To my relief and intense annoyance, the Canada Day event is a total success. The weather is perfect, sunny but not sweltering, thefood is delicious, and the music John’s friend George is playing is perfect, sort of old-fashioned and folksy without feeling cheesy. I eat a hot dog and two (okay, four) cupcakes decorated in red-and-white icing and try not to sulk too much when I overhear the historical society ladies complimenting Shelley on the event.
While John chats with Kiara’s husband, Jake, I head into the museum to say hi to Trey. The inside of the museum is dark and cool, and I blink for several moments in the doorway, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light.
A few people are milling about, peering at the exhibits. Trey is working at his station, but he puts down his tools as soon as he sees me. The kids watching him exclaim in disappointment.
“Pee break,” he says, making them giggle.
He beckons for me to follow him into the staff room and then turns to me with an uncharacteristically serious expression. “Kiara told me what happened,” he says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” he says sternly. “Shelley’s way out of line. I have half a mind to talk to the historical society.”
“Don’t do that,” I say hastily. “I don’t want her to fire you too.”
Trey scowls. “Like she could.”
We’re both silent a moment afterward, though. She definitely could. Shelley has all the power in this tiny little kingdom.
“Honestly, don’t make a big deal about it,” I say. “It’s probably for the best anyway. I’m really busy working at the shop, and I’ve been looking into jobs at other museums... plus, I’m thinking about trying to turn my caregiving thing into a proper business.”
I’m just making stuff up at random, to try to seem less pathetic, but as I hear myself say it, I think, huh.
ShouldI try to make it a proper business?
“What about the internship you applied for?” Trey asks. “And the degree in museum studies?”
I flush. “I never heard anything back. Things are so competitive these days... and it’s not like I have a lot of experience.”
“You worked here,” Trey says.
I manage a small smile. “Yeah, for, like, a month.” I peer over his shoulder. The kids waiting for him to come back look like they’re starting to get antsy. “Listen, don’t worry about me,” I say, mustering a cheery tone. “I’m fine, and it’s not like you’re going to be rid of me. I’ll still stop by and bug you once in a while.”
“If you’re sure,” Trey says doubtfully. “But you just say the word and I’ll go straight to the society. Or better yet, I’ll go tell Shelley what I think of her right to her face.”
“Thanks, Trey.”
He heads back to his workstation, to the cheers and whoops of the waiting children. I do a loop of the museum, walking slowly, feeling very separate from the bright, happy atmosphere all around me.
I hear a woman asking how old the museum is, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from answering. I don’t work here anymore. It isn’t my place to butt in.
I know I’m being a little dramatic. Like I told Trey, I only worked here for a little while. And it wasn’t exactly my dream job—it isn’t in a big city, and the salary was exactly one hundred thousand dollars less than a hundred thousand dollars—but I really felt like I belonged here. Like I could make a difference.
I let out a strangled laugh, thinking of my Met internship application. I must have been delusional when I did that. I can’t evenmake it as a volunteer in the tiniest museum in the tiniest town of the country’s tiniest province. How on earth could I get an internship somewhere like the Met?
Floundering under a rising wave of misery, I make my way back outside and find John. He studies my face and then takes my hand.
“Time to go?” he asks.
I nod, blinking back stupid tears. “Time to go.”
We walk back to his apartment in silence, hand in hand. The sound of the party grows quieter behind us, until all that’s left is the chirp of birds and the distant murmur of the ocean. John suggests stopping for a pizza on the way home, and I force myself to smile and nod, though I’m not hungry at all.
He goes into the shop to order while I sit on the bench outside, watching a pigeon pick at someone’s discarded crust. John emerges ten or fifteen minutes later with a pizza box in one hand.
“Cheer up,” he says, taking my hand. “Things will turn around again soon.”
I nod. “I guess.”
