Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“You did?” I can’t contain my excitement. Don’t want to contain it.
“It’s a long shot though, Wes,” she says, playing the realist, before she shifts gears slightly. “I’ve been looking for jobs though. At other library branches. Even in Marin County and San Jose.”
I feel ten-feet tall. This is the best news. “I’ll drive you to work every day,” I say.
“You can’t do that,” she says, laughing.
“Like hell I can’t. Watch me. Just fucking watch me.”
“I have to get a job first. And it’s the end of the year so there are never as many postings. Budgets and all. And hiring slows in December. But I’m applying for everything.”
She brightens at the end, giving me a ray of hope. And I’ll cling to it. “But you’re trying. That’s what matters,” I say, then I close the distance between us and kiss her goodbye.
For a few seconds I taste salt. Or maybe I’m preparing myself for more of these kisses in five weeks’ time.
38
IN MY POLE ERA
Josie
One week turns into another one, then one more. When Wesley’s in town, we volunteer at Little Friends Dog Rescue, transporting dogs to foster homes while they wait for adoptions. Wesley’s car has two dog beds in the backseat. When he drives, he peeks in the rearview mirror and says things to the passengers like, “You’re the best boy” and “Aren’t you a good little cutie” and “You deserve all the treats in the world.”
He might be at his happiest when he’s buckling in rescue pups. It’s a pure kind of joy, and it makes my heart sing to see it.
Other times, we do mundane office chores together. Like review applications for adoption. But we split those tasks, leaning into what each of us does best. I read and screen them, then he makes phone calls and vets prospective adopters for the rescue. Soon, we’ll cross off number six officially, and then we’ll do number seven—explore a new skill. We’d debated that one for a while, as I made a list of our options—candle-making, cocktail mixing, or pottery classes, while he suggested kayaking, a foraging for food in the woods workshop, and badminton.
“You made a list for a list,” he’d said, laughing one night when I showed him my suggestions for number seven.
“I can’t help it if the list is spawning,” I said, but then surveyed his choices while tapping a pen against my chin. “Sorry, Wes. Kayaking is too cold, the outdoors is not my friend, and I’d get hit in the eye with a birdie.”
“Let me get this right—you’ve vetoed all mine? Just like that?”
“I prefer to think of it like this—I’m letting you pick from my three very excellent choices.”
He laughed. “Good thing I like you,” he said, then leaned down and captured my mouth in a kiss before whispering, “And I’m picking cocktail mixing for explore a new skill so I can taste the flavors on these perfect lips.”
“I guess number seven will be foreplay then too,” I said.
But we haven’t been able to do that yet since the next-cocktail mixing class that works out for both of us is next week, shortly before Christmas. It can wait since first Wes has to get through this punishing road trip he’s on right now to Minnesota, Chicago and Calgary—punishing is right since they’ve lost two games so far. That sucks, especially since the coach has played him on the first line a few times. But Wesley hasn’t talked much about the team or his performance, so I haven’t pressed. He gets enough pressure from his dad about his performance and doesn’t need it from me. I try to focus on us and making the most of our time together. Like when I make plans for number eight on the list. That’s coming around the corner, but it’s easy to fit that in when the mood strikes.
That might be the one I’m most looking forward to—dancing in the park.
It’s so seemingly random, but so not. My aunt and I used to do that when I was a kid. She’d take me to the park for a picnic, and we’d run around the slides and jungle gym—the extent of my athletic skills was mastering the monkey bars. Then she’d declare it was time for impromptu dance party. And we danced our butts off in the park, using her iPod and corded headphones, always finishing with Bill Withers’ “Lovely Day.” It wasn’t even her favorite song. She told me it was my song. Wes and I will probably tackle that next week, too, since he’ll be in town.
While Wes is traveling, we text and sext as much as we can. One night in December, I start a new series of photos for him, showing off the shoes I tried on for Everly’s class, before the Internet schooled me—you don’t need to wear heels for your first pole-dancing class. Or your second. That’s definitely for the best. They’re seven-inch platforms and it’s possible I might die in them. But they do look hot, so I took a pic at the thrift shop and now I’m sending it along.