It’s not until that evening, when I’m driving home, that it occurs to me that I’ve accidentally asked John for his number. I squirm uncertainly in my seat. I hope he didn’t think I was like...askingasking. Like, in a romantic way.
Then I laugh out loud. What am I, crazy? Of course he doesn’tthink that. There’s nothing romantic between John and me. He made that abundantly clear when I first started working here, and every single day since. And I’m definitely not interested in him. This is a Wordle friendship, plain and simple.
No, not even a friendship. A Wordlealliance.
That’s all there will ever be between John and me.
9
I wake the next morning to the sound of rain thundering down on the roof. I stretch my arms and legs out wide and then shift a little deeper under the covers. Honestly, is there a sound in the world that’s more comforting than rain on a metal roof? Go ahead, try to name one.
See? You’ve got nothing.
I turn on my bedside kettle (which I have for days exactly like this) and snuggle up under the blankets to sip tea and do Wordle. When I’m done (easy-peasy, WRECK in four guesses), I grab the book I’ve been reading and dive into the pages.
I’m so engrossed in the story, I almost forget about my museum date with Mrs. Finnamore. I leap out of bed the second I remember and rush to get showered and dressed. I decide on a knee-length skirt that I’ve always thought looks sort of old-fashioned, a short-sleeved blouse, and a pair of tiny brass earrings that are shaped like hammers. Weird, yes, but I think it’s pretty fitting since we’re going to the local barrel-making museum.
(Yes, I said barrel-making. We’re in small-town PEI, what did you expect, an exhibit of Terracotta warriors?)
Mrs. Finnamore’s in a bit of a sour mood, and she fusses a little about going, but I dig my heels in and shoo her to my car.
“It’ll be good to get out of the house,” I say firmly.
The rain splatters the windshield as we drive into central Waldon (aka the one long street with all the shops and the post office)and find a parking spot near the museum. To my surprise, there’s a line to get inside. I think all the tourists must be desperate to find something indoors to do. I see a lot of grumpy-looking parents wrangling restless kids.
The museum is built inside of this huge, historic-looking house on the waterfront. It sort of looks like an old schoolhouse, with a big veranda out front and a gable roof with a dormer window framing the center of the house. It’s really quite gorgeous, even in the pouring rain.
“Look at this building!” I say.
“It’s falling apart,” Mrs. Finnamore says, unimpressed. “Look at those planters.”
I follow her gaze to the big stone planters that flank the museum entrance. I suppose she’s right—they do look a little neglected. I’m not an expert gardener like Mrs. Finnamore, but even I know that those are all weeds.
“Well, still,” I say, tilting my head back to admire the house again.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Mrs. Finnamore says, grabbing the handle of my umbrella to tilt it forward.
She keeps grumbling as we wait, but when we get to the front of the line, she waves me away when I offer to get the tickets. She pays ten dollars for our admission and two dollars for the coat check. I hang up our dripping coats and umbrella and then rejoin her at the entrance to the exhibits.
“Doesn’t it smell good in here?” I ask, breathing deeply through my nose. “Like sawdust and history.”
“History?” Mrs. Finnamore repeats. “I’m older than this factory.”
I pretend I don’t hear her. We walk slowly around the museum,which is quiet and echoey and dimly lit, peering at the old barrel-making equipment and watching a worker demonstrate how they used to make barrels. It’s a shame that it’s no longer a viable career option, because it looks quite peaceful. For a moment I envision myself as a barrel-maker. I can see the website now—EMILY EVANS: HANDCRAFTED BARRELS FOR ALL YOUR BARRELING NEEDS.
Amazing.
“Oh, there’s Jim,” Mrs. Finnamore says, gesturing toward an elderly gentleman sitting in the corner. He has a vest on that says Security, which is... kind of hilarious. What are people going to steal? The barrels must weigh a hundred pounds each, and most of the old equipment wouldn’t even fit through the doorway. Also, Jim looks like he’s about ninety. I can’t really see him chasing down barrel thieves.
“His daughter just got out of the hospital. I should go see how he’s doing,” Mrs. Finnamore says, and then walks off to talk to him.
“I’ll be here,” I say cheerfully, trying to ignore the fact that I’ve just been ditched by an eighty-eight-year-old.
I watch the barrel-maker for a while, then my phone dings in my pocket. I pull it out, absently wondering if my parents have caved and bought New Zealand cell phone plans.
Instead, I find a text from John Smith (Auto Shop).
[12:21]John:get Wordle today?
