Page 36 of What I Should've Said

For three days, I’ve thought of nothing but the kiss.

The way it felt, the way I gave in to it so quickly despite my very complicated life, the way it ended—and how every part of all three of those is a recipe for devastation.

I don’t need some macho, grumpy man who hates me riling me up and stealing kisses in parking lots. I don’t need to throw my life into another man and another disaster when I’ve not fully escaped the last. I don’t need to be feeling the things I’m feeling or wondering how to decode Bennett Bishop’s mystery.

I need to focus on me. I need a job. I need a purpose. And I need all those things pronto.

As such, begging Josie to have the morning off today so I could pursue other employment seemed like the most logical choice, and now, as I drive toward a random address outside of town in Josie’s old Civic I got started by some miracle, I’m starting to feel like I can breathe.

An artist’s assistant.

It’s the perfect outlet for my creativity and design, and much better than bagging groceries at Earl’s or shearing sheep for the supposedly hot Farmer Tad, as Josie refers to him, or even breaking all of my sister’s hard-earned equipment at CAFFEINE.

And I think Josie is coming to that realization too. The gusto she used to agree to my morning off to job hunt—even though she had a meeting with Eileen Martin scheduled about running coupons in the paper that meant she wouldn’t be working either—proves it.

Dressed in the only pair of business casual clothes I have with me—all from Lillian, of course—I drive along a winding road that Google Maps is confident leads to 33 Maple Avenue.

It’s not long before I spot a mailbox holding court in front of a gravel driveway that verifies the right address. I take a right and head down the curvy path until the real-life vision of a large barn stares back at me through the windshield. In the distance, a big white house sits up on a hill.

The brakes squeal like rusted metal and the tires crunch over the gravel as I come to a stop at the edge of the driveway.

I cut the engine and start to look around at my surroundings.

Open grass fields highlighted by lush forest and a white barn with two large red doors.

It’s No-Man’s-Land—the opposite of New York City. As a self-proclaimed fancy girl who’s used to urban hustle and bustle, I can’t believe how good it feels.

I check my hair and makeup one last time in the visor mirror and step out of the driver’s side door at 11:58 a.m., two minutes to spare before the interview starts. I’m so proud of myself for managing my time well enough—even the extra fifteen minutes it took to get the Civic running—not to be late.

Now, all I need to do is nail this interview, and I’ll be well on my way.

New life, here I come.

The walk to the barn is a real test on my heels, but I manage to trudge through the grass without breaking a stiletto or falling on my face. Maybe business casual wasn’t the way to go, but on the off chance the person interviewing me has, I don’t know, seen me in the paper or happens to be a member of the volunteer fire department, I wanted to bolster my chances of convincing them I’m a professional. I look around for a bell or something to announce my arrival by the red doors, but with nothing in sight, I settle for knocking on the weather-roughened entrance.

When there’s no response, I increase my knock to a closed-fist pound and calmly call out, “Hello? I’m here for the interview…?”

Nothing.

Carefully, I tug on one of the big brass handles. The right barn door squeaks and groans as it cracks a smidge, and I have to use a decent amount of muscle to get it to open wide enough for me to step inside.

“Hello?” I call out as the big barn door slams shut behind me.

The barn is completely empty. Four massive white walls and a dirt floor with scraps of hay bely the existence of an artist at all. How long has it been since they painted anything in here?

Hesitantly creeping into the room a little farther, I check for secret doors or passages or any signs of psycho activity—you know, saws, chains, machetes, hidden jail cells, that kind of thing.

“Hello?” I call again as I reach the center of the room and spin in a circle of confusion. It’s only then that I spot something else in the shadows, in the very corner of the room where one white wall meets the other. Cans of paint and a clear plastic bin with paintbrushes inside pique every fiber of my curiosity.

Quickly, I shuffle to the corner and look it over, finding a handwritten note sitting on top of one of the paint cans.

Paint the wall.

Besides leaving a little spot to write my name and phone number down, that’s all it says—paint the wall.

I scrunch up my nose.

This is the interview? No person to impress, no questions to be answered, no judgment on my etiquette. Just some cans of paint and a blank wall.

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