Half of Grant’s mouth slips up in a smile. “I think there’s a note in the filing cabinet with the stain color.”
I exhale half a laugh. “Of course there is.”
Grant chuckles and turns around, already pulling open a drawer. I watch him flip through manila folders labeled in thick black marker—Oak, Maple, Cottonwood—until he finds mine.
Pine Street. Summers.
It’s strange, seeing my life reduced to a tab. Like I’ve already lived it all once before and now I’m just maintaining it.
Same books, same cookies, same Sadie.
“Early American,” he says as he looks through my folder. “That’s what’s been used every time.”
I nod, even though a small irrational part of me wants to ask what happens if I want something different. But I don’t.
“I’ll take a small can of that and whatever sandpaper you’d recommend smoothing out chew marks,” I say.
He nods. “Be right back.”
When he leaves, my eyes drift to the counter, where flyers sit beneath the glass. Most of them are the usual—a church potluck, lawn-care services, a lost calico with one green eye.
But one of them doesn’t seem to belong.
The words are bold and printed in an uneven black ink, slightly crooked, like someone didn’t bother centering them. Beneath it is a short list.
Try Something You’ve Never Done
Speed on a back road.
Order dessert first.
Quit something you’re “good” at.
My stomach dips, like I’ve just read something private out loud.
“Anything else you need, Sadie?” Grant asks, interrupting my thoughts again, but my cheeks flush this time, like I’ve been caught reading a passed note in class.
“Oh, um.” I look up at Grant and take in his gentle green eyes and dark stubble. “WD-40,” I say. The word slips out smoothly—memorized and ready.
He leaves for a few seconds, and my eyes flicker back down the flyer. It’s still there. Part of me thought it would disappear, as if I had imagined my thoughts onto the paper.
Grant returns with a can of WD-40. “Are you okay?” he asks. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
I laugh, a little too high-pitched. “Oh, no. I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”
“Want me to put these on your tab?” He places the items in a paper sack.
“Yes. My tab. That’d be great,” I answer before plastering a practiced smile on my face.
“Sadie?” He bites at his bottom lip.
“Yeah?”
“If you need any help with the sanding and staining . . .” Grant trails off, fidgeting with the paper bag.
“I’ve got it,” I say instinctively as I grab for the bag.
“Or,” he adds, shrugging, “I could help, and we could grab dinner after. Nothing fancy.”
