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)
Josie: I’m in my pole era. Or I’m trying to be.
Wesley: I’d like you to be in the wrap those shoes around your man’s face era.
My man. Somehow, that’s what he’s become. Mine. Or really, mine for now.
Josie: Why am I not surprised that’s your first thought?
Wesley: Why would you think I’d think anything else when you send me a photo of you in hot shoes?
Josie: Fair point. But where’s my pic?
Wesley: You want to see my shoes? Whatever works for you. I’m on the plane right now, in a pair of suede loafers. (Cruelty-free suede, of course.)
Josie: No! I want to see your face!
I want to add I love your face but I’m careful not to use the L word. I’ve been careful about the F word, too—F as in falling, like falling for you. But Wes is careful as well. He hasn’t said either of those words either. I think I know why. Because of the other four-letter word.
Time.
There’s not enough of it. There’s never enough of it. It just keeps marching inexorably forward, and with it so do the days when I don’t hear from The Violet Delia Foundation for Library Digital Empowerment, and when I get turned down from the few openings in the area, and when I don’t find any new ones to apply for.
And when I want one more and more.
Especially when Wes sends me a picture of his face. He’s on the plane, resting his head against the window, giving an easy smile. His scruff is scruffier than usual, and his eyes are tired but brighter than when I’ve seen him on TV playing these last few games. My heart jumps. This is getting to be ridiculous. I’m falling too hard for him.
But the look in those eyes tells me he’s falling too.
How utterly inconvenient. I don’t think falling in love for the first time was on my aunt’s list.
When I’m walking to work on a Tuesday morning, listening to a podcast about how to be unforgettable in your job search, an email lands that makes my breath halt. I stop short outside the fire station, my fingers tingling. I try to remember to breathe as I open this email with far too much hope flowing through my veins.
It’s from the foundation.
Dear Josie,
We’re writing to let you know we received your application and have reviewed it. Do you have time for an interview sometime this week?
All the best,
Violet
The head of the foundation herself? This is almost too good to be true. Maybe this means I’m getting that extension. Maybe I can stay on at my branch with this. I hit reply, sending them the times I’m available.
Then, I float into the library. Maybe this long shot isn’t such a long one after all.
I walk toward the reference desk, past the trees decorated with ornaments of books, and smile at my co-workers.
“What’s that look for?” Eddie asks.
I flutter my lashes. “I have an interview,” I say, then tell them the details.
Eddie knocks fists with me, and Thalia gives an approving nod.
“Would either of you be willing to do a mock interview with me? To help me prep?”
Eddie taps his chin as if in deep thought. “Would you be willing to make those lavender chocolate-chip cookies again?”
“Done,” I say.
“Then we’ll help,” he says, “Right, Thalia?”
“Of course we will. And until then, you’ve got some requests for Your Next Five Reads.”
It’s business as usual, and maybe that’s what my life can be.
“I’m on it,” I say, and I keep myself occupied until it’s time for a mid-morning break. I pop into the bathroom, texting Wes the good news on the way. Once I swing open the door, I nearly jump. Raccoon’s perched on the edge of the sink, licking the faucet.
“Raccoon. You hate being normal, don’t you?” I head over and turn on the tap so he can drink from a light stream.
When he’s done, a reply from Wes lights up my screen.
Wesley: Can we celebrate by skipping number eight?
Josie: Never!
Wesley: Also, fuck yes!
Josie: Well, it hasn’t happened yet. It’s only an interview.
Wesley: It’s the first step.
That afternoon, my colleagues quiz me, and when I leave another email lands—I landed an interview at a library in Petaluma early next week too. It’s about an hour away, but I don’t even care. Everything feels possible.
That night, after I’ve finished all my prep for tomorrow’s Zoom interview with the foundation, I’m hanging out on Maeve’s couch before we meet up with Fable for a paint-and-sip class (which doesn’t count toward learning a new skill because we all mostly know how to paint and we definitely know how to sip). I’m plucking pistachios from their shells while Maeve layers tiny ocean-colored mosaic tiles onto an old tequila bottle. That’s for the lamps she’s been selling at farmers’ markets and night markets around the city.