Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
These were pages that people could download and insert into digital bullet journals, print for their planners, or turn into stickers for their physical bullet journals. He showed how to use them on his Instagram account, which was growing every day.
He wasn’t making a huge number of sales yet, but he was slowly adding more and more products to his shop. Building a business was a marathon, not a sprint, and Truman was still limbering up for that first mile haul.
When Maisey had overheard him telling his new planner friend Ginny about what he’d created over coffee at Bob’s, she’d thought he meant physical planners and asked if she could sell them in the Queen Bee.
“My granddaughter says they’re all the rage,” Maisey explained. “She read about it in TikTok.”
Truman and Ginny had nodded soberly and then cracked up.
“Does she think that’s a book?” Ginny giggled.
“I have no idea.”
Now, though, he was seeing that there was a market for independently designed and produced planners and journals. He thought with a little bit of time, he could create products that people would really enjoy.
And he enjoyed making them. There was a kind of user experience that you simply couldn’t approximate if you weren’t a bullet journal or planner devotee yourself. Truman knew what kind of bindings were best, what type of paper wouldn’t let marker bleed through, how many pages were ideal, and what sizes worked best for different kinds of journalers.
Ash said he’d have an empire before he knew it. But Ash also said he was the loveliest, smartest, hottest person he’d ever met, so…
***
“Do you think it’s weird to just show up there?” Truman asked Ash.
They were cooking dinner, Horse and Bruce lying on the kitchen floor in the hopes of gobbling some tender morsel as it fell to the ground.
“Well, yeah,” Ash said. “It’s undoubtedly weird.”
Truman deflated.
“Yeah, okay. I know.”
Ash eased the knife out of his hand and stepped close. His blue-gray eyes looked blue as the summer sky today. “But, well…” He stroked Truman’s hair back. Truman hadn’t cut it since he’d given his two weeks’ notice in February, and now it curled freely around his face, always tickling his nose. He wondered how long he’d let it get. “Love, a lot of things you do are really weird. But it works for you.”
He was trying very hard to make it clear that he didn’t think weird equaled bad.
“So even if it’s weird, if it’s something you need to do, then you should do it.”
“It’s just…” Truman tried to pinpoint exactly why he needed to see Agatha Tark in the flesh. “She kinda saved me. As a kid and in my darkest moments, her world is what I escaped into. And I want to say thank you. But also, there are so many other people who I know feel the same.”
When Truman had told Charlotte and Germaine that Julia remembered Agatha Tark living here, they had both been eager to get in their cars and make the trek.
Wow, thanks, assholes—you never offered to make a trek to see me, Truman had teased them.
What?! I totally have! Germaine protested, which was true.
At the same time, Charlotte wrote, Yeah, duh, cuz you’re not Agatha freaking Tark.
Truman slid the chopped onions into the melted butter on the stove.
“And if I could get her to do the signing, people would get to tell her. I don’t know. I guess if she’s worked this hard to stay off the radar, then maybe she doesn’t care about that. But maybe she doesn’t want to deal with any of the publicity but she would be so happy to hear how much her work has helped people.”
Ash kissed him. “You won’t know until you try. I’ll go with you if you want.”
“Really? I’d love that.”
***
And so, the next morning, they set off to the address Truman had gotten that might be Agatha Tark’s. Ash was driving Truman’s car because Truman was too nervous. On the ferry, they held hands and watched gulls soar and dive over the water, hoping a passenger might drop a tasty crumb overboard, though the captain always explicitly instructed them not to. Truman waited until there weren’t many people around, then he pulled the last bite of his bagel from his pocket and dropped it over the side.
The gulls swarmed, and Ash turned to look back at him.
“You’re such a softy,” Ash said. Then he kissed Truman on the mouth, which took out any sting.
They were ten minutes away when Truman began to sweat and his stomach clenched.
“Oh god, was this a terrible idea? She’s gonna think I’m a freak for tracking her down—I am a freak for tracking her down. Shit, shit, what am I doing?”
“Do you want to abandon mission? We can take a pretty drive or go into Portland for lunch,” Ash offered, hand on Truman’s thigh. “There’s a place my friend works at that has the best blueberry pancakes you’ve ever had.”