Page 5 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
“It’s okay.” A tear fell free, and I hastily wiped my cheek.
“I just can’t believe it. Your supervisor said you were in line to get it. Didn’t he?”
I sniffed. “Yeah.” I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see me. “They just found someone better.” I tried hard to keep my voice even, but it wavered at the end of the sentence.
She paused, and I could sense she was contemplating how to broach a subject. “I know you don’t want to hear this. But I think it’s time you find a different job, Emily.”
“It’s a good job, though,” I argued.
“No. It’s a secure job. I know that’s what you crave, but you have a master’s degree and five years of experience. I’m sure there are plenty of opportunities out there.”
Probably. But The Arlow Group was safe, established. I knew what I was doing there. Sure, it came with a crazy workload, but I was good at it.
“Hold on a minute, hun.” Something crinkled on the line, then, “That looks great. What color are you going to use to highlight here?” My mom’s voice sounded muffled, then a clear, “Sorry about that.”
“Mom, are you in the middle of class?” She taught art lessons at a small studio downtown, sometimes late into the evening, to fit around school and work schedules.
“Oh, no!” she denied like it was a ridiculous conclusion. “Not a whole class, just a private lesson tonight.”
“You should have said something,” I said, smacking my forehead. “Go back to teaching. We can talk later.”
“Okay, but please think about what I said.”
“I will,” I lied. “Bye, Mom.”
As I hung up, my gaze drifted to the floor. Where the blanket had been, there, in the middle of a pile of laundry, laid a deep green envelope with delicate gold lettering.
I slipped off the bed, curiosity thoroughly piqued by the envelope. I picked it up, appreciating the lettering—how each swoop was perfectly even. Each descension held the same boldness. Each ascension flicked with the lightest feathery strokes.
The envelope was addressed to Reagan Dawson. California sat on the bottom line of the address. Did Hailey know a Reagan from California? That, in itself, wouldn’t have been too strange, but Hailey’s name wasn’t on the return address.
Why does Hailey have this? I wondered, setting the envelope on her desk.
That’s when I noticed the Dalmatian-like ink blots on the cedar desk. It reminded me of my workspace at home. I removed a hoodie from the desk, revealing a set of pointed pens that would put my collection to shame. Then there was the Rhodia paper. I flipped through it and found rows and rows of drills. Loops and curves, names all in delicate calligraphy. I looked up, flabbergasted, and saw the bookshelf full of stationery. I ran my fingertips over the different color and weight options.
“What the hell?”
Calligraphy was my thing. Always had been. I’d started in eighth grade, and while Hailey had always seemed impressed with the skill, she’d never seemed interested.
I returned to the desk, desperate to know more—either to justify or quell the growing sense that I didn’t really know my sister after simply finding some pens and fancy paper. I opened Hailey’s planner, completely disregarding any right to her privacy.
But it didn’t take long to find names and even some detailed notes: addressing for Victoria’s wedding, bridal party glasses for Jones’s wedding, and live lettering at Henson Winery.
I backed away from the desk, feeling both impressed and hurt. Hailey had done what I’d been too afraid to even consider. She’d started her own calligraphy business.
And she hadn’t told me.
Me? The one who’d taught her how to do a fishtail braid, who settled on being Flounder for Halloween so she could be Ariel, who wrote her finance paper in college because the thought of completing it made her cry. I baked pistachio macarons for her birthday every year; they were an absolute pain, but I did it because Hailey loved them.
Yet she couldn’t mention buying a jar of ink, let alone that she’d decided to make a side hustle off my favorite pastime.
Dazed and a bit shell-shocked, I picked up my phone. Hailey didn’t answer my call, so I settled for a message instead, but as I typed, my hands shook. The betrayal ran hot, and it ran deep.
I found the pointed pens. You have a lot of explaining to do.
Chapter 3
“Please, don’t let him recognize me from yesterday.” My voice was low enough so that only Anna and, hopefully, a higher power could hear. “I pray to the old gods and the new,” I said as we walked from my coconut-scented cubicle to the conference room.
