Happy Place(18)

“Oh, it’s going to mess up something,” he growls.

“Talk to Parth,” I say. “If you leave that conversation feeling good about blowing up this week, then I can’t stop you. But you’re not going to.”

He sighs. “This is so unbelievably messed up.”

“It’s certainly not ideal,” I say, parroting his phrasing from earlier.

His eyes flash. “Hilarious.”

“I thought so.” I lift my chin like I am not at all intimidated by his closeness. Like there definitely aren’t hundreds of hornets batting around in my chest trying to get to him.

Our glares hold for several seconds. I’m not sure he’s ever glared at me. As a categorically conflict-averse person, I’m surprised how powerful the glare makes me feel. I’m finally getting a rise out of him, getting past that granite facade he used to shut me out.

“Fine,” he says. “Then I guess we have to do this.” He catches my hand. My whole body feels like it’s made of live wires, even before I register the cool white-gold loop slipping over my finger.

I jerk back before he can get the ring on. He lets me, but again, the towel rack doesn’t.

“Someone’s going to notice if you’re not wearing it,” he says.

“They haven’t so far,” I say.

“It’s only been a couple of hours,” he says. “And Kimmy was dancing and singing into a wooden spoon to that one Crash Test Dummies song for the vast majority of that. People were busy.”

“So we commandeer the playlist,” I say. “I can easily think of at least twenty-six songs that will put Kimmy into show mode.”

Wyn’s eyebrow arches. It tugs on his mouth, revealing a sliver of glow-in-the-dark smile. That snow globe feeling hits, where up is down and down is up and everything is either glitter or corn syrup.

“Why do you even have this?” I demand.

“Because,” he says, “I knew I was going to see you, and it’s yours.”

“I gave it back,” I remind him.

“Well aware of that,” he says. “Now are you going to put it on, or should we go tell them it’s over now?”

I shove my hand out, palm up. I’m sure as hell not letting him slide my old engagement ring onto my finger.

He hesitates, like he’s debating saying something, then sets it in my palm. I put it on and hold my hand up. “Happy?”

He laughs, shakes his head, and starts to leave. He turns back, leaning into the door. “How long should we say it’s been? Since we last saw each other, if anyone asks.”

“They won’t ask,” I say.

My vision’s adjusted to the dark enough that I can see, in detail, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Why not?”

“Because it’s a boring question.”

“I don’t think it’s a boring question,” he says. “I’m desperate to know the answer. I’m on pins and needles, Harriet.”

I roll my eyes. “A month.”

His eyes close for a moment. If I knew they would stay closed, I wouldn’t be able to help myself: I’d trace a finger down his nose, around the curve of his mouth, not touching him but relishing in the almost. I hate how entangled we still feel on a quantum level. Like my body will never stop trying to find its way back to his.

His eyes slit open. “Did I come to San Francisco, or did you come to Montana?”

I snort.

His eyes flash.

“I haven’t had time to do laundry in the last month,” I say. “I definitely didn’t fly to Montana and walk around a ranch in a ten-gallon hat.”

Somberly, he asks, “How many pairs of underwear do you own?”

“Now, that I’m sure no one will ask you,” I say.

“You haven’t done laundry in a month,” he replies. “I’m just doing that math, Harriet.”

“Well, if I run out, at least Parth’s packing list for you has me covered.”

“And if you visited me,” he says, “no part of your visit would have been me marching you around a ranch in a ten-gallon hat. What exactly do you think I do all day?”

“Furniture repair,” I say with a shrug. “Rodeo clowning. Maybe that one senior water aerobics class Gloria was always trying to get us to go to when we used to visit.”

Date beautiful women, breathe in the Montana air, and feel whole-body relief to have left San Francisco, and me, behind.

“How is Gloria?” I ask.

Wyn’s head falls back against the door. “Good.” He doesn’t go on.

It stings like he meant for it to, this reminder that I’m not entitled to any more information about his mother, his whole family, than this one-word reply.

Then his face softens, mouth quirking. “I did try the water aerobics class with her.”

“Yeah, right.”

He sets a hand across his heart. “I swear.”

My snort of laughter catches me off guard. Even stranger, it doesn’t stop after one, instead devolving until it’s like popcorn is exploding through my chest, until I feel—almost—like I’m crying instead of laughing.

All the while Wyn stands there, leaned against the door, watching me, bemused. “Are you quite finished, Harriet?”