27
At eleven a.m. on Canada Day, I wake up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. I squint around in the darkness, disoriented
for a moment before I remember I stayed at John’s apartment last night. Then I remember what day it is and let out a long,
heavy breath.
I drag myself out of bed, pull on one of John’s hoodies, and head into the kitchen. John is sitting on the couch in the living
room, drinking coffee and watching a motorcycle race on TV.
“Ooh, is this Formula 1?” I ask.
He stares at me, affronted, then sees my face and realizes I’m teasing. “So funny,” he says.
“I thought so.” I get my own cup of coffee and join him on the couch. “How’d you sleep?”
“Good. You?”
“Good. A bit disappointed to see the sun. I was hoping karma would punish Shelley with a freak July first blizzard.”
“Are you sure you still want to go?”
“No,” I say. “But we should, to support Kiara.”
Kiara was adamant she was going to pull out of the event and tell all her craft booth friends to do the same, but I convinced
her not to. I want the event to succeed, even if Shelley’s going to take all the credit.
(Okay, maybe 90 percent of me wants the event to succeed. The other 10 percent wants it to be a total flaming disaster that ends in Shelley getting fired and the historical society begging me to take her place.)
“Wordle first?” John says.
“Wordle first. I’m going to start with BITCH. As in, Shelley is the world’s biggest—”
“I don’t think Wordle uses curse words.”
Too late; I’ve already typed it in. I crack up as the letters start turning.
“Ha! You can totally use curse words,” I say triumphantly, showing him my phone.
“That’s only because bitch has a regular meaning,” John argues. “It would never use something like—I don’t know—FUCKS.”
“Wanna bet?” I ask, dangling my phone in front of him.
He holds his hand out. “Five bucks.”
We shake on it. Two seconds later, he’s digging in his wallet for a five-dollar bill, while I cackle childishly over my phone.
“I can’t believe that worked,” John says.
“I can’t believe you doubted me.”
“You’re going to lose your streak, at this rate.”
Oh, crap. He’s right. Neither BITCH nor FUCKS got me any usable letters. (And wow, that’s a sentence I don’t think anyone’s
ever said before.)
“All right, all right,” I say. “No more curse words.” I think for a moment, drumming my fingers against my chin, then ask,
“What’s a five-letter word that means incompetent, condescending asshole?”
To my relief and intense annoyance, the Canada Day event is a total success. The weather is perfect, sunny but not sweltering, the food is delicious, and the music John’s friend George is playing is perfect, sort of old-fashioned and folksy without feeling cheesy. I eat a hot dog and two (okay, four) cupcakes decorated in red-and-white icing and try not to sulk too much when I overhear the historical society ladies complimenting Shelley on the event.
While John chats with Kiara’s husband, Jake, I head into the museum to say hi to Trey. The inside of the museum is dark and
cool, and I blink for several moments in the doorway, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light.
A few people are milling about, peering at the exhibits. Trey is working at his station, but he puts down his tools as soon
as he sees me. The kids watching him exclaim in disappointment.
“Pee break,” he says, making them giggle.
He beckons for me to follow him into the staff room and then turns to me with an uncharacteristically serious expression.
“Kiara told me what happened,” he says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” he says sternly. “Shelley’s way out of line. I have half a mind to talk to the historical society.”
“Don’t do that,” I say hastily. “I don’t want her to fire you too.”
Trey scowls. “Like she could.”
We’re both silent a moment afterward, though. She definitely could. Shelley has all the power in this tiny little kingdom.
“Honestly, don’t make a big deal about it,” I say. “It’s probably for the best anyway. I’m really busy working at the shop,
and I’ve been looking into jobs at other museums... plus, I’m thinking about trying to turn my caregiving thing into a
proper business.”
I’m just making stuff up at random, to try to seem less pathetic, but as I hear myself say it, I think, huh.
Should I try to make it a proper business?
“What about the internship you applied for?” Trey asks. “And the degree in museum studies?”
I flush. “I never heard anything back. Things are so competitive these days... and it’s not like I have a lot of experience.”
“You worked here,” Trey says.
I manage a small smile. “Yeah, for, like, a month.” I peer over his shoulder. The kids waiting for him to come back look like
they’re starting to get antsy. “Listen, don’t worry about me,” I say, mustering a cheery tone. “I’m fine, and it’s not like
you’re going to be rid of me. I’ll still stop by and bug you once in a while.”
“If you’re sure,” Trey says doubtfully. “But you just say the word and I’ll go straight to the society. Or better yet, I’ll
go tell Shelley what I think of her right to her face.”
“Thanks, Trey.”
He heads back to his workstation, to the cheers and whoops of the waiting children. I do a loop of the museum, walking slowly,
feeling very separate from the bright, happy atmosphere all around me.
I hear a woman asking how old the museum is, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from answering. I don’t work here anymore.
It isn’t my place to butt in.
I know I’m being a little dramatic. Like I told Trey, I only worked here for a little while. And it wasn’t exactly my dream
job—it isn’t in a big city, and the salary was exactly one hundred thousand dollars less than a hundred thousand dollars—but
I really felt like I belonged here. Like I could make a difference.
I let out a strangled laugh, thinking of my Met internship application. I must have been delusional when I did that. I can’t even make it as a volunteer in the tiniest museum in the tiniest town of the country’s tiniest province. How on earth could I get an internship somewhere like the Met?
Floundering under a rising wave of misery, I make my way back outside and find John. He studies my face and then takes my
hand.
“Time to go?” he asks.
I nod, blinking back stupid tears. “Time to go.”
We walk back to his apartment in silence, hand in hand. The sound of the party grows quieter behind us, until all that’s left
is the chirp of birds and the distant murmur of the ocean. John suggests stopping for a pizza on the way home, and I force
myself to smile and nod, though I’m not hungry at all.
He goes into the shop to order while I sit on the bench outside, watching a pigeon pick at someone’s discarded crust. John
emerges ten or fifteen minutes later with a pizza box in one hand.
“Cheer up,” he says, taking my hand. “Things will turn around again soon.”
I nod. “I guess.”
He makes a reproachful noise and swings my hand back and forth. “They will. Who knows? Maybe you’ll hear from a museum in
Charlottetown this week.”
“Maybe,” I say doubtfully.
“You’ve been crazy busy lately, anyway,” he says. “Maybe it’ll be nice to have a break.”
I glance up at him uncertainly. There it is again—that unpleasant, prickly feeling.
“I don’t want a break. I want a job that I love.”
“And you’ll find one,” he says. “It might not be tomorrow, but it’ll come. You’ll find something that you love.”
“Like you and your job.”
The words come out slightly caustic. I wait for him to call me on it. I want him to, even. But instead, he gives an easy shrug.
“Exactly.”
I fall silent, my fingers slightly stiff under his. Even though his tone is casual, I can feel us teetering on the edge of
a fight. It hovers between us, sharp and unpleasant.
You don’t really love your job , I might say. You’re bored with windshield replacements and tire changes, and you have to squish all the race car work that you actually
want to do in between the boring work that Fred approves of.
I’m happy where I am , he might answer. Don’t get stuck-up again on me, now.
A sharp pang of hurt. I’m not stuck-up. I just want to do something I love.
A cold, angry breath. Well, then, maybe you shouldn’t be dating a lowly mechanic.
I shake my head jerkily and pull myself back from the words. There’s no winning that fight, not for either of us. And why
am I trying to pick a fight with him? What has he done all week, except be incredibly supportive of me, and kind, and understanding?
I sigh heavily. “Sorry. I’m in an awful mood.”
His shoulders relax. “It’s okay. You’ve had a rough week.”
“It hasn’t been the best.”
He nudges me with our clasped hands. “What can I do to make it better?”
I manage a smile. “Nothing.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Are you sure? Because I’m not above slashing Shelley’s tires. Or maybe we could ask Jim to get her car towed from the lot next week. He’s the security guy, he has the authority.”
I bite into a growing grin. “Don’t you dare suggest it. He hates her so much, I think he’d probably do it.”
“He hates her too?”
“He says he ‘doesn’t have much to do with her.’ That’s, like, Jim’s version of calling someone the c-word.”
John laughs. “That’s amazing.”
He nudges my side again, and this time I lean into him. “It’ll be okay,” I say more honestly. “I just need to sulk a bit more
and then get over it.”
“Well, you just let me know,” he says, letting go of my hand to open the door to his apartment building. “If you want Shelley’s
tires slashed, I’m there. Or if you want to do some weird role-play with that old movie you love, Anne of whatever-it-was—”
“Anne of Green Gables!” I say. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what it’s called. And we can’t do role-play with Anne and Gilbert,” I add indignantly. “They never had sex.”
“Didn’t you tell me they have children in the later books, though? I hate to break it to you, but that means they had sex.”
“Blasphemy. They don’t even kiss in the movie. It ends with him tucking a single strand of hair behind her ear, then they
walk off together with a horse.”
“We’ll role-play that, then. You put your hair up, and I’ll track down a horse.”
I laugh, feeling the last vestiges of tension slip away from my frame. “Deal.”