J0
It’s not like I have to get to the archives the minute they open, so I can take some time for myself in the morning. I don’t want to make a habit of it, but I try out Babycakes for coffee and breakfast. It’s within walking distance, which is nice, but also a problem, because my cafe budget for the summer isn’t going to be big enough. I might have to do some juggling there. How many espresso drinks can I buy if I live on ramen?
I try to read my book at breakfast, and one of the baristas wants to know what it is, so everyone in the place gets to hear me say I’m a grown-ass adult reading a book about the dinosaurs. Technically it’s about the extinction, but I’m caught off-guard and I don’t know if this is a city where I can come right out and say the author’s trans or … not. It’s definitely a city that wakes up slowly, so nothing downtown outside of coffee shops is open until ten, and there’s no point in just hanging out here after my latte’s gone. I meander back down to my apartment and grab my notes so I can head up to campus.
Doing research for other people is kind of weird, because I don’t get to pick the topics, but I also don’t spend enough time on any one thing to get truly bored. I’ve emailed ahead on this one, since archives aren’t like libraries, and I’m able to find the parking lot they told me to use and then the proper building and the right doors. Annika’s even expecting me, so she goes over all the rules—pencils only, no water bottles, put my bag in the other room, leave papers flat on the table—and then brings out the first box.
A lot of their stuff is scanned online, but not everything. I don’t think I’ll actually need the whole summer to get what Margot needs, but hey, I’ve got the place, and I’ve got my own little project on the side.
Not that Whittaker’s little. He’s taller than I am, but then, I’m five foot five, so most people are taller than I am. And this is not the time to think about his mouth or his hands or his eyes, Jo Ann, so dismiss him and focus on the first handwritten journal Annika’s brought you.
Luckily he’s got pretty clear handwriting. No matter how many scripts I read, there are times it feels like starting over. Even when they tried to teach every kid the same method, by the time I get to them, they’re adults and their handwriting shows personality. I keep hearing older generations complain that kids these days don’t learn cursive in school, but I did, and I still have to re-learn what I’m reading when it’s a new person. Part of the reason I get hired is to do all the boring steps that people don’t like, such as transcribing documents alongside taking photos, so I dive in and start at the beginning.
Sometimes, if I can’t figure out what a word is, I try to write it on the table with my finger, following the lines on the page. I’m not sure if that’s an accepted practice, but hey, it helps.
I break once for a late lunch, and once to find a copy machine and pay to make Whittaker a file of his own. I don’t have an extra folder handy, but whatever. I doubt he’s going to read it, anyway. That was probably a waste of paper, but I’m clearly still planning on swinging by his house on my way home. Part of me argues I can’t know for sure he’s not a serial killer, and the other part says I just want him to look at me again, so sheesh, I’m all kinds of messed up.
I mean, I knew that already, but come on.
It’s only my first day, so I don’t really have to push it, but they’re not open on the weekends and I’m not dealing with the eye strain I’d get if it were a scan on a screen, so I keep at it until a quarter to five. Annika’s assured me that she doesn’t have to put everything back because they have a shelf for ongoing projects, so I don’t have to worry about keeping her late, but yeah, when I stand up, my back crackles, and I twist to try to loosen it. Then it’s time to gather my stuff, and my backpack’s heavier than usual because of the extra copy, but I’m going to deal with that immediately enough. Then I should really hit up a grocery store and stop going meal to meal like this, except being hungry’s the worst time to shop.
I put Whittaker’s address into my GPS because I’m not entirely sure I could make it on the first try. I can probably get back to the apartment, and I know how to get from the apartment to his house, at least while walking, but there are some confusing one-way streets here. Marquette even has roundabouts, which really seem like unnecessary pretensions, but I don’t need to go through any of those. I just follow the instructions, even though they put me on the opposite side of the street as his house, but the library parking lot’s right here. I can’t tell if street parking is okay, and I don’t know how late the library’s open, but there are spots. Nobody’s watching me, and nobody’s going to mock me for my awkwardness, so just park already, self, and heft your backpack.
I did buy the upgraded padded straps at least. I’m the sort of person who’d love to carry a cute little purse, but I also want to carry more than a little purse can handle, so here I am, walking up his driveway again and going to knock on the door this time. It’s not like I really want to negotiate his mother, but I also don’t want her thinking I’m being too informal.
I had enough issues with Jake’s mom, thanks. She didn’t think I was good enough for her boy, and he didn’t do such a great job of walking the line between convincing me he was putting us first when he was actually putting her first, so …
Whittaker’s not like Jake. We’re not in a relationship. And it’s a good thing I’ve tried to fix my face for her to be the one to answer the door, because it’s not her, and it’s not Jamie. It’s a strange man in jeans and a sport coat over a faded band T-shirt, and he’s got a vaguely Keanu Reeves look when his face absolutely breaks into a grin. “Oh my God, please tell me you’re Jo!” he gushes, opening the door all the way.
“Uh.” I mean, yes, I am, but I’m also not sure why this stranger seems so happy to see me.
“Come in, come in!” he urges because, open door or no open door, I haven’t crossed the threshold. “You have to join us for game night.”
Whittaker didn’t mention game night. He mentioned the smoker, and maybe I spent longer at the archives than I’d planned, but he didn’t mention game night.
“The more, the merrier,” he insists, holding out the hand that doesn’t have the red solo cup. “Ricky. My husband and I own the Rusty Barrel downtown. So, you know.” Dear God, he even winks at me. “If you ever want to eat Jamie’s meat in public …”
What the hell have I stumbled into?
Chapter Eight – coming October 8
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