Page 62 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
I heart the message, and then I cancel all my auto shipments.
Chapter 22
On Tuesday afternoon, I head to Pebble Cottage to meet the internet people. Unfortunately, they’ve given me a window between one and fourP.M.So I change my Slack status to a broken signal connection that says “Internet problems.” It’s a common enough status that no one will question it, and it’s kind of true. I do my best to keep up with messages from my phone, and aside from that, I paint a bedroom. That’s how the blue-polo-wearing internet guy finds me: holding a paint roller, my limbs splattered with paint. It’s not my most flattering image, but in a weird way, I like that this is this stranger’s first impression of me: a woman who’s not afraid to work hard and get messy. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that kind of woman before.
As I’m sitting in the sunroom, drinking water and catching up on messages while the guy finishes his work, I get a new one from Kat:
Kat White:Still having internet troubles?
Mallory Rosen:Yeah, so annoying. But there’s a guy here now fixing it.
Kat White:Sounds serious. Glad you’re getting it fixed!
I wonder if that’s all she had to say, but then she types again.
Kat White:You know, you could always come into the office if you need more reliable internet. A few of us have been coming in occasionally. It’s nice.
What the…? Like most people at my company, I haven’t beeninto the office since early 2020. They sent us home for quarantine, and we’ve never returned. I remember the newly hired version of me who was so excited to have a job again, navigating the congested downtown streets to a dark, glossy office tower, and she seems like a different person. As grateful as I still am for this job, I have no desire to sit in an overly air-conditioned cubicle, to make forced elevator small talk, to eat a sad lunch in a sad office kitchen, ever again.
But to Kat I type:Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind!Vaguely, I wonder if she suspects that I’m working from out of town and lying about it. But as the internet guy helps me connect my laptop to my shiny new internet, I don’t give Kat’s words a second thought.
Now that I can work from Pebble Cottage, I stay for the rest of my workday, headphones on to join meetings while I finish up the bedroom walls. By eight o’clock, I’ve finished two coats of paint. My hands are stiff and aching, but I’m ridiculously proud of myself, and I want to keep going. I text Daniel to let him know that I want to choose the new flooring.
I’m all yours Thursday morning. We can meet at the Floor Emporium.
You’re a lifesaver! I don’t even know the difference between linoleum and tile.
All you need to know is that you won’t be choosing either one.Daniel replies so quickly, I imagine he’s staring googly-eyed at his phone, watching my typing bubbles, just like I’m doing. This makes me giggle.
I send him a picture of the painted bedroom.
Nice work, Rosen!
I reply with a smiling angel emoji.
The next morning, I return from breakfast with a couple hours to spare before my workday begins. Since Gramps’s surprise party isonly a few days away, I decide to make some invitations for Angela and the others. I wonder if there’s any chance they’ll be available on such short notice.
I consider making them on my computer, but that would involve figuring out how to connect to Gramps’s ancient printer. So instead, I decide to get crafty. In the hall closet, I find a box of arts-and-crafts supplies, the same box Maeve and I used to scrounge around in when we were kids, looking for glitter glue and scissors and construction paper.
The construction paper is still there, as are markers, colored pencils, and more. Some of the markers appear to be twenty years old, but some of them are newer. My youngest cousins are basically still arts-and-crafts age, so Lottie probably kept the box stocked for them.
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by sparkly half-finished cards that readYOU’RE INVITED, when Gramps knocks.
“Yes?” I scramble to pile the cards behind me without messing up the wet ink.
Gramps lets himself in. “What’s all this?” He gestures to the colored pencils, paper, and glittery gel markers littering my bed.
“It’s, uh…” I think fast, trying to decide whether “new hobby” or “making a postcard for Mom” sounds more believable. But then I glance up at Gramps’s face. He looks brightly curious, as though he’s sure the answer will delight him. And he also has folds of skin around his eyes that will forever hold his grief.
I picture finagling him to somehow come down to Pebble Cottage the night of the party; this will require lying to him. I, for one, have never been a fan of surprises. They feel almost like pranks to me: a grand joke for the group who’s in on it, at the expense of the one person who’s not. Worst-case scenario would be Gramps bursting into panicked tears. Best-case scenario, I’m pretty sure, would beGramps mildly pleased to see all his loved ones, but taken aback by all the noise.
I take a deep breath. “Gramps, Mom and Trish are planning a surprise birthday party for you.”
His lips purse into a comical O. “For me? Why, how splendid.” He pauses. “Did you not just foil their plans by telling me?”
“Yes, but I thought you should know. I wasn’t sure if you would appreciate a surprise. Would you?”
“Oh no.” He shakes his head with a dismissive wave of one hand. “Dreadful, surprise parties. You might have saved me from a heart attack.”
