12
At work the next morning, I wait until I have a break between customers (not hard, considering we only have four people on
the books), and then determinedly pick up the phone. I dial the number of the local high school and wait for it to ring. The
second it does, I hang up.
Crap.
It feels way too weird to do this over the phone. Sort of spammy, like a telemarketer, and also kind of creepy. What am I going to say,
“Hey, you don’t know me, but do you want to bring your kids to the place where I volunteer for a guided tour?”
See? Creepy.
What I want to do is go to the schools in person so I can A)prove that I’m a normal person and B) bring them some of the brochures I
swiped from the museum. I think I’ll be more persuasive in person too. I can talk about Trey’s demonstrations, and maybe even
mention the Barrel Into Summer event.
But the thing about schools is, they’re open during the day, just like the auto shop. I could pop out really quickly at lunch,
but I have a feeling school teachers won’t appreciate being bothered during lunchtime. I seem to remember it being the most
chaotic time in high school, a hundred hormonal teenagers swarming around trying to get all their socialization done in one
sixty-minute period.
I glance at the clock. It’s 10:50 a.m. There are only two customers booked this afternoon, because Dave is off today. I bite my lip. Maybe... maybe I could say I’m sick and take the rest of the day off.
And yes, I know it’s wrong to skip work when you’re not actually sick. I actually sort of hate people who do that, to be honest.
I worked in a restaurant during the summers when I was in university, and there was this one girl who used to call in sick
all the time , like she didn’t realize (or care) that it meant the rest of us would have to work twice as hard to pick up her slack.
But I’ve never taken a sick day since I started working at the shop. Would it really be so wrong to take one teensy little
day?
I push my chair back and walk to the garage before I can lose my nerve. I have to yell John’s name three times before he hears
me over the sound of the machinery.
“What?” he says, when he finally spots me.
I affect a grimace. “I’m headed home. I’ve got a brutal headache.”
Instantly I feel awful, because he puts his tools down and comes toward me, looking—well, not concerned , exactly, but maybe slightly less indifferent than normal. “Do you have the flu or something?”
“Er—no. Just... y’know, a little headachy and dizzy. Probably just stress or something.”
“You need me to give you a lift home? You shouldn’t drive if you’re dizzy.”
Crap. He’s right.
“I’m not dizzy right now ,” I backtrack. “I was earlier, but now it’s gone.”
“It could come back, though.”
“No, no,” I say hastily. “I’m sure it won’t. This happens sometimes... I get these sort of... spells...” I trail off feebly. The concerned look on his face has vanished, replaced by a slightly dubious one.
I’m really not pulling this lie off, am I?
“Okay, look,” I say sheepishly. “I’m not really sick. I just need to leave for, like, an hour or two, so I can run these museum
brochures to the schools and see if they want to come for a field trip. I know it’s stupid, but I want to go today, because
school will be over in, like, a month, so it’s my only opportunity. I can forward all the phone calls to my cell, and when
the customers check out—”
“No worries.” John cuts me off. “Just go.”
“What?”
“Just go,” he repeats. “I can check people out.”
I hesitate. “Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
Still, I waver. “But what if Fred comes in?”
“Fred’s in Florida. But if he flies home to check that you’re working the front desk, I’ll be sure to tell him you went home
sick.”
I swallow a laugh. “Oh. Well... okay, then. I promise I won’t be long.”
“I really don’t care.”
I scrutinize his face. He definitely means it.
Feeling a little less guilty, I jog out to my car and head off to the local high school, which is only ten minutes away. Even though it houses both junior high and high school, it’s not very big. As I step inside the main entranceway, I feel like I’ve been transported back fifteen years. It’s wild that so much time can pass but high schools always seem to look the same. This place even smells like my old high school, as if all schools in the universe are bound by law to use the same lemon-scented floor cleaner.
I find my way to the principal’s office and knock lightly on the door. It swings open a moment later, revealing a tall bald
man whom I instantly like. His name is Mr. Peterson, and he lets me into his office and listens as I ramble eagerly about
the museum. He even makes me a cup of tea from a little kettle on his desk. He says he thinks field trips to the museum sound
like a good idea for some of their younger kids, though maybe not their high schoolers. I’m secretly relieved when he says
it. I don’t want any high school kids rolling their eyes and pretending to be too cool for my museum.
He says he can’t promise me anything—this close to the end of the year, their schedules are pretty booked—but that he’ll be
in touch. And I know it sounds like a line you say to get rid of someone, but I swear he really means it.
I leave the school in high spirits and head to the nursing home. It’s about the same size as the high school, but the atmosphere
couldn’t be more different. The school had that squeaky-shoe silence, whereas this place is filled with the warm rumble of
voices.
I hover in the entryway for a moment, feeling a bit nervous. I’ve never actually been to a nursing home before, and I’m scared it’ll be this super depressing place filled with sad people waiting to die. But actually, once I step inside, it seems really lively! There’s a young woman guiding a group of people in wheelchairs through a seated exercise routine, a nurse helping an elderly woman do a puzzle, and a man playing piano in the corner. I make a mental note of everything I see, to tell Jim about later. He mentioned to me that he’s not sure how much longer he can stay in his house. I think it’s too full of memories of his wife. Maybe a place like this would be good for him. Less lonely.
It takes me a little while to track down the person in charge, a short, heavy woman with frizzy hair. She’s pretty preoccupied
during our chat—her phone rings about every five seconds, and three people come in to ask her questions while we talk—but
she listens to everything I have to say and takes the brochures. Like Mr. Peterson, she says she’ll think about it and be
in touch. I’m not quite sure she means it, but I figure at least I’ve made a start. I can always check back in next month and see if she’s thought
about it. This isn’t like school. The residents will be here all year.
My last stop is the elementary school. For all my good intentions earlier, I accidentally arrive just as the lunch bell rings.
Hundreds of kids spill out of the doors, all of whom seem to be hollering at the tops of their lungs.
Honestly, I don’t know how teachers do it. I’m exhausted just watching them trying to establish order. I hurry inside, dodging and weaving around tiny kids, and find my way to the principal’s
office. As I feared, she’s eating lunch when I knock on her door, and she doesn’t look super keen on being interrupted.
I shorten my speech to sixty seconds, hand over the brochures, thank her for her time, and make a break for it.
I arrive back at the shop at half past twelve, sweaty and slightly flustered.
“Oh, man,” I say, collapsing into a chair at the break room table.
John looks up from his phone. “I thought you were taking the day off.”
“I said I was taking an hour or two,” I correct. Then I let my head flop into my hands. “That was exhausting.”
“You didn’t have to rush back. I told you I could manage here.”
“Oh, I know, I’m just worn out from the elementary school,” I say. “How on earth do people have kids?”
John unwraps the foil from his sandwich. “You don’t like kids?”
“I like kids just fine, when I can play with them for five minutes and then hand them off to someone else. But actually having
kids myself...” I shake my head. “I know people say it’s a full-time job, but I think that’s total crap. When you have
a full-time job, you go home at the end of the day and relax. Having a kid seems more like two full-time jobs, and your boss
never lets you go on break and sleeps in your house every night.” I let out a weary breath. “I really don’t think I ever want
kids.”
“Same,” John says. “Some parts seem cool, but I think I’m good with nieces and nephews.”
“My friend Martha says I’ll wake up one day and change my mind.”
John takes a bite of his sandwich. “Kinda rude.”
“It is, right? Like I’m not mature enough to know what I want, or something.” I go to the fridge and grab my usual lunch,
a cup of yogurt and little baggie of granola. “She also says I’ll regret it when I’m older, because there’ll be no one to
take care of me.”
John makes a doubtful face. “Is that a good motivation to have kids? So that you can force them to take care of you when you’re
old?”
I laugh. “That’s exactly what I said! She was not impressed.”
“Does she live here?”
“No, we went to university together. She lives in Maine now.” I hesitate, then add, “I actually don’t really know many people around here.”
“That sucks,” John says.
“Yeah. It does.” I’m quiet for a moment, then I brighten. “Maybe I’ll meet someone through the museum tours!”
John snorts through a mouthful of sandwich. “What, like a high school kid?”
“ No .” I roll my eyes. “Like a cool, artsy teacher. You know I actually thought about being a teacher once.”
“You just told me you can’t stand kids.”
“I said I didn’t want kids and that they seem incredibly exhausting,” I retort. “But yes, that was part of the reason I didn’t do it.”
“You should meet my sister,” John says. “She’s not a teacher, but she likes to think she’s cool and artsy.”
I try to picture a girl version of John and come up with the image of a very intimidating woman with a leather jacket and
hundreds of tattoos. I’m not sure I’m cool enough to hang out with that kind of girl. Plus, I know he’s not really offering.
He’s just making polite conversation. (Which I’m not complaining about, mind you. This is a huge step up from last week.)
“That would be cool,” I say. I glance at the clock. “Do you have time for Wordle, or do you have to get back?”
Before he can answer, the front desk bell rings. Our first afternoon customer must be here.
I pull a face and rise to my feet. “I guess Wordle will have to wait.”
I take my lunch with me and head back to my desk, where a pretty, dark-haired girl in her late teens is tapping her foot impatiently,
waiting to drop off her parents’ car for a tire change.
“Is there somewhere to wait?” she asks, looking around the shop as if she expects me to fold back a red curtain and reveal a pedi-spa.
“Just those chairs there,” I say, pointing.
She looks vaguely offended and takes a seat with a small, almost inaudible huff. Two seconds later, she pops a pair of earbuds
in and blares her music so loud I can hear the tinny sound of it from my desk.
I spend the next twenty-five minutes finishing my lunch and checking phone messages, and then I’ve got nothing to do but sit
there and be annoyed by the girl’s music.
I glance at her surreptitiously. She is definitely not from Waldon. I bet her parents have a cottage here or something. She’s
dressed pretty casually in jean shorts and a sweater, but I can spot the tiny signs of wealth, like the Tiffany bracelet peeking
out from her sleeve and the Louis Vuitton purse thrown over her shoulder.
She looks up and catches me staring. Whoops. I give her a polite, apologetic smile. She responds by sweeping her gaze from
my head to my toes, then pretending to smother a smirk.
My face burns red hot.
What a jerk.
I run my hands self-consciously over my hair and clothes. I did Jim’s laundry last night instead of my own, so I’m wearing
one of my oldest sweatshirts over some plain black leggings. I didn’t think it looked that bad when I glanced in the mirror
this morning, but it’s clear what that girl is thinking when she looks at me. John’s blunt words from yesterday echo in my
ears.
Small-town girl .
I force myself to sit up straighter and lift my chin up stubbornly. Fine, maybe I am a bit small-town right now. That doesn’t mean I’m going to be forever. I have a brief vision of myself sitting behind a vast desk, decked out in Balmain and Prada with floor-to-ceiling windows behind me overlooking Fifth Avenue. I raise my bejeweled hand and wave in the next candidate interviewing for my lowly assistant position. And what do you know, it’s Little Miss Jean Shorts! Her eyes widen as she recognizes me—she plasters on a fake smile and opens her mouth to talk—but nope, too late. I’m giving her the same cutting head-to-toe gaze she once gave me and ordering her out of my office.
I stifle a snort. Okay, that was an immature daydream.
I do feel a little better now, though.
I leaf through the barrel museum brochures for the fifteenth time and then do some research on barrel-making online. If Mr.
Peterson calls me about bringing his kids in for a field trip, I want to make sure I’ve got lots of really fun things to tell
them about barrels.
The trouble is, there’s really not much to say about barrels, unless you want to talk about wine or whiskey, which I don’t
think is super appropriate for junior high school kids.
I chew on my lip, trying to think of what I would’ve wanted to do on a field trip in junior high. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t
have wanted to hear stories about barrels. Especially not in the last weeks of school before summer. The only thing I would’ve
cared about was being out of class and having fun with my friends.
Ooh! Maybe I can let them do some sort of activity in the backyard. Some sort of... barrel-rolling race, maybe. Barrel
rolling is a thing, right?
I do a quick Google search, and yes, yes it is. But honestly, it sounds a little dangerous for kids. The article I’m reading keeps going on about the importance of wearing steel-toe boots.
Oh, well. I’ll think of something else.
I drum my fingers on the desk. Think, brain, think .
My gaze drifts to the snooty girl again. There’s no way she’d be caught dead in a barrel museum.
Hmm. That’s a thought.
I waver for a few minutes, then think to myself, Screw it .
“Excuse me? Miss?” I wave my hand until the girl finally notices me.
Reluctantly, she removes one of her earbuds. “Is the car ready?”
“Er—no. I wanted to ask your opinion on something.” She scowls suspiciously, but I press on. “Do you like museums?”
She blinks her mascaraed eyelashes at me. “What?”
“Museums,” I repeat. “Like, if you went to a museum in a small town, what sort of things would interest you?”
She’s looking at me like I’ve absolutely lost my mind. “Are you, like, fundraising or something?” she says suspiciously. “Because
I already donate a ton to charity.”
Somehow, I keep from rolling my eyes. Yeah, I bet she donates to charity. “No, I’m just trying to help out the local barrel-making
museum.”
“ Barrel -making?” she repeats derisively.
“Yes, barrel-making,” I say. Then I heave an exaggerated sigh. “Never mind. I’m sorry I bothered you. I just thought I’d ask
you, since you’re so young and obviously really stylish...” I wave my hand to encompass her outfit. “I thought you might
be able to help me figure out what junior high kids might be interested in. I’m way too old to understand,” I add for good measure.
My god, that was too easy. The girl looks instantly mollified. She sits up a little straighter and takes her other earbud
out.
“Well, I don’t go to museums because, like, most of history is super offensive—”
“Of course,” I say, straight-faced.
“But I get invited to a bunch of art exhibits, y’know, for my Insta? I have, like, thirty thousand followers.”
I tilt my head and put on a confused expression. “What’s Insta?”
She stares at me. “Instagram.”
“Oh, Instagram .” I nod wisely. “My niece told me about that. I could never figure it out. Phones these days have too many buttons!”
Okay, I’m enjoying myself way too much right now. And Jean Shorts Girl doesn’t even look snooty anymore, just deeply pitying
of me, the ancient barrel museum worker who doesn’t know what Instagram is.
She flicks her glossy hair over her shoulder and leans forward conspiratorially, like she’s going to share the secrets of
the universe. “Right, well, what you need to do is get an influencer to come to your museum and take a bunch of pics there
and make them look super artsy. I’d offer to help, but I’m, like, way too swamped right now. Plus my feed is aqua-themed,
so, like, barrels wouldn’t fit.”
“Feed?” I ask innocently. “Like animal feed?”
Don’t laugh, Emily. Don’t laugh.
“That means the pictures on Instagram,” she says slowly. She turns her phone toward me and scrolls through her aqua feed.
“See how good the colors look?”
“Wow,” I say obediently.
“Anyway, that’s what you have to do. Hire a bunch of influencers and get them to hype up your barrel... thing.”
“Thanks,” I say, injecting just the right amount of profound gratitude into the word. “That’s so helpful.”
She smiles beatifically and puts her earbuds back in. I drum my fingers on the desk again, turning an idea over in my head.
Jean Shorts Girl actually was helpful. Not her idea about influencers, I mean, that’s bananas. But I think I might now have
an idea on how to make the museum just a tiny bit cooler for kids.
I pick up my phone and open a new text to Trey.
[1:42]: Hey, Trey! Are you working this Saturday?
[1:42]: I’ve got an idea for the museum. Would need your carpentry expertise. ?
He doesn’t answer straightaway. I answer a few phone calls, then Jean Shorts Girl approaches the desk and asks for a Post-it
note to write her Instagram handle on for me.
“You’ll really love it,” she says. “I do, like, style tips for people and stuff.”
She glances subtly at my outfit again as she says it. How sweet.
I take the Post-it with a grateful smile and make a show of looking it up, muttering, “Instagram... dot... com. Oh shoot,
spelled it wrong. Instagram... d-o-t... c-o-m. Ah, there we go.” Then I try not to burst into laughter at the look on
her face.
I scroll through her feed for a while, which looks like every other influencer’s feed I’ve ever seen. You might think I’d be the kind of person who would find this kind of stuff appealing, since I’m always going on about my dream job, but I don’t actually have any appetite for social media. I don’t care about amassing followers or getting likes. That kind of success has always felt a bit hollow to me. I don’t even care about money, really, beyond the fact that I don’t want to have to stress about it. I don’t want wealth and status, I want happiness and purpose. I want to wake up every morning and be excited to go to work. I want to fall asleep every night thinking, Yes . This is what I was put on this earth to do.
I give Jean Shorts Girl a few compliments on her photos, which she’s obviously waiting for, and by the time her car is ready,
she’s entirely warmed to me. John comes out with her keys and is scribbling on her receipt as she says to me, “You should
give me your email, ’cause, like, I was thinking of doing a bunch of makeover profiles, and it would be so cute to do them
about people from here. I’m staying at my parents’ cottage for a few weeks”—Ha! I knew it!—“and I could, like, go shopping
with you and fix your clothes and stuff.”
John gives me a sideways glance, but I’m not going to drop my act just because he’s here.
“That would be so cool,” I gush. “I’ve always wanted a makeover, because—well, you know.” I wave a hand over myself and pull
a face.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she says. “You’re, like, really pretty for your age.”
“Aw, thanks.” I hand over her receipt and scribble my email address for her on the bottom. She’ll forget about me the minute
she walks out of this shop, so I’m not particularly worried about giving it to her. “Have a great day!”
“You too.” She smiles pityingly at me, gives John an appreciative once-over (I guess he’s not too old), and then flounces out.
John frowns at me after she’s gone. “What was that about?”
I snort. “I was just playing around. She was sort of rude when she came in, so.”
“So you retaliated by acting really nice to her?”
I chuckle. “Yep. The ultimate revenge—making her accidentally like me.”
John blinks. “That’s so weird.”
“Mm-hmm.” I glance at the clock. “Your next appointment isn’t here yet. You want me to call them, see if they’re running late?”
As I say it, my phone dings with a text. I glance at it quickly.
[2:06] Trey: Happy to help. Tore my hand open yesterday though, so might not be able to do much until stitches are out.
Stitches ? Poor Trey.
Also... crap.
“What is it?” John asks.
“Oh... it’s just Trey, the cooper at the museum. I was hoping he’d help me with this weird exhibit idea I have for the
museum, but he’s got stitches in his hand.” I sigh. “I don’t suppose you’re good at carpentry stuff?”
John shrugs. “I’m all right. When do you need help?”
I blink. “Seriously?”
“As long as it’s nothing too crazy.”
I hesitate. I’ll need to approve this with Shelley, but I can do that on my shift on Saturday. “Could you come by the museum this Sunday?”
“Sure.”
I beam at him. “Thanks. Now hang on, I’ll call Mrs. Manthorne.”
I dial the number we have on file and reach a very sweet, very flustered-sounding woman who is at a hair salon and has obviously
completely forgotten about her appointment. I reschedule her and then hang up the phone with an apologetic grimace. John hates
when people cancel. Or at least, I think he does. He gets a bit frownier whenever it happens.
“She’s not coming,” I say. “Want me to call the next person and see if they can come early?”
He shrugs. “I guess.” Then, after a tiny beat, “Unless you wanted to do Wordle now.”
I brighten. “Ooh, yes, please.”
He leans against the desk and takes out his phone. “First word?”
I think for a second. “SAVER. As in, you’re a total lifesaver for helping with the museum stuff. You?”
John’s mouth twists thoughtfully. “PIZZA.”
“As in...?”
“As in, you can pay me in pizza.”
I chuckle. “I can do that.”
We fall silent, both of us studying our phones. The S in SAVER is green, and the E is yellow. I think of Jean Shorts Girl
and wonder if INSTA is a word.
Nope. Not in word list.
How about... SMOKE. As in, when John’s sitting this close to me, I can smell that same smoky smell I noticed that time we were in his car. I’ve never noticed it at work before. I wonder if it’s his shampoo. Or maybe it’s some random car fluid that just happens to smell like firewood smoke, like how antifreeze apparently tastes like sugar. (I know that because when I was a kid my mom warned me never to drink it, and for a while I thought that anything that tasted sugary was secretly deadly.)
Either way, it smells really nice, like a bonfire on a crisp autumn night. I take a deep breath in through my nose and then
surreptitiously move my gaze over his frame. He’s got his coveralls undone to the waist, revealing a black T-shirt that fits
snugly on his shoulders. He’s actually really good-looking, John. His hair is dark and slightly wavy and his arms are all
strong and veiny, and if you ignore all the grease stains, he’s got really nice hands. I bet they’re really strong from all
his work in the shop.
I’m admiring them absently when he glances up and catches me staring.
Whoops.
Hastily, I turn my attention back to Wordle. The S, O, and E of SMOKE are green.
S_ O_E.
SCOPE. As in, it would be so embarrassing if John thought I was scoping him out just now. We’re finally becoming friend-ish,
I don’t want to ruin it by ogling him when I already know he’s not interested. Plus, I’m not interested in him. I just happened
to notice that he smells really nice and his arms are really strong, that’s all. And if I’m feeling a little flushed all of
a sudden, that’s just because it’s warm in here today.
Obviously.
SLOPE, I type into Wordle. As in, I need to be careful here, because this is a very slippery slope.
One by one, the letters turn green, as if Wordle is agreeing with me.
“You got it?” John asks, leaning closer to glance over my shoulder. And damn it, that smoky smell really is enticing.
“Got it.”
“That’s, what—three hundred and nine days?”
I smile a bit unsteadily. “Yep.”
“Nice.” John hops off the desk and holds out his fist for me to bump, which could not be a more obvious “just-friends” gesture
and yet still somehow makes my heart beat a little faster. He shoots me a lightning-flash grin before he heads back to the
garage, leaving me shaky and electrified.
The moment he’s gone, I thump my head down against my keyboard.
Uh-oh.