“Sounds horrible,” John says. “I’m in.”
I take a half-step closer to him. “Cool.”
“Cool,” he agrees.
The corners of his lips turn up, and then he steps closer and puts his hands on my waist. I can smell his bonfire-smoke cologne, along with a faint scent of gasoline that reminds me of being in the shop. I slide my arms over his shoulders and look up at him, waiting.
There’s a single, delicious moment of tension, then he leans down and brushes his mouth over mine. His lips are dry and warm, his stubble rough and prickly. He kisses like he talks, slow and lazy, and I press myself against him, feeling a sort of arching deep inside me.
He pulls back first, but I wrap my arms around his neck andkiss him again, chasing the light, giddy feeling that’s spreading through my chest.
We stay that way until the woman loading boxes drops one with a loud curse. We break apart, breathless and grinning, and head to his car. It’s a thirty-five minute drive back to Waldon, but neither of us says a word. I feel no need to break the silence. This silence is perfect—this silence issparkly. I sink comfortably into the car seat and lean my head against the window, smiling as I watch the dark road slip by.
21
A late-spring storm descends on the island the next morning, buffeting my bedroom window with erratic splatters of rain. I was hoping to get an early-morning run in, but that’s okay. Nothing can dampen my spirits today.
I roll out of bed, shower, and plait my wet hair into a French braid, then I make a pot of coffee and flop down happily into my couch. Every so often, I remember last night and a little fizzy burst of energy shoots through me.
I kissedJohn.
As I sip my first cup of coffee, I take out my phone and open Wordle. John isn’t working at the shop today—he’s taking a vacation day to go to a dentist appointment in Charlottetown—so there’s no point waiting until lunch to do it.
LIKES, I type in. As in, Johnlikesme.
Shoot. All gray.
SHOCK. As in, I’m still shocked at how great our date was.
Damn it. Nothing again.
Okay, maybe it’s time to stop using romantic words.
I go back to my usual boring, sensible method and within a few minutes, I’ve figured out the right word. TRAIN, for three hundred and twenty-three days!
I sink back into the couch, grinning at my phone. I should text John and see if he’s done Wordle yet. Or would that seem too eager? We just went out last night. Maybe I should wait for him to text first.
I spend about fifteen minutes waffling on it, then another fifteen trying to craft the perfect casual text. Then I catch sight of the time and realize I’m wasting my whole morning on this. I shake my head at myself and put my phone down determinedly.
Yes, my date with John was great, but I’m not going to be one of those people who makes their whole life about a relationship. Like Martha, back in university. The first two years of school, all she ever talked about was how much she wanted to be a self-help guru. She used to drive us all bonkers, actually, always looking down on us for eating sugar (“That’s literally more addictive than meth”) or getting annoyed when we wouldn’t read all the books she recommended. They all had titles likeWinner, Winner: Five Foolproof Life Hacks to Become an Instant Success StoryorThe Happiness Game: Ten Secrets from the World’s Happiest People.I actually tried to read that one, but I didn’t make it past secret number one: “Put down your morning coffee.” Honestly, if that’s the secret to happiness, I think I’d rather die miserable.
Anyway, then Martha met her husband, Jason, and we literally never heard about any of it again. All she ever talked about was Jason. Fallon actually made a drinking game out of it. If Martha said Jason’s name more than twenty times in a day, we all had to take a shot.
We eventually had to stop, because we were getting wasted, like, every night.
So, yeah. I definitely don’t want to be like that. Which means I can’t stop trying to sort my life out just because of one tiny little (amazing) date with John.
I finish another cup of coffee (I’m officially losing atThe Happiness Game) and spend the rest of the morning making a homemade card for Divya to congratulate her on her pregnancy, andanother for Martha, whose third child should be born in a few weeks. I even call the bank to get a new debit card, since the tap function on mine stopped working a few months ago. And if I daydream a little about John while the bank has me on hold, well, that’s nobody’s business but mine.
At nine, I head into the shop. There are about fifteen phone messages waiting for me—I guess the whole town woke up and realized that it’s almost summer and they should really get their snow tires taken off—and the first three customers of the day are kind of impatient, but today, I don’t care at all. Time flies by in bright, happy bursts, and when I’m not reminiscing about all the best bits of my date with John, I’m planning out the next event for the museum, which I’m going to do on Canada Day. I want to make this one even bigger than the last one. Our final tally of guests for the Barrel Into Summer event was eighty-eight. On Canada Day, I’m determined to break a hundred.
At lunchtime, I pop down to the grocery store. Jim and Mrs. Finnamore both need a few things, and I buy myself a bunch of discount candy and chocolate.
In the checkout line, my phone dings with a text.
[12:14]John:how’s it going?
My heart does a somersault in my chest.
