I scowl, protectively covering my drawing of the night sky woven with stars and meteors. It’s a lacework of constellations that conceals and—if you look hard enough—reveals lovers in a tangled embrace. The man’s legs are long, his hair wild waves, and the woman’s body is painted with stars. I’m trying not to read into the abundant parallels between Jamie and me that my hand decided to create.

“Oh God,” Sula yells. “I pressed a button. The screen’s turning colors. Mayday, Mayday! IT help, Toni!”

He sighs and turns toward the office. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

I’m about to power off the iPads we use for checkout when the overhead bell jingles and in walks a woman who is the definition of chic. Tall, leggy, with rich auburn hair and honey-colored eyes. She wears just a touch of makeup and a luxurious camel wool coat.

There’s something vaguely familiar about her.

“Are you—” Her eyes widen as she looks at me. Then she glances away, clearing her throat. I peer down at myself. Nothing on my clothes. Covertly, I touch my face. Do I have ink on it? I just looked at my reflection in the bathroom and didn’t see anything. I examine my hands. No fresh ink on my skin. I have no idea why she acted like that when she saw me, but then again, some people find all the tattoos a little alarming. Jamie definitely did when we first met.

Seeming to have recovered, she asks, “Are you still open?” She avoids my eyes. “I’m sorry for slipping in right before closing.”

“You’re fine.” I shut my sketchbook, discreetly sliding it to the side. “Let me know if I can help you find anything this evening.”

She tucks a glossy ribbon of auburn hair behind her ear. “Thank you.”

Back to drawing, I’m peripherally aware of her as she wanders the store. She picks up our most expensive blank stationery, decadently thick card stock featuring an opalescent border, and two top-of-the-line fountain pens. Then, slowly, she wanders toward the wall of individual greeting cards. She bites her lip and frowns as she adjusts her armful.

“Want me to take that from you?” I ask.

“Oh.” She glances down and smiles tightly. “That would be nice.”

Stepping out from behind the counter, I smooth my skirt and quickly check the back of it. I’ve been paranoid about hems being caught in underpants ever since the bowling alley.

I snatch up a basket next to the display table and take her items, carefully setting them in the basket. She seems distracted, her eyes scouring the wall of cards. “Looking for something else?” I ask.

“I’m not sure . . .” She bites her lip. “Perhaps something romantic but subtle?”

“Gotcha.” My work is the obvious choice. I point to a few popular designs. “These are good options for your purposes.”