“I don’t,” John says, then looks at me as if to say,Are we done here?
My hands clench in my lap. “Ethel isn’t a dick, and you were rude to her too.”
“Who?”
“Ethel! The woman with the worn-out suspension!” This is theonly way John can remember customers, by what’s wrong with their cars.
“Oh,” he says, completely unconcerned. Then, “What time am I booked tomorrow? I’ve got a thing in the morning.”
I want to scream in frustration. It’s like trying to argue with a wall. A really flat, boring wall covered in stupid car posters.
“Nine thirty,” I say through my teeth.
“’kay,” he says, and wanders off.
Conversation over, I suppose.
I close up the front part of the shop at five and head home. John and Dave are still clanging around in the garage, but I’ve learned not to wait around for them to finish.
I drive home in a sour mood. My spirits are so low that not even the sight of my house can raise them. Maybe I’m being biased, but I’m pretty sure it’s the prettiest house in all of PEI. If I showed you a picture, I bet you’d agree. It’s set a little way back from the road, with two huge leafy trees in the front yard that partially conceal it from view, and a huge backyard that slopes down toward the harbor. The walls are white, and the window trim and metal roof are a matching shade of dark green. It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an office, which makes it approximately one billion times larger than any house I could actually afford on my current salary. The owners are living in their condo in New Mexico for a while, and I’ll tell you right now, if you’re looking for me the day they tell me they want it back, you’ll find me sobbing hysterically in the bathroom.
I pull into the driveway and get out to check my mailbox, hovering for a little while just in case my elderly neighbor spots meand wants to come out for a chat. After a few fruitless minutes, I give up and go inside.
I change into sweatpants and wander aimlessly around the house. I could make dinner, but I’m not really that hungry. I could go for a run, but all my limbs feel really heavy, like they’re weighed down or something. I could have a glass of wine, but I’m starting to worry I’m becoming one of those people who drinks alone too much, and Canada’s new alcohol guidelines (two drinks aweek, what sadistic monster came up with that?) are stressing me out a bit. I pick up my phone to call my parents and then remember they’re on a plane somewhere and will be out of touch for six weeks.
In the end, I curl up on the couch, put onAnne of Green Gables—the original one from 1985, which I’ve watched about fifty times since I moved to PEI—and cry a little bit when Matthew dies at the end.
Just because it’s a sad movie, you know.
No other reason.
3
Okay. New day. Here we go.
The sun is out, the trees are starting to bud, and as Anne of Green Gables would say, every day is fresh, with no mistakes in it.
(I think she actually said “with no mistakes in ityet,” but I don’t like that as much. It makes it sound like the mistakes are inevitable.)
I make myself a coffee and some crunchy toast with peanut butter and then sit down at my kitchen table and open up Wordle. Day three hundred and two, here we go.
I start with READY. Ready for a good day.
The R and E are yellow—the rest are gray. Hmm.
PRICE. As in, I can’t afford the price of this organic peanut butter. (Plus it doesn’t taste as good as the cheap stuff, and the weird layer of oil on top kind of grosses me out.)
Shoot. The R and the E are still in the wrong place, and the rest of the letters are gray.
Okay. Changing strategy here. I need to eliminate some other letters.
TOUGH. As in, I need to toughen up and stop feeling so sorry for myself.
The O is in the right place, the rest of the letters are gray. Still, that’s a lot of options ruled out. And now I know three letters: O, R, and E.
O, R, E.
R, E, O.
