18
Don’t judge me, okay, but I may have done a stupid thing.
Last night, after I texted with John, I was feeling all giddy and squiggly, so I decided it was a perfectly good time to have
my two acceptable weekly drinks. And since I didn’t see anywhere on the new alcohol guidelines about how quickly you’re supposed
to drink them, I saw absolutely no harm in downing two full glasses of wine like they were tequila shots.
Whoops.
After they kicked in (and after I spent about thirty minutes dancing around the house to ABBA’s greatest hits), it suddenly
seemed like a really good idea to make John a thank-you card for fixing my car and helping out with the event.
And yes, I know what you’re thinking. What am I, twelve years old? And yes , I do vaguely remember making a birthday card for a boy I had a crush on when I was twelve. But I didn’t do this because
I have a crush on John, okay? I just think it’s polite to make people thank-you cards. I made one for my dentist last year,
and you’re not going to accuse me of having a crush on her, are you?
(Actually, it would be way more likely that I’d have a crush on her than on John. She’s seriously gorgeous, and she owns like
five dental practices around the island, so she’s clearly a very driven person.)
Anyway. Stupid decision or not, I’ve made John a homemade thank-you card. It’s in my bag right now, and I have to admit, I’m pretty proud of it.
I take my bag with me to the break room at lunch on Monday, and while John’s heating up a bowl of pasta in the microwave,
I take the card out all casual-like.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say (okay, lie). “I made you this, for fixing my car. And for helping out so much with the museum.”
He wipes his hands on his coveralls—it makes zero difference, they’re still covered in grease—and takes the card from me.
On the front, I’ve drawn a Wordle game, exactly how it looks on the app. The words are MOTOR, brAKE, AXLES, THANK, YOUTH,
and JOHNS, but I’ve done it so that all the letters are gray or yellow, except for green letters that spell out “THANK YOU
JOHN.”
It’s pretty cool, if I do say so myself.
John’s eyebrows knit together for a moment, then he grins, like he thinks it’s pretty cool too.
“This is awesome,” he says, flashing that lightning-strike smile at me. My cheeks grow hot under his gaze, and I have to bite
my lip to keep from smiling like an idiot.
And okay, fine. I’ll admit it.
I have the tiniest crush on John.
(At least try to pretend you’re shocked, will you?)
But still, it’s not a big deal. What’s wrong with having a fun, silly crush? It’s harmless. It’s obvious he’s not into me
that way, so there’s no pressure, and I can just sit back and enjoy my secret crush in peace.
He grins at the card for another second, then the microwave beeps and he turns away to get his pasta. I run my eyes surrep titiously over his frame. Now that I’ve admitted I’ve got a little crush on him, I’d say I’m allowed to admire how broad his shoulders are.
I clear my throat as he turns around and reach for my phone. “What word are you starting with today?”
John sits down across from me with his pasta. “Dunno.”
“I’m going to do brOKE. As in, even though I made my money back from the food yesterday, I’m still totally broke.”
John laughs, and for a moment we’re both quiet, tapping at our phones. I use brOKE as my first word, and all but the O are
right. I type in the obvious answer—brAKE—with a pang of disappointment. It’s kind of a letdown these days when I get it too
quickly.
“Got it,” I say.
“Already? Nice.”
“Mm. Let me know if you need a hint.”
He doesn’t answer, so I get up and put on the kettle to make tea. I lean against the counter and drum my fingers absently
on the linoleum.
“brAKE,” John says. “Got it.” Then he laughs. “Hey, like your card.”
He’s right. I did use brAKE on his card. I chuckle. “I guess I’m clairvoyant. But only for Wordle. It’s a very specific type
of clairvoyance.” I frown. “Clairvoyance? Is that a word? Clairvoyancy? Clairvoyitude?”
John laughs again. “Clairvoyitude.”
The kettle is boiling; I flick it off and search the cupboards for a tea bag.
“What are your plans for the week?” he asks.
“Nothing much. Hanging out with Jim, letting Doris yell at me... oh, and I might do a Heath Ledger movie marathon.”
“Like with friends?”
“No, just by myself. I love solo movie marathons,” I add, a touch defensively.
“That’s cool.” John clears his throat. “Is that tonight? ’Cause there’s this firelight festival thing in Charlottetown, if
you wanted to go.”
I go perfectly still.
Did he just—?
No.
Can’t be.
... but what else could he possibly mean?
I lick my lips and attempt an offhand voice. “You mean, like... together?”
John clears his throat again. “Yeah. If you wanted to.”
I turn around, my heart beating somewhere around my throat. “Like... a date?”
He snorts. “Yeah, like a date.”
“But—you don’t like me,” I blurt out.
“I wouldn’t ask you out if I didn’t like you. But if you don’t want to go—”
“No, I want to go!” I say hastily. “I mean, if you want to.”
John looks amused. “Okay. We’ll have to leave around seven, if that works.”
“Seven’s fine,” I say faintly. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience, like I’m floating on the ceiling watching
two strangers arrange a date.
“Why did you think I didn’t like you?” he asks.
I flush. “I don’t know. You just... didn’t seem that interested, I guess. You never really talked to me.”
“We’ve been talking for weeks.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, now . But when I first started here, you basically ignored me every time I tried to talk to you.”
John shrugs. “I’m not super chatty. Plus, I thought you were kind of a snob.”
My head jerks backward. “What?”
“You just seemed like you didn’t want to work here or be in Waldon at all,” he says. “And you did think I was stupid,” he
adds with a wry grin, “no matter what you might say now.”
I fall silent, my cheeks burning furiously. Did I really come off like that? I wrack my brains, trying to think of things
I said to John when I first started working here. I guess I may have mentioned once or twice that this receptionist job was
only temporary. And I may have made a few jokes about how small Waldon was. The really pathetic part is, I think I did some
of it to try to impress him.
Oh, god.
“I’m a snob ,” I say miserably.
John snorts. “Not really. You just sort of seemed like that at first.”
“No, I am!” I insist. “I think I’m better than the people who live here.”
“You probably are better than some of them,” John says. “There are some really shitty people here.” He laughs again at the
look on my face. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I just thought you were kind of stuck-up at first. Now I know you’re
not. I mean, can you honestly say you liked me when we first met?”
I hesitate. “Er...”
He chuckles. “See?”
The corners of my mouth twist up. “Do you always insult people when you ask them out?”
“Do you always expect people who ask you out to think you’re perfect in every single way?” John counters.
An embarrassed laugh bubbles out of me. “Yes. You should think that I’m flawless. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” John agrees. Then he stands, says, “Later,” and wanders off, like we’ve been having a totally normal, everyday
conversation. I fight a sudden urge to chuck my cup of tea at the back of his head. I may be a snob, but he is seriously such
a weirdo.
(A weirdo who likes me.)
(A weirdo I have a date with.)
I forgo my tea-throwing plans and do a little spin instead.
I have a date with John .