Page 7 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
Wesley looked at Ted, and the two started snickering.
I passed out once at the office two years ago, and they still wouldn’t let me live it down. It had happened when Ted showed an X-ray of his jammed thumb and explained how the doctor had to yank it back into place. Feeling nauseous, I'd stood—planning an escape for the hallway—but immediately blacked out. They’d called an ambulance. It was a whole thing.
I’d tried to get them to stop fussing over me, telling them I was fine. Because it had happened before. I was a fainter.
It usually only occurred after I gave blood. In fact, it had happened so many times at blood drives that they told me to stop coming back. Like, my fainting spells were such an issue they’d rather pass on healthy blood than deal with the literal fallout.
Telling my officemates that bit of information had saved me an ambulance ride, but it was ultimately a mistake. The next day, Wesley sent an email to the team with the words Employee of the Month and, under it, a fainting goat gif. It had been a running joke since.
“Har, har,” I said, wishing I could keep my cheeks from reddening.
I risked a glance at Beck, who seemed to be making a mental note of the exchange. Redhead that likes to dive into questionable bodies of water also blacks out at the slightest mention of blood. Got it.
Kill me now, I prayed to those gods of old and new. But a lightning bolt never obliged.
My phone vibrated just as Wesley wrapped up the meeting. Hailey’s picture popped up on the illuminated screen. I packed up quickly and rushed to a stairwell a few doors from the conference room.
Before I could even utter a greeting, Hailey started rambling, “Okay. So I know I should have told you about starting a calligraphy business, and I was going to, but I wanted it to be more established when I asked you.”
“Asked me what?” I demanded.
“To join me,” she said like duh, keep up.
My mind reeled, picturing the calligraphy in Hailey’s room, her business, and trying to see where I landed in all this.
“Like . . . as your business partner?”
“I know you hate your job, and you’ve always been so in love with calligraphy. It just makes sense.”
None of it made sense. No part of this week made sense. At that point, I felt like I’d stumbled into The Upside Down in Stranger Things.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “What I don’t understand is how it makes sense for you?” My voice sounded angrier than I intended. “Since when has calligraphy been your thing?”
“Well.” A pause. In the silence, I imagined her plotting the safest course for this conversation. “It started out as a relaxation thing. You always seem so Zen when doing calligraphy.” Her voice rolled out softly as if we walked on eggshells here. And we did. “But then I got good at it and started to wonder if it could be more for me. I started up my business, and things were going well.” The soft edges crested to something more robust, her voice swelling with pride.
“How well?”
“Well enough that I quit bookkeeping a few months ago.”
I gaped. Calligraphy was an art. And just like any other art, it was subjective, a luxury, which made the industry incredibly flaky. And yet Hailey had decided to lean wholeheartedly on it. Let it feed her. Shelter her. The whole idea made me sweat.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I asked, not able to help myself.
“I made more from calligraphy last year than I did bookkeeping. Not by much, but my business is just starting.”
I wanted to protest further and mention that bookkeeping was the secure choice, but I realized I’d sound just as jealous as I felt. So instead, I ground out a “That’s great, Hailey.”
I couldn’t make my tone match the words, though. Instead, it sounded hollow, like the feeling in the pit of my stomach. The one that came with figuring out my sibling had whimsically decided to try something I’d been perfecting for decades only to be some fucking prodigy at it.
The universe wasn’t even trying to hide the Texas-sized middle finger it was shooting at me. I’d worked my ass off at my job. I practiced drills and perfected my lettering. But none of that mattered. People like Beckett and Hailey were just cosmically blessed.
“I never meant to hurt you, Emily. I swear. I was going to tell you when the business got bigger—gained more traction. I know you need stability—”
I exhaled through my nose. “You act like I’m paranoid for wanting solid ground to stand on. Everyone wants stability.”
“I know, I know. And you should, especially after the summer we lived out of Mom’s van.”
Precisely. That summer had jaded me, shattered my sense of security—like someone had turned my life upside down and rattled all its contents loose.
