Happy Place(15)

However, if I could make one minor interior design suggestion, it would be to put one or both of the aforementioned amenities behind a door. As it stands, they’re out in the open.

Sure, the toilet gets to hide in a shameful little cabinet, but if I plan on changing my clothes at any point during this week, my options are (1) accept that I’ll be doing so with an audience of one, namely my ex-fiancé; (2) stuff myself into the shit-closet and pray for good balance; or (3) find a discreet way to sneak down to the infamous outdoor shower stall over by the guesthouse.

All this to say, I spend my fifteen minutes of “relaxation” taking a private shower while I can. Then I pull on a pair of jeans and a clean white T-shirt. One of Wyn’s and my few areas of overlap is our complete absence of personal style.

His work has always required him to dress practically, and most of his clothes quickly get beaten up, so there’s no point in having anything too nice to begin with.

For me, though, the overreliance on tight Levi’s and Tshirts has more to do with the fact that I hate making decisions. It took me years to figure out what kind of clothes I like on my body, and now I’m sticking with it.

Another solar flare–bright memory: Wyn and me lying in bed, lamplight spilling over us, his hair a mess, that one obstinate lock on his forehead. His mouth presses to the curve of my belly, then the crease of my hip. He whispers against all my softest parts, Perfect.

A shiver crawls down my spine.

Quite enough of that.

I knot my hair atop my head and trudge back downstairs.

Everyone’s moved out to the wooden table on the back patio. Four feet worth of charcuterie runs down its center, and because Sabrina is Sabrina, there are place cards, ensuring that Cleo and Kimmy are seated in front of the vegan offerings, while I’ll be face-to-face with a Brie wheel so big it could be fixed to a wheelbarrow in a pinch.

Wyn looks up from his phone as I step onto the patio. I can’t tell if the momentary splash of anxiety across his face is wishful thinking on my part, because as soon as I clock it, he puts his phone away, breaks into a smile, and reaches out to collect me around the waist, pulling me in against his side.

Rigidly, I drop into the wrought iron chair next to his, and his arm rearranges, loosely crooking around my shoulders.

Sabrina rises from her seat at the head of the table. “I’m not sure if you had a chance to look at your itineraries yet . . .”

“Is that what that was?” Cleo says. “I’ve been using it as a doorstop.”

Kimmy, with two gherkins sticking out of her mouth like walrus tusks, adds, “So much of it was redacted, I assumed it was a deposition.”

“Those are just a couple of surprises,” Sabrina says. “The rest of the week will be our usual fare.”

Wyn takes a hard chomp of carrot, the force of which rattles down my body. I can’t get a good breath without hundreds of the nerve endings along my rib cage and chest pressing into him, which means I’m barely getting any oxygen.

“Grocery Gladiators?” Kimmy squeals right as Cleo says hopefully, “Murder, She Read?”

“Yes and yes,” Sabrina says, confirming we will be doing two of our usual—and most diametrically opposite—Maine activities: a trip to the local bookstore (Cleo’s and my favorite) and a very ridiculous way of grocery shopping, which has been Parth and Kimmy’s great passion ever since they teamed up three years ago and started a “winning streak,” insomuch as one can “win” at grocery shopping.

Wyn and I used to debate whether Sabrina concocted the game of Grocery Gladiators because she got tired of how long our trips to the market were. There’s a heavenly bakery in one corner, and a whole local snacks section, and between the six of us, it’s like shopping with very bougie, somewhat drunk toddlers, one person wandering off every time the rest of us are ready to go.

“But tonight I figured we’d swim, do our usual cookout and all that,” Sabrina says. “I just want to bask in the togetherness.”

“To togetherness,” Parth cries, initiating the fifth toast of the day. As soon as Wyn removes his arm from around my shoulders, I scooch my chair sideways under the pretense of grabbing the open prosecco to refill my glass.

“To Grocery Gladiators,” Kimmy joins in.

To drinking your body weight in wine and hoping you wake up and realize this was all a dream, I think.

Across the table, Cleo’s looking at me thoughtfully, a little divot between her delicate brows. I force a smile and lift my flute in her direction. “To that one guy at Murder, She Read who still gives us the student discount.”

Cleo’s mouth quirks faintly, like she’s not fully convinced by my display, but she clinks her glass—water; Cleo gave up alcohol years ago because it irritated her stomach—to mine anyway. “May we always be so lucky, and so youthful.”

“Shoot, bottle’s empty,” Sabrina says from the end of the table.

I lurch to my feet before Wyn can volunteer. He starts to rise anyway, and I shove him back down in his chair. “You stay here and relax, honey,” I say, acidly sweet. “I’ll get the wine.”

“Thanks, Har,” Sab calls as I beeline for the back doors. “Door should be open!”

Another facet of Mr. Armas’s upgrade to the cottage: he had the old stone cellar converted to a top-of-the-line vault for his immense and immensely expensive wine collection. It’s password protected and everything, though Sabrina always leaves it open so any of us can run down and grab something.