At Lark’s house last week, I’d realized she seemed tentative, preoccupied with her husband’s opinions, small and lost-looking in that big townhouse. In fact, that’s partly why I’d suggested we meet elsewhere today, our first effort at going through possibilities for the two walls—I thought it might be less overwhelming for both of us not to stand before the full, blank canvas, more blank somehow by virtue of the unfinished space of the house.

Of course I’d also suggested it partly because what if Cameron had been there in the awful beanie and black wrist cuffs? What if he’d brought up not liking rom-coms in front of me? I’ve got to keep clear of temptation, is the thing.

Initially I’d proposed one of my standard haunts for client meetings, but Lark had been hesitant; then I’d remembered what she’d said about privacy, so I’d papered over my misstep quickly, promising that the shop’s back workspace would let us review ideas “uninterrupted.” Since Lachelle has never seen The Princess Tent (“What do you mean a poet-sandwich boyfriend?” she’d said, when I’d tried to explain after showing up early to prep her), so far that’s seemed to work out fine.

Except for, you know. The fact that my leg bones are calcifying under this table. The fact that I’d thought I’d be out of here an hour ago. The fact that I’d wanted to already be back at my apartment and in front of my desk, working on the new sketches I’ve started for Make It Happyn.

Since Saturday night, I’ve done more sketches for Make It Happyn than I’ve done in all the weeks since I first got the call. The game I’d played with Reid—however awkwardly it had ended—seemed to ignite something in me. For each of the sixteen letters we’d gathered together, I’d tried a word—sometimes a month name, sometimes a day name, sometimes the sort of banal general terms that show up in planners and on calendar pages: “TASKS,” “REMINDERS,” “TO DOS,” “BIRTHDAYS,” filling them out with decorative details and sketches. None of them yet seem exactly right for the job, but they’re all—on the way to something, I guess. On Sunday, I’d been so absorbed that I hadn’t even heard Sibby rustling around the apartment. When I’d finally come out of my room late in the afternoon, determined to forage for snacks, I’d blinked in shock to find a set of boxes already lining our narrow hallway.

“Oh,” I’d said, nearly bumping into her as she was emerging from her room. “I didn’t realize . . .”