Her daughter is looking between us uncertainly. Shelley’s smile is smug.
With shaking hands, I turn on my heel and storm out, leaving the door wide open behind me. She can close it her damn self.
My fury carries me all the way to the parking lot and into my car, and then it gives way in a big painfulwhoosh. I stare blankly at my steering wheel for a moment, processing what’s just happened.
Then I burst into tears.
27
At eleven a.m. on Canada Day, I wake up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. I squint around in the darkness, disoriented for a moment before I remember I stayed at John’s apartment last night. Then I remember what day it is and let out a long, heavy breath.
I drag myself out of bed, pull on one of John’s hoodies, and head into the kitchen. John is sitting on the couch in the living room, drinking coffee and watching a motorcycle race on TV.
“Ooh, is this Formula 1?” I ask.
He stares at me, affronted, then sees my face and realizes I’m teasing. “So funny,” he says.
“I thought so.” I get my own cup of coffee and join him on the couch. “How’d you sleep?”
“Good. You?”
“Good. A bit disappointed to see the sun. I was hoping karma would punish Shelley with a freak July first blizzard.”
“Are you sure you still want to go?”
“No,” I say. “But we should, to support Kiara.”
Kiara was adamant she was going to pull out of the event and tell all her craft booth friends to do the same, but I convinced her not to. I want the event to succeed, even if Shelley’s going to take all the credit.
(Okay, maybe90percent of me wants the event to succeed. The other 10 percent wants it to be a total flaming disaster that ends inShelley getting fired and the historical society begging me to take her place.)
“Wordle first?” John says.
“Wordle first. I’m going to start with BITCH. As in, Shelley is the world’s biggest—”
“I don’t think Wordle uses curse words.”
Too late; I’ve already typed it in. I crack up as the letters start turning.
“Ha! You can totally use curse words,” I say triumphantly, showing him my phone.
“That’s only becausebitchhas a regular meaning,” John argues. “It would never use something like—I don’t know—FUCKS.”
“Wanna bet?” I ask, dangling my phone in front of him.
He holds his hand out. “Five bucks.”
We shake on it. Two seconds later, he’s digging in his wallet for a five-dollar bill, while I cackle childishly over my phone.
“I can’t believe that worked,” John says.
“I can’t believe you doubted me.”
“You’re going to lose your streak, at this rate.”
Oh, crap. He’s right. Neither BITCH nor FUCKS got me any usable letters. (And wow, that’s a sentence I don’t think anyone’s ever said before.)
“All right, all right,” I say. “No more curse words.” I think for a moment, drumming my fingers against my chin, then ask, “What’s a five-letter word that means incompetent, condescending asshole?”
