“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’twantkids 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.
