“Just work, work, and more work,” I said, eyeing Hailey’s desk to map out the best plan for organizing the area.
