“Sure, Hotshot,” I say, teasing. “You and your fancy job. You think I’m not cut out for Gotham, or something?” I snap another picture, not quite believing the way Reid and I are talking. It’s even better than the game. For all I’m walking along by myself here, I don’t feel lonely at all.

“That’s not what I mean.” There’s another long pause, and I wonder if he’s taking a picture. “But . . . I don’t associate you with here.”

The way he says “here” somehow makes this feel like a point in my favor, and maybe I should take it that way. Maybe a place that Reid sees as gray and dirty is not a place I should want to be associated with in his mind. But maybe it’s only that he met me here, in the shop I’m still only blocks from, drawing out wedding programs for a wedding that never happened.

I hear a series of tinny beeps and Reid says, “Time’s up,” which is something of a relief. I’m not sure where I would’ve taken the conversation after that. “Ladies first.”

I duck under an awning, tuck myself close to a building so I can send him my photos. A mix between hand-lettered and not, but I don’t really mind. In fact, I appreciate the look; it suits the word I’ve chosen.

S-U-R-P-R-I-S-I-N-G.

It takes a minute for all the photos to go through, and once they do there’s a few seconds of silence while I’m guessing Reid looks them over.

“I like the G best,” he says, and I smile. That’s my favorite, too. It’s the third letter I snapped and right away I thought of it for August. Also my birth month, not that we’re doing the identity theft thing. Then he says, “Why surprising?”

“I met with a new client,” I tell him, leaving out the part where I’m still repeatedly surprised about knowing Princess Freddie in real life. I’m guessing that he, like Lachelle, would not understand what a poet-sandwich boyfriend is. “I used a game to help her make a decision.” I pause, clear my throat. “You inspired me.”

He doesn’t say anything for what feels like forever. But then he says the nicest thing.

“That’s quite a compliment. To be an artist’s inspiration.”

Quite a compliment. An artist.

I almost say, from some old, knee-jerk place too many women have within them, I’m not an artist! But I stop myself. Of course I’m an artist, and a good one. Instead I’m grateful he can’t see my pink face and I say, “Your turn.”

“Mine seem somewhat inadequate. Only five letters.”

“Quit stalling. Cough up your winnings.”

He maybe sighs.

When the letters come through, I can add another reason why my day’s been surprising.