Love Lettering

by Kate Clayborn

  “Meg,” he says from behind me, and I turn, look back down to where he still sits, his body curved forward. His face is turned up to me, his eyes serious but dancing with the fluttering shadows from the canopy of trees overhead.

  “Yeah?”

  “Your friend . . . I don’t believe she doesn’t want to be your friend anymore. I think she must—” He breaks off, lifts a hand and runs it through his hair, something I’ve never seen him do. “She must have something going on, with herself. I’m sure she’ll come around.”

  Oh, no. It’s a big pendulum swing back. We’re probably in one-second-from-crying territory now. Reid’s quiet vote of confidence on this—even in spite of the fact that he’s never met Sibby, that he’s giving me all the benefit of the doubt, that he’s admitted, not ten minutes ago, that he doesn’t have all that much experience with friendship himself—it gives me so much comfort. I don’t even know if I believe it, really, but—God. God, it helps to hear it.

  “I hope so.”

  He stands then, and the movement puts us close to each other, unexpectedly so. Both of us seem to take the same quick inhale, and his hands rise to cup my elbows, as though to steady me, and I guess it’s a good thing, because whoa. Both of my elbows at the same time. I feel that touch like starbursts beneath my skin, between my legs.

  My eyes rise to his. His head is tipped down, the hair he smoothed back curling over his brow again. When he breathes out, I feel the fine strands of hair around my face quiver.

  I feel so many things, so much more than I did this morning.

  “What I mean to say is . . .” He pauses, those blue eyes searching mine. “What I mean to say is, I think anyone would want to be your friend.”

  Friend.

  The way Reid says this word—I want to draw and redraw it, capturing how it sounds from his lips. I want to ask him to say it again, so I can watch. So I can know if I’m seeing too much in those letters when he says them.

  I must be, right?

  Friend is not starbursts in your elbows. Friend is not face-pressing. Friend is not thinking about how a so-often-stern, sometimes-laughing set of lips would taste.

  Something in my body must’ve changed, straightened, because Reid drops his hands from me, though I still feel those starbursts. Do it again, I want to say, but instead I take a half step back and fix him with what I hope is a normal, unaffected smile.

  “Even you, huh?” I manage. And even though I know Reid would’ve said it more directly, I hope he knows what I’m really asking. I hope he knows I’m asking whether he’s forgiven me for those seven hidden letters.

  He puts his hands in his jacket pockets. He looks at me for a long time.

  “Even me,” he says, finally. And then he adds, quietly, the most perfect, special fragment, the one I know I’ll be drawing for days and days. “Especially me.”

  Chapter 10

  “Wow,” Lark says, staring down at the pile of sketches in front of her. “This is a lot.”

  She doesn’t say “a lot” as though she’s happy about it, and given what I know about her decision-making capabilities, I suppose that’s fair enough. Maybe I should’ve done fewer treatments, or streamlined her options. But I can’t say I regret it.

  Because everything laid out in front of us here? The bold, brightly colored compositions, the different iterations of the lettering Lark picked? The mix-and-match styles, the shapes I’ve formed with different letter arrangements?

  All of it means I’m finally, finally unblocked.

  Almost every idea on these pages I owe to the game, to the time Reid and I spent together last Saturday after the park. With my cramps abated and a new lightness between us as we’d walked and snapped photos, my pendulum had swung strongly in the direction of “needing tacos,” and since I’d pretty much abandoned any modesty when it came to my period feelings, I’d told Reid immediately.

  “I think there’s a place around here you’d like,” he’d said. Sadly, he had not touched my elbow again as he led the way.

  Happily, though, “like” had been an understatement. The restaurant had been inspiration city—signs painted on the walls everywhere I looked, bold and bright, advertising Cervezas and Micheladas over the bar, Tortillas and Salsas and Tostadas in the dining room. Even some of the mirrors on the walls had been painted, one with a gorgeous, vintage-looking script that I’d sketched right away, flipping over the half sheet of paper we’d been given to check off our taco order.

  We’d sat at the sticky-surfaced table, the bar loud at our backs, and shared everything we ordered. We ate food that was as bright and delicious as the signs around us. Ripe, pale-green avocado. Perfectly roasted, gold-yellow corn. Bowls of deep-red salsa. Dark, spicy black beans. The translucent purple of chopped red onions.

  In between bites of food, we’d talked. It’s clear Reid’s least favorite topic is his job, but he’d told me more about his family, and I’d even gotten him to tell me about the pool smell: he swims laps at the gym every single morning, five a.m. to six a.m. After he finishes, he eats the same breakfast each day: three eggs, one sliced tomato, one banana, one cup of—“Let me guess!” I’d interrupted—hot tea. And he’d listened with interest while I’d told him all about my first few months in New York—well, leaving out the crying parts—exploring the city with Sibby.

  It was easy and honest and fun, and I’d felt Reid’s Especially me sparking like electricity in my fingers the whole time.

  I’d drawn all through the train ride home, and I’ve kept drawing. At cafés, in between meetings with my regulars. At the shop, sometimes sitting and chatting with Lachelle or Cecelia, neither of them asking why I’ve been around more lately. At the apartment, in my room, sometimes with the occasional interruption from a text exchange with Reid—more pictures, more small games we’ve played. I’ve worked enough to have one complete treatment for the Make It Happyn job, something I’m pretty happy with, and I’d still managed to get time in for Lark’s commission.

  Now I lean away from it all, giving Lark a better view and an apologetic smile.

  “It’s possible I overdid it.”

  She smiles back—a knowing, indulgent smile, one that makes me think Lark and I could probably be friends.

  “But remember, what we’re looking for here is related to composition—a set of shapes that stick out to you. Try to ignore colors, for now.”

  With this direction, Lark eliminates a few entries. Even though I told her to ignore colors, I pay attention to where she lingers, for future reference. At one point, she sets the tip of her index finger to a pale-pink and pale-green juxtaposition, inspired by the drinks I’d insisted on ordering at the taco place: one lime soda, one watermelon soda. I’d tasted both first and passed the lime one to Reid.

  “This one’s not so sweet,” I’d said. “But mine tastes like cavities.” I’d taken a big drink just to see him shake his head in charming disapproval.

  I look down at where Lark keeps her finger. Outside of the memory of the drinks Reid and I shared, this isn’t really to my taste—it sort of looks as if I drew this for the Lilly Pulitzer catalog. But maybe Lark—in spite of the skinny black jeans she’s wearing, the faded Ramones T-shirt that’s too big for her—has a secret hankering for flower-patterned sundresses and sweaters tied around her shoulders.

  “If you’re into pastels,” I venture, “that’s a good option for the chalk wall.”

  She pushes the sheet away reluctantly.

  “No, I’m into—you know. Black.” She gestures down at her outfit. It looks as though she Googled “How to Dress Like a New Yorker.”

  “Sure, we can stay neutral. But even an accent—”

  I’m interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing, the loud, warning beeps of the alarm system. At first I think it must be Jade, who’d taken off to run errands for Lark when I’d arrived, but then I hear a deep voice call out, “Goddammit! How do I shut this fucking thing off?”

  Lark stiffens atop h
er stool, obviously surprised. When we’d set this meeting, she’d said Friday afternoon worked for her, that Cameron would be out late scouting locations for a new shoot he’s working on. “Cameron,” she’d said, going for the natural beginning to almost sixty percent of her sentences, “prefers if I handle everything related to the house.” As though having to be involved in small decisions about what will greet his eyes every morning on the wall of his own bedroom is too much of a hardship for his artistic sensibilities.

  There’s another muffled curse from the entryway.

  Lark gives me an embarrassed wince. “Sorry,” she says, and then she calls, “Babe, remember? Put in the passcode!”

  Silence. Lark seems to count to herself.

  “Our first date?” she calls out.

  More silent counting; then she slides off her stool. “I’ll be right back.”

  The beeps are getting louder, closer together. I’d be nervous, I guess, to meet the half of this job who seems to be gumming up the decision-making works, but I’m too busy wondering if he’ll be wearing that beanie and the leather bracelets.

  When Lark and Cameron come into the kitchen, they’ve got those pinched-but-polite looks on their faces couples sometimes get, when you can tell they’ve shown up to a party after having a massive fight in the car about who always empties the dishwasher. My parents used to be super good at that look, always more polite than pinched. Lark and Cameron clearly need practice, but still—I feel an answering quiver of recognition, a discomforting familiarity deep inside of me.

  “Hi!” I chirp, which is also how I used to deal with my parents. It’s as though my brain has sent my mouth a message: default to protocol. I stand from my stool, stretching a hand out to Cameron. “I’m Meg Mac—”

  “Look at you!” Cameron says, pumping my hand. I don’t like it, that Look at you! As if I’m a toddler taking my first steps. “The Planner of Park Slope, right? We’re pretty lucky getting you to this side of Brooklyn.”

  “Yeah, a whole two miles!” That works because I’ve said it so cheerfully, and Cameron smiles his bright white smile. He’s not wearing the beanie, but he is wearing the bracelets, which look more ridiculous in person. I have the feeling he gave Lark the idea for her outfit, because he’s got on a version of the same thing—black boots, dark jeans, vintage-looking black T-shirt. He’s handsome—not Reid Sutherland handsome, though I guess that’s an unfair standard for anyone to meet, given my personal preference for his face—but there’s something off-putting about his good looks, how he matches them with an aren’t-you-flattered-to-have-my-attention attitude.

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he says. “The Slope is great for families.”

  The Slope? I know from Cameron’s IMDB page that he’s from Malibu, so I’m pretty annoyed already. If Lachelle was here she’d be giving him a look, the kind of look where the two o’s are drawn as to-the-side eyeballs, but I nod my head in agreement. There’s a strong smell of secondhand embarrassment coming off Lark, which at least is mitigating the smell of Cameron’s too-strong cologne.

  “I love the feel of it here, you know? It’s so . . .” I already know what he’s going to say next, and I brace myself for the impact of the irritation I’m about to feel. “Gritty,” he finishes.

  “Uh-huh.” I drop his hand. I mean, okay. There’s an IKEA not far from here; I think he can stop being so smug about Red Hook. “Well, it’s really nice to meet you. You have a beautiful home.” That was built last year.

  “Still coming together, obviously.” He puts an arm around Lark. “But I’ve got my princess here on the job.”

  One hundred percent of the sentences in my head now start with his name. Cameron is the worst. Cameron would never bring Lark a sandwich. Cameron probably doesn’t know what a poem is. Cameron: ugh.

  I nod and smile.

  Lark ducks from under his arm, goes back to her stool. “Meg and I were looking over some things,” she says, her voice cool. I get the sense she’s trying to tell him to find something else to do, maybe to go put saddle soap on his bracelets or something, but instead he goes to the other side of the island and leans over my sketches. I go back to my seat next to Lark, giving her an encouraging smile.

  “This for a kid’s room, or something?” Cameron says, looking at the pink and green treatment. Another piece of jewelry has come loose from underneath the neck of his T-shirt. It’s a shark tooth. On a thin rope of leather. Reid would die.

  “Cam,” Lark whispers sharply.

  I give an airy, unbothered laugh, even though I’m thinking about weaponizing that thin rope of leather. “It’s no big deal! I was explaining to Lark that these are helpful for seeing how we might set up the quote you choose for—”

  “Yeah, the quote. I’ve got so many ideas about that.”

  “Great!”

  Not great. I have the feeling that Lark’s assertion that Cameron prefers her to deal with the house is not strictly true. He probably has tons of (terrible) opinions but wants her to execute them all. On the job, he’d said, as though she were his employee.

  Beside me, Lark is shooting laser beams out of her eyes at Cameron.

  “We’re working on composition today, not the quote,” Lark says. “I think I—”

  But Cameron speaks over her.

  “Do you know Nietzsche?”

  “Not personally!” He absolutely doesn’t get that I’m insulting him. That’s how good I am at customer service, at putting on this act. I’ve picked up my pencil again, my grip on it overfirm, my palms clammy.

  “He’s a philosopher.”

  “Cam,” Lark says. “I’m sure she knows that.”

  “So you’ve heard that quote, ‘God is dead’?”

  Lark runs two fingers along her hairline.

  “You want ‘God is dead’ on your bedroom wall?” I ask.

  “I want something true, you know?”

  How about YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE. Not enough letters in GOD IS DEAD to hide that, but I could think of something to get the job done.

  Lark says, “We’re not doing that.”

  Cameron looks at me as if we’re in on something together, rolls his eyes, and says, “She’s kind of a lightweight, this one.”

  And oh, man. It is so awkward. It’s the kind of flippant, cruel remark that has ten layers of complication hiding inside of it. It’s every time my mom said to me, during family dinners, “You know your father, he just loves his work,” or every time my dad jokingly said to his employees at some boring holiday party, “My wife’s favorite pastime is taking the fun out of things.”

  For a second, the room goes as silent as a grave. Lark’s body is basically a headstone beside mine. She has not moved. It is unbelievable that I have not snapped my Staedtler in half with the force of my silent, suppressed anger.

  Then Cameron laughs, clueless, turning to the refrigerator. I blink at his back, longing for laser beams, but I can’t stand the silence. Can’t stand that Lark’s sitting there, probably humiliated.

  “You know what?” I say to her, and to her only. I’ve kept my voice in the same register it’d been in before Cameron’s little performance, as though nothing at all has happened to disturb our fun. “This is my favorite, too.” I set my finger to the sheet of paper she’d been reaching for when Cameron interrupted her with his “God is dead” garbage.

  Lark’s face is flushed, but she smiles at me gratefully. “We made some progress today, right?”

  I can tell she wants to wrap up, to get me out of here before Cameron does or says something else that’s rude and patronizing.

  And because I know that feeling, know how it is to pretend not to hear all the subtext that lies beneath a he just loves his work or to laugh uncomfortably at a hurtful joke about taking the fun out of things, I oblige. I tell her I’ll work on this composition more, try it in different colors. I encourage her—pointedly, only her—to send me some ideas for quotes over e-mail. I shake Cameron’s hand again and tell a bald-faced lie, becau
se it was not at all nice to meet him, and I gather my stuff in my bag, tossing out a couple of self-deprecating jokes about its sloppy contents to break some of the tension that’s hovering in the air.

  But when Lark walks me to the foyer, the scene of Cameron’s bonanza of cursing at a tiny type-pad that probably has more skills of human intuition than he does, I’m oddly unable to keep the ruse going. Why are you with this guy? I want to say. But I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, don’t want to shine an even brighter light on something she so clearly didn’t want me to see.

  “He’s been under some stress lately,” she says, before I can speak.

  Default protocol is telling me to nod and smile again. But I must be all kinds of unblocked now, because I bypass it entirely and blurt, “That really sucked, what he said.”

  I only think fleetingly about whether or not he can hear me. I’m not sure I care if he does.

  But I do care that Lark stiffens, her chin raising. She purses her lips and turns to the type-pad, punches in a code, and waits for a click before setting her hand on the doorknob. My face feels like I’ve stuck it against a hot oven door.

  “I’ll send you some of those quotes,” she says sharply, and oof. Probably “God is dead” will end up in there, after this. The bright side, I guess, is that she’s not firing me, but I feel such a potent, shaky-stomached feeling of dread. Why did you say anything? Why couldn’t you have left it alone?

  “Sure,” I say. “Listen, I’m sorry if—”

  “He’s a good guy,” she says, pointedly. “I know him.”

  I realize that Lark can absolutely be decisive when she wants to be. For example, when she wants me out of her house. When she’s reminding me that I’m her employee, not her friend.

  Nod and smile? Activated. I feel ridiculous.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, stepping toward the open door. “I was being—” Honest, my brain supplies, but I don’t say it. Instead I wave a hand dismissively. I was being silly, this gesture says.

  “I’ll give you a call next week,” she says as I step onto the stoop, into the late-afternoon light. She doesn’t sound much like she plans to call me next week.