“I’ll be upstairs if you want to just holler for me when it’s done. I have some… things to do.” A mountain of homework I should havealreadybeen doing, which I dearly hope will not crush me when I finally allow the weight of it to rest on my shoulders.
Roman waves me off, muttering about butter and hot sauce and what sorts of cheese we have in the fridge as he beelines for the kitchen.
Taking that as confirmation that he’ll let me know when dinner’s ready, I haul my craft supplies upstairs, dump them in the high wingback chair in the corner of my room to be dealt with later, and settle in at the little sewing desk I found at an estate sale shortly after I moved in here. It was the perfect size for the space afforded to me by the slightly-bigger-than-what-I-had-previously bedroom.
The chair at the desk—a not incredibly comfortable wooden thing found at an antique mall uptown—is balanced in comfort by a thick, squishy cushion I sewed for it out of a patchwork of patterns from my scrap fabric bin. Sitting on it now, I lower the sewing machine into the hideaway portion of the desk meant for storing it, and fold over the wood that covers it.
Desk now ready, I grab my backpack from the floor and pull out my laptop, notebooks, and pencil case, then arrange them on my desk. As a final touch before I jump into my coursework, I open a drawer to my right, close my eyes, and shove my hand in, pulling out the first miniature object I feel from the assortment filling the drawer.
Opening my hand, and my eyes, I see that I’ve selected an itty-bitty jar of itty-bitty clay koala bears from my air-dry clay phase. They’re so cute with their little hands full of eucalyptus and their disproportionately big ears. Gracious, I love them.
Maybe I should get back into clay sculpting…
Sadly, responsibility calls, and I must set the jar—and my hobby desires—aside to live in the corner of my desk as I work, a spot of hope and joy amongst the bore.
“Just think,” I tell the koalas. “We could be committing arson and making s’mores right now.”
The little guys, overcome with despair at all they’re missing, do not respond, so I sigh, open my laptop, and get to work.
Chapter Seven
Frank’s here!!!
Roman
Will’s home has turned into a madhouse.
“Brian, can you pass me those wax seals?” Frank—a lovely woman with a round face and large glasses, whom I met an hour ago as she kissed her husband goodbye at the door—asks, arm darting out as her hand makes grabby motions at Brian, the branding company’s mailman and Liam’s best friend. Frank works at Whirlwind Branding with Will, Brian, Liam, and Liam’s wife, Amber, doing what Will deems “graphic magic."
Brian’s sandy hair falls over his forehead as he hunches above an invitation to Will and Ruby’s wedding he made himself, ignoring Frank. “Busy,” he tells her, drawing careful blue slashes along the invitation’s edge with a marker. “Liam, can you grab it?”
“Boy, I will stab you with my scissors. I askedyouto give it to me,” Frank hisses. “Are you insane?”
He is, undoubtedly, insane. He showed up to Will’s house with a cart full of postal supplies and a pair of Cupid wings on his back, declaring his excitement to be a part of the “best man group!” Frank was less excited than confused when she showed up, expecting the bridesmaids to also be here.
“You’re a best man!” Will had exclaimed, squishing her round cheeks—a move she didnotappreciate. “Ruby wanted you on her side, but I called dibs. Sucks to suck for her!”
Frank had removed Will’s hands, sighed the sigh of a womanbeleaguered, and approached the table where Liam and Brian already sat, muttering about how she’d rather be home with her husband. Something immediately contradicted by the way her eyes lit up upon seeing Brian’s cart and Will’s tote bags full of evenmorecraft supplies.
“Here,” Liam, the billionaire, says, handing Frank the container of wax beads as well as the box housing the metal stamp head options for the wax, neatly arranged by type. They range from “floral” to “sympathetic," with several handle options running along a longer section at the bottom of the box.
Frank accepts the supplies with a grimace, frowning at Brian.
“Do you think that Erin from HR will like flowers or hearts more on her invite?” Will asks, holding up two paper shape cutters for group perusal. “Hearts fit the vibe more, right?”
“Flowers made of hearts, for optimal cuteness,” Liam says, gluing a four-thousandth little pink heart to his… no. I’m not calling that an invitation. That’s amonstrosity, if ever I’ve seen one.
“Will, focus,” I plead. “The appetizer. Artichoke bruschetta and stuffed mushrooms, or artichoke bruschetta and goat cheese quiche?”
“The mushrooms,” Will answers, going with the heart-shaped cutter. “And make sure the stuffing is vegan, please.”
My eyes roll so far back into my head, I imagine I see about as much as Ruby does. That “much” being nothing. “Half the menu will be vegan,” I promise. “I know.”
I didn’t go through a year and a half of testing vegan recipes for Sweet & Salty, at Will’s request, for nothing. Liam, his boss and friend—andnotthe second best man—does not consume animal products. Liam will be at the wedding. Liam put a quarter of a million dollars into the budget. Liam will have the best vegan offerings this earth can provide, and I don’t need anything so silly as areminderto make that happen. It’sinsulting to my craft.
“Can we have gumbo at the wedding?” Frank asks, stealing a roll of light pink ribbon from Liam, who twitches as though she stole his first-born child. “Normie loves it, but it’s one of those things you don’t get often, you know? In Indiana, anyway.”
Will points at her, teeth sparkling as he grins, “Absolutely.”
