And I’d regretted it later. Meeting him. Meeting them together.
I regret it even more now.
We’d settled on a Sunday afternoon for that final meeting, and now it seems doubly strange to find him here again on another Sunday, my life so different now than it was then, even though I’m in the same store, standing behind the same counter, wearing some version of what’s always, pretty much, been my style aesthetic—a knit dress, a little slouchy in fit, patterned, this particular one with tiny, friendly fox faces. Slightly wrinkled cardigan that, until an hour ago, was shoved into my bag. Navy tights and low-heeled, wine-red booties that Sibby would probably say make my feet look big but that also make me smile at least once a day, even without Sibby willing to tease me anymore.
Last year,he’dbeen wearing what other people call “business casual” and what I’d privately call “weekend-stick-up-your ass”: tan chinos pressed so sharply they’d looked starched, white collared shirt under a slim cut, expensive-looking navy-blue V-neck sweater. A double-take face, that was for sure—so handsome half of you is wondering if you’ve seen him on your television and the other half of you is wondering why anyone would put a head like that on top of what looked like a debate team uniform.
But now he looks different. Same head, okay—a square, clean-shaven jaw; high cheekbones that seem to carve swooping, shadowed lines down to his chin; a full-lipped mouth with corners turning slightly down; a nose bold enough to match the rest of his strong features; bright, clear blue eyes beneath a set of brows a shade lighter than his dark reddish-blond hair. Neck down, though, not so business casual anymore: olive green T-shirt underneath a hip-length, navy-blue jacket, faded around the zipper. Dark jeans, the edges of the front pockets where he has his hands tucked slightly frayed, and I don’t think it’s the kind of fraying you pay for. Gray sneakers, a bit battered-looking.
be, I think,his life is pretty different now, too.
But then he says, “Good evening,” which I guess means he’s still got the stick up his ass. Who saysGood evening?Your grandad, that’s who. When you call him on his land line.
I feel like if I say a casual “Hi” or “Hey,” I’ll open up some crack in the space-time continuum, or at least make him want to straighten the tie he’s not wearing. I shouldn’t be deceived by the clothes. Maybe he got mugged on the way over by a rogue debate team captain in need of a new outfit and that’s why he looks the way he does.
I settle for a “Hello,” but I keep it light and cheerful—buoyant, if you will—and I’m pretty sure henods. As if he’s saying, “This greeting is acceptable to me.” I have a fleeting image of how it must have been at his wedding. Probably he did that nod when the officiant said “man and wife.” Probably he shook Avery’s hand instead of kissing her. I really don’t think she would’ve minded. Her lipstick always looked so nice.
“Welcome to—” I begin, at the same time he speaks again.
“You still work here,” he says. It’s flat, the same as everything I’ve ever heard him say, but there’s a hint of question, of surprise in it.
So maybe he knows something of what I’ve done since I lettered every single scrap of paper for his wedding.
But surely he can’t know—he absolutelycan’tknow—why I’d decided his wedding would be my last.
I swallow. “I’m filling in,” I say, and it’s—less buoyant. Cautious. “The owner’s on vacation.”
He’s still standing right inside the door, underneath the bright paper cranes Cecelia has hung from the ceiling near the entrance. Behind him, the window displays feature various sheaths of the new custom wrapping paper she’d told me about two weeks ago, the last time I’d stopped in for supplies. It’s all so colorful, a springtime celebration of pinks and greens and pale yellows, a cheery haven from the mostly gray tones of the city street outside, and now it looks like a human skyscraper has walked in.
It reminds me of one of those truths about Reid Sutherland.
It reminds me of how he’d seemed a little lost that day. A little sad.
I swallow again and take a step forward, pick up my Micron from the crease of my client’s notebook, prepare to close it and set it aside., it calls, and this time something else occurs to me. It’d be close now to Reid and Avery’s first anniversary. June 2nd, that was the wedding date, and sure he’s planning way ahead, but probably he’s that kind of guy in general. Probably he’s got a reminder on his phone. And he’d be the type to follow the rules, too, all the conventions. Paper, that’s the traditional first anniversary gift, and that’s probably what brought him here. Very sweet, to come all the way to Brooklyn, to the place where they’d chosen their first paper together. Or I guess where she chose it, and he sort of . . . blinked at it in what she’d taken for approval.
I feel a blooming sense of relief. There’s anexplanationfor this, for him being here. It’snotbecause he knows.
No one but me could know.
I push the notebook out of the way and fold my hands on top of the counter, look up to offer help. Of course in the face of a human-shaped piece of granite I find myself struggling to muster the cheerful informality that’s always made me such a hit in here, that had lifted my low spirits throughout today’s shift. Ridiculously, I can only think of phrases that seem straight out of Jane Austen.Are you in need of assistance, sir? What do you require this evening? Which of our parchment-like wares appeals most to you?
“I suppose it’s to be expected,” he says, before I can settle on a question. “You wouldn’t need this job, what with all the success you’ve had.”
He’s not looking at me when he says it. He’s turned his head slightly, looking to the wall on his left, where there’s a display of greeting cards that Lachelle, one of Cecelia’s regular calligraphers, has designed. They’re bright, bold colors, too—Lachelle uses mostly jewel tones for her projects, adding tiny beads with a small pair of tweezers that she wields as though she’s doing surgery. I love them, have three of them tacked on the wall above my nightstand, but Reid doesn’t even seem to register them before his eyes shift back to me.
“I saw theTimesarticle,” he says, I guess by way of explanation. “And the piece on . . .” He swallows, gearing up for something. “Buzzfeed.”
LOL, I think, or maybe I see it: sans serif, bold, all caps, a bright yellow background. Reid Sutherland scrolling throughBuzzfeed, the twenty gifs they’d embedded of me drawing various letters with pithy captions about how it was almost pornographically satisfying, watching me draw a perfect, brush-lettered cursiveEso smoothly.
He probably got an eye twitch from it. Then he probably cleared his browser history.
“Thank you,” I say, even though I don’t think he was complimenting me.
“Avery is very proud. She feels as though she got on the ground floor, hiring you when she did. Before you became . . .”
He trails off, but both of us seem to fill in the blank.The Planner of Park Slope, that’s what I’m called now. That’s what got me out of the wedding business, that’s what theTimeswrote about late last year, that’s what’s had me on three conference calls in the last month alone, that’s what’s brought me the deadline I’m avoiding. Custom-designed datebooks and journals and desk calendars, the occasional chalk-drawn wall calendar inside the fully renovated brownstones of my most handcraft-obsessed clients, the ones who have toddlers with names like Agatha and Sebastian, the ones with white subway-tile kitchens and fresh flowers on farmhouse-style tables that never once saw the inside of a farmhouse, let alone the outside of a farm. I don’t so much organize their lives as I do make that organization—work retreats and weekend holidays and playdates and music lessons—look special, beautiful, uncomplicated.
“Are you looking to have me design something for her?”
