“Hey!” I say.
“You like talking to old people way too much,” he continues. “And you’re a little idealistic.”
I plant my face into my palm, torn between amusement and aggravation. “You were supposed to say facts about me, not insults.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Were any of those untrue?”
I consider them. “I’m not a little idealistic,” I say finally. “I’mextremelyidealistic.”
He laughs. “You’re right. My bad.”
I laugh with him. “I can’t help it,” I admit. “I don’t mean it to be snobby, though. It’s just, like... I don’t know. Don’t you ever want your life to be more exciting and like—important?”
“Important how?”
“I don’t know. Like when you die, don’t you want people to remember you for something?”
“I’ll be dead. I’m sure I won’t care.”
I snort. “You don’t get it.”
“Nope.” He gestures out the front windshield. “Some drunk moron could swerve into our lane and kill us both right now. We wouldn’t be any less dead if we were world-famous billionaires.”
“Okay, but don’t you think we’d be happier rightnowif we were world-famous billionaires? Or even better, if we’d done something important that people would remember us for?”
“I suppose I might be happier if we were rich enough to be driving a McLaren. But otherwise, no.”
I study his face. I think he really means that. “Well, I want my life to be meaningful,” I say stubbornly.
“And I don’t think what makes your life meaningful is what happens after you’re dead.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again.
Huh.
He has a point.
“Hey, you only said four things about me,” I realize aloud. “You need to say one more. Maybe one that’s slightly less emotionally devastating this time.”
He frowns at me thoughtfully for a moment, then nods. “You have a nice ass.”
A laugh splutters out of me, embarrassed and pleased. “Good lord,” I say, blushing, and lean forward to turn up the music. “Let’s do our quiet time now, please.”
20
The edges of the sky are tinted purple as we pull into Charlottetown. It’s only early in the tourist season, but the streets are still pretty busy. We find a parking spot a few blocks away from the festival and walk over in silence. An hour ago, I might have called it an awkward silence, but after practicing in the car on the way here, I’ve decided to rename it an amiable silence. And I have to admit, it’s pretty nice. Every few minutes, an annoying voice in the back of my head whispers,Say something!but I’ve decided to ignore it. It’s nicer just to walk side by side, breathing in the cool, salty air and admiring the fairy lights strung over Charlottetown’s main street.
The festival itself takes place on a wide waterfront street lined with shops. They’ve closed it off to traffic, so people are just wandering around, peering at the menus for the food trucks or looking at the craft booths set up along the street.
“Want to get some food first?” John asks. “And a beer?”
I open my mouth to remind him I don’t like beer when I realize he’s messing with me. “Ha, ha,” I say dryly. “Food first, please.”
We do a loop of the street to read the different menus, then I save us a spot at a picnic table while John goes off to order for us. I sit cross-legged on the bench and rest my chin on my hands. Now that the sun is going down, the twinkly lights above the street look even prettier, and someone has started playing guitar outside one of the shops. I take a deep breath and let it out again happily.
I wonder if I would enjoy this moment more if I was famous or a millionaire. My clothes would be nicer, that’s for sure, and I’d have a personal makeup artist to do fancy eyeshadow for me. But the lights wouldn’t be any twinklier, and the smoke wafting from the food truck grills wouldn’t smell any more delicious.
Still, I don’t think it’s wrong to want a job that I love. My NYU and internship applications flash in my mind, but I push the thought away. It’s such a long shot, honestly, I don’t even want to bother getting my hopes up. Plus... my eyes drift to John, who’s approaching with two cans of soda in one hand and a carefully balanced pile of cardboard take-out containers in the other.
