“Well. That’s something.” Sam straightens, adjusting her glasses.
“Certainly something.” I draw a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the actual reason why I’m here. “We have a ten a.m. with GoodBarrel.”
Sam nods. “Did you finalize the mockup for the mixed-pack?”
“Here.” I drag my tote up and produce a folder. “Three versions. Gold foil on A, spot UV on B, and C is the budget-friendlier one with a matte varnish. I changed the typography hierarchy so the flavor reads first.”
She pulls the designs out, and her eyebrows rise as she flips through. “This is good.” She taps a thumbnail. “The foil’s going to make their logo sing.”
I beam at her. This is our secret romance language. Pantone colors, foiled detailing, smooth, embossed ridges, or the way a good weight of paper feels in your hand. Few things in life are more satisfying than opening a box of perfectly printed invitations.
“Did you hear back from Harvest Gala?” she asks. “Programs, place cards, four-by-nine menus?”
I nod, running my hands over the soft upholstery of the chair. “Confirmed specs. They’re deciding between linen and felt for the stock. I pushed them toward felt with a deckle edge. They were drooling.”
Sam laughs. “Deckle edges are the red lipstick of paper.”
“Say less.”
We run down the list: a conference booklet some oil and gas company wants to be forty pages, but they only have a budget for twenty-eight, a restaurant rebrand sprawling across menus and coasters, and the GoodBarrel boxes that could actually make our quarter.
When we reach a stopping point, Sam leans back and stretches. I tap my phone screen and see we only have ten minutes before our meeting.
“Okay, I’ll get back to my office.” I cry just a little as I grip Sam’s desk to force myself upright.
“Perfect. I’ll see you on the call. And also at work tomorrow.”
I pause, my eyes narrowing. That was a weird statement. “Are we not going out for dinner tonight?” It’s Wednesday. We always go for dinner on Wednesday.
“Oh, yeah, that too. I just meant?—”
“You’re being weird.”
Sam scoffs. “I’m not being weird.”
“What is it?” I ask. She has something she doesn’t want to tell me. We’ve known each other long enough, we may as well be an old married couple. Which is how I know that if I stand there and stare at her, she’ll eventually break.
“I can’t make the pickleball lesson tomorrow,” she blurts.
“What? Why?”
“My brother and his fiancée are coming in last minute. It’s a whole thing. We’re doing dinner, my cousin from the Springs is meeting us. I have to leave early and meet them in Aurora because apparently Uber is too expensive, and I’m the only one who knows where to park a Subaru in LoHi on a weeknight.”
“Okay, I’ll reschedule with Frank.” It’s an automatic reaction, and I second-guess it immediately. I don’t want to go to Smash Point Social by myself, but I also don’t want to miss the lesson. The first pickleball club night is Friday.
Sam shakes her head. “No, you go. Seriously. I’ll still be there Friday.”
“You only got one lesson.”
She winks. “I don’t have anyone to impress.”
On Thursday, I walk through the doors at Smash Point, shivering as the air conditioning hits my skin. Nobody likes a warm gym, but it's getting cold enough outside this week that the low temperature inside feels a little excessive.
The club is hopping tonight. People stand and chat in the aisle between the rows of courts. A sign at the front desk says, "Check-in for the mixed round robin in front of Court 1." Must be some kind of tournament or something.
I peer over, trying to judge skill level while I wait to check in, when I lock eyes with a woman who looks like she just steppedout of Sports Illustrated. I about swallow my tongue.Holy what?Megan's here?
I chose Smash Point because of its location in the opposite direction from Garrett's neighborhood, which is east of downtown and only about a fifteen-minute drive for me. The goal here was anonymity. I didn’t want anyone at work to know I was putting effort into this. But when Megan leaves her group of friends and rushes toward me, that bubble bursts hard.
