Page 80 of Meet Cute Reboot

Crickets have hearts?

Sure. They must, she answers.

I bet they’re tiny.

Bigger than a gnat’s heart.

Me:

Dot, dot, dot. Dot, dot, dot.

I guess it’s still my turn.Well, I would like to order four hours, please, with ketchup and mustard.

Four?Cassie quickly responds.

Too little?

It depends on how much you annoy me.

I smile at my phone. A joking Cassie is a happy Cassie. And that’s all I want.

I’ll only be a little annoying, I type back.

Cassie:Then we’ll see how it goes. My place at six? I will require food.

I as well.

Excellent,Cassie responds.We’ll DoorDash.

Fancy, I text.

I know how to please my guests. Don’t take that the wrong way.

I know what you meant. Hey, keep me posted on the stats.

Will do,Cassie replies.

No more dots. We end it there. I release my towel and jump into the shower to wash away the dirt.

Friday can’t come soon enough.

On Wednesday, it occurs to me that I need to go above and beyond. Cassie swoons over history. It’s one of her love languages.

I find the number for the Charleston Historical Foundation and dial them up. No one answers, so I leave a message telling them I’m interested in learning more about the history of the houses along my street and asking how I might go about it. Then, I head to my office and scroll through my emails.

At twelve thirty the doorbell rings. Korg goes into watchdog mode and barks until I tell him tosimmer down, it’s just the UPS guy. His ears perk up at “UPS.” He knows it means treats. As expected, two dog bones rest on my package. I grab the box fromthe front porch, toss the bones to Korg, and meander back to my office.

I haven’t put in an Amazon order, which means the package must be work-related. I’m right. It’s full of man-soap—Squatch’s on one side and IronForge’s on the other. I spend the next fifteen minutes doing the sniff test and decide I’m sufficiently impressed with IronForge’s offerings. The scents are sharper, bolder, lessI spent a week in the woodsand moreI mold metal with my bare hands.

I pull up to my laptop, prepared to give a report to my partners when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, so I use my work voice.

It’s the lady from the Charleston Historical Foundation. She informs me that they have an archive and I’m welcome to look through it whenever I have the time, but she’ll have to let me into the office because they’re all volunteers, and they can’t afford to pay a secretary, and nobody has a key but her because people can’t be trusted these days. I tell her I’m free now. She ums and hms for a moment before agreeing to meet me there in half an hour.

Since her office is less than five minutes away, I kill time by slapping ham and cheese between two slices of whole wheat toast. I grab a handful of pretzels before sitting down to enjoy my culinary artistry.

I’m not sure what to look for in the archive. Hopefully, tidbits of Charleston’s history along with nuggets from Benton Street’s past jump out at me and sayCassie would find this endlessly fascinating. She has a particular affinity for historical structures—who built them, who resided in them, what happened there. She also knows her history better than anyone I’ve ever met.

When we went to the Chicago History Museum, she shared random facts like she worked for the museum. In the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 exhibit, she schooled me on the details.