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)
Way to speak to my soul. Plus, this is why they have me. Why the foundation made this grant.
“On it,” I say and if I can impart any wisdom in this lifetime, it’s that there are many, many better resources than social media. I help the group of teens find reputable resources online, and I barely even look at the clock.
Fine, I check it a few times. I’m looking forward to shopping with Everly after work today, more than I usually look forward to grocery shopping. I took her up on her grocery store offer—we’re going to hit her favorite hidden gem store in the city. I can get supplies for my project with Wes, and I kind of can’t wait to tackle the fourth item on my list. Maybe because I like baking? Or possibly because I like our blossoming friendship? Spending time with him makes me feel…seen. I haven’t felt that often. Not growing up at least, so it’s a little thrilling.
His messages are too. We’ve been trading recipe ideas all week for number four, even when he flew to Vancouver for a quick away game a few days ago. He returned yesterday though.
As the day winds down, a new message lands on my phone from him, and seeing his name makes my pulse spike. Since it’s quiet at the desk, I read his text right away, feeling a little bubbly.
Wesley: Take that back. What you said last week about my video game skills. I’ve been killing it today.
Josie: Really? You got shot forty-two times by the undead in the abandoned warehouse the second you started the game last night.
Wesley: That was an improvement!
Josie: All I can say is don’t quit your day job.
Wesley: Damn, woman. Way to hit a man when he’s down.
Josie: Need a Band-Aid for your wounded ego?
Wesley: Evidently. Will you put it on me?
Josie: If I can find one big enough.
Wesley: If I’m ever roasted, remind me that you should be the emcee.
Josie: I hate roasts but deeply appreciate the compliment.
Wesley: Agree. Roasts are evil. Like, you’re my friends, and you want to tell me why I’m awful?
Josie: And make fun of me in public?
Wesley: But pranks on teammates are another story.
Josie: That is such a guy thing to say.
Wesley: I am a guy.
Josie: I know, Wes. I know.
Wesley: BTW, you’re the only one who calls me Wes.
Josie: And…?
Wesley: Don’t stop.
Josie: I won’t…Wes.
I almost feel like I could text him all afternoon, but there’s a patron heading toward the desk, so I slip my phone back in my skirt pocket and return to work.
When the day ends, I tell Thalia I’ll see her tomorrow since I offered to take a Saturday shift for Eddie in research so he could go to his husband’s mini-golf tournament. Then I leave, passing the fire station where the guys are washing their truck—again. And doing it shirtless again. I smile again. They wave back, then I catch a bus to a small store in Russian Hill. Everly’s waiting at the door, wearing tailored slacks and a pretty blouse but dressed down with Converse sneakers.
“You look like a cocktail of business and casual,” I say, admiring her outfit.
“I like you. I think I’ll keep you around,” she says.
The part of me—that part of everyone that wants to be liked—does a little jig. “Good. I’m very keepable.”
She gestures to the entrance, waggling her phone. “Fair warning. I’m a little into coupons.”
“Me too,” I say, and we’re clearly new besties as we head inside. She’s another thing I like about San Francisco. I’ll miss her when the job ends in three months. Actually, it ends in two months now, but I try not to think about the end date too much. This was always going to be a short-term gig, and there’ll be other jobs when I get back home. Besides, there’s plenty to keep me busy while I’m here.
Like the list. With a basket on my arm, I pick up supplies for number four—eat dessert for breakfast from time to time—with a little more vim and vigor than I usually employ when I’m picking up supplies.
“You look like you have something fun planned. What are you baking?” Everly asks as I grab cinnamon from the spice aisle with an eager hand.
Should I tell her? It’s not a state secret. “A cinnamon sugar puff pastry. Wes and I are making it,” I add. Nothing wrong with sharing that. We’re roomies and all.
But that nugget seems to catch her attention more than I’d expect, maybe since I called him Wes. She tilts her head. “You guys are baking together now?”
Is it weird to cook with your roomie these days? “Of course,” I say, fighting to stay nonchalant. “Sometimes we cook together.”
And I leave him handwritten letters, and he drives me to work, and I give him ibuprofen, and he buys me books, and we’re working through my aunt’s bucket list for me in our free time. That’s all totally normal, right?