“A sign of what?”
“A sign that Wordle doesn’t think we should be together!”
“We’ve talked about this,” John says. “The Wordle answers do not hold any deep, secret meaning for your life.”
“Um, what about the time the answer was BROKE and Ibrokemy nail two seconds after I got it?”
“You broke your nail because you were spinning around on your chair like an idiot.”
“Well, what about the time the word was PANTS, and I waswearingpants?”
“Okay,” he says. “Quiet time now.”
I chuckle, then turn back to my phone. LOVES was all wrong. I need to rule out some other letters and figure out what vowel is in the word.
BRAID, I type. If it’s right, I’m totally wearing my hair in a braid today.
Shoot. Only the A is yellow.
I study the letters, hyper-focused, and type in a few more words. I get a few more letters right... a Y, a C, an H...
Aha! It’s YACHT!
This is totally a sign that John and I are going to own a yacht someday. I’m going to tell him that once he’s done, just to annoy him.
I swipe open my email while I wait for him to finish. A bank statement, a few emails from shops I bought stuff from a hundred years ago that I’ve been meaning to unsubscribe from...
I go totally still.
There’s an email with the subject line “Your NYU Admissions Decision.” Then below it, an email from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, with the subject line “Re: Internship Application.”
Oh, god.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
I put my phone down before I can accidentally see the little preview of the emails. I can’t do this right now. I can’t face the rejection. It would’ve been bad enough to just get one email, butboth? Did NYU and the Met conspire on this or something?
“Did you get it yet?” John asks. “Is there a double letter?”
“Did I—what? Oh—yeah. I mean no. No double letter.”
He looks at me. “You look weird.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean you’ve got a weird look on your face.”
“Do I?” I say thinly.
His brow furrows. “Em.”
Crap.
I have to tell him.
I take a nervous sip of coffee. “I just... got an email. Two emails.”
He puts his phone down. “About?”
