“I’ll stop by later,” I promise her. “We’ll have tea.”
She nods and says she’d like that, but I can tell her mind is still far away. There’s a heavy feeling in my chest as I drive to Jim’s. I was mostly joking when I told John I think the Wordle answers are connected to my life, but I can’t fight the sense that Mrs. Finnamore’s warning reallyisrelated to me. Youth is a precious thing, she said. And mine is slipping away by the second.
Jim is waiting for me outside of his house, dressed in his museum security vest.
“Hello, dear,” he says, getting into the passenger seat.
I force myself to put on a sunny smile. “Sorry I’m late. Ready to fight off barrel thieves?”
Jim chuckles. “Ready.”
I roll down the windows to let in the warm, sweet-smelling breeze, and connect my phone to the car speakers. A bright, lively song starts up.
“What station is this?” Jim asks.
I smile. “It’s not the radio. I made a playlist of songs from the fifties for you.”
Jim listens for a moment. “Is that the Diamonds?”
I nod.
He chuckles. “I haven’t heard this song in years.”
“I could make a playlist on your computer for you, if you wanted.”
“Oh, you know I don’t fuss much with that thing.” He’s quiet for another few minutes, tapping his fingers gently to the music. I have to admit, the fifties music is really growing on me. It’s so folksy and cheerful. It’s not doing much to lift my mood right now, though. Mrs. Finnamore’s words are still sitting like a weight on my chest.
“Is everything all right?” Jim asks, as we pull onto the road into town.
“Oh—yes, sorry. I’m just thinking.” I pause for a second, then ask, “Do you ever have any regrets about your life?”
“Of course not,” he answers, without even a second of hesitation. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“No. Not exactly.” I flick my blinker on at the stop sign. “I guess I’m just worried I’m wasting my youth.”
“You don’t like living here?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” I say, feeling a stab of loyalty as I turn onto Main Street. “I’m just not sure I’m happy enough, I guess.”
“You’ll never be happy if you think too much,” Jim says.
I chuckle. “So your advice is to think less?”
“Exactly. It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” He gestures to the cloudless sky. “We’ve got good music, good company. What else do you need?”
“I’m not sure it’s that simple.”
Jim waves a dismissive hand. “Life is only as complicated as you make it.”
I twist my mouth doubtfully. “But didn’t you ever hope your life would turn out to be... I don’t know, bigger than it was?”
“What do you mean, bigger?”
“I don’t know. More important, I guess. Not that your life wasn’t important,” I add hastily. “I just mean—I don’t know, was it your dream to work at the post office all those years? Or was there something else you wanted to do more?”
Jim considers this as I pull into the museum parking lot. “There were thousands of things I wanted to do, I’m sure,” he says. “But you can’t do everything you want to do in life.”
He says it like it’s simple, but if anything, I feel even more stressed than before. Because he’s right. You can’t do everything you want to in life. Which means I have to be evenmorecertainabout what I decide to do. I don’t want to wind up like Mrs. Finnamore, mourning her lost youth and talking about her husband in that flat, lifeless way.
