Page 36 of The Weight Of Falling
Something about the sketch still feels off. Like it’s missing something.
I tap my pencil on the desk while I think.
“Kenzie!” Sofia barks from her desk, where she’s surrounded by a half-empty bag of cashews and three separate Google Docs on her screen demanding attention.
I immediately stop tapping. “Sorry.”
She lets out a sigh. “No, I’m sorry for snapping.”
We’re all a little on edge, running on too many late nights spent brainstorming design ideas.
I stare at my snail. I shade in a slight blush on its face. Much better. Then I add a tiny trail of hearts spilling from the envelope flap.
Tess gets up from her chair to peer over my shoulder. “Ooh, that looks incredible.”
I frown. “It needs a little something more.”
“Maybe a flower somewhere?”
“Hmm, a flower could be just the right finishing touch,” I say thoughtfully.
“What about a forget-me-not?” Sofia suggests from her desk.
Tess gives a tiny handclap. “Genius!”
A forget-me-not would fit the theme of the card beautifully. I smile to myself. I have a pressed forget-me-not in the heart pendant I wear around my neck. “So you always remember who you are,” my grandmother said when she gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday. I wear the necklace every day.
I quickly sketch the delicate spring flower tucked into the snail’s shell.
“That’s it,” Tess breathes out. “It’s perfect.”
She’s right. It is perfect, especially with the copy Tess came up with for the inside of the card:It might take a while, but love always finds its way.
Sofia joins us, nodding in approval at my design. “Fantastic work, Kenz.”
“We did it,” Tess says, and hugs us both.
I feel a swell of affection for the two of them, so grateful we took the plunge and started our own greeting card business. Every day, I have the privilege of working with my two closest friends, doing something we love.
Tess brings me a fresh cup of tea, and then they leave me to get on with the final touches. My brush dips into the paint like muscle memory, and I begin layering the ivory base of the snail’s shell with gentle shadows. I select a soft moss green and dab it gently to the spiral edge of the shell, letting the pigment bloom across the textured paper. I never rush this part. It feels sacred. Like a promise between me and the page.
I can’t control how many people will fall in love with this card and decide to buy it. What I can control are the thoughts in my head. And right now, there’s only the page, the paint, and this tiny, hopeful snail on its paper journey.
Until my phone rings, loud in the quiet. I don’t recognize the number on the screen. With a tired sigh, I switch it to silent.
“Another one?” Sofia asks, frowning.
“Another one,” I confirm.
The calls and texts haven’t stopped. Ever since Joel dropped me off on Saturday night, I’ve been bombarded by well-meaning townsfolk wanting to know how I am and what they can do to help. My fridge is packed with sympathy casseroles, and my living room is overflowing with flowers. Someone even left a stuffed llama on my porch with a note that read, “Spit happens. Stay strong.”
At this point, I’ve stopped answering my phone altogether. And Ialwaysanswer. Even when the screen saysSuspected Scam, I pick up, because maybe even a scammer could use a cheerful voice now and then.
I set down my paintbrush and shake my head in bewilderment. “I was hoping all the fuss would’ve died down by now.”
Sofia and Tess exchange a loaded look. Unease courses through me. “What?”
“Huh?” Tess replies, trying to look innocent.
