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 the Times article,” 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 through Buzzfeed, 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 cursive E so 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 . . .”