Happy Place(26)

That exaggerated seesawing sensation rocks through me, only with the added benefit of there being a turbulent ocean of alcohol in my stomach.

There’s no right answer. Tell him he did the right thing, and he gets absolution. Tell him I’m not happy, and I’m admitting that even now, a part of me wants him. That he’s gone back to being my phantom limb, an unstoppable ache where something’s missing.

I’m saved by the bell. Except the bell is an air horn app at top volume, blasting through the hallway, followed by a muffled shriek—Kimmy—of “GROCERY. GLADIATORS. BITCHES!” Parth lays on the air horn again.

Wyn lumbers to his feet, his question forgotten, my answer avoided. “At least someone remembered to hydrate before bed.”





9





REAL LIFE

Tuesday


“I HAVE NEVER loved a grocery store,” I say, “like I love this grocery store.”

“I love all grocery stores.” Sabrina wheels our cart around an endcap toward the Crayola-bright produce section.

“Honestly, I have a hard time with grocery stores now,” Cleo says. “Once you start growing your own fruits and veggies, everything else pales in comparison.”

“Oh, is that so?” Sabrina pauses to feel a couple of mangoes. “I wouldn’t know.”

Something about the way she says it makes it clear it’s a barb. Or it at least suggests that, and then the way Cleo’s eyes flick up but don’t fully roll confirms it.

“I’ve told you,” Cleo says. “You can visit in the winter. Things are too busy now.” She shoots me a look. “Open invitation, Harry: if you and Wyn want to come up to the farm then too, we’d love to have you.”

I focus on checking a box of strawberries for mold. Because this adorable coastal market has been blessed by angels, there isn’t the tiniest bit of fuzz. I check three more boxes, all of them mold-free. “Seriously,” I say. “This is the best grocery store on the planet.”

“You like this grocery store because you don’t have to make any decisions because you’re always with us, and I’m good at making lists,” Sabrina says. “And you hate every other grocery store because I’m not there to meal plan for you. If you moved back in with us, we could fix that.” She turns to Cleo. “And Parth and I are amazing houseguests, by the way. We always bring chocolate babka from Zabar’s.”

She says it flatly, in her unbothered Sabrina way, but I can tell by Cleo’s expression that the little jabs are landing with some force. “We didn’t cancel your visit because we think you’re bad houseguests,” she says. “Things just got hectic.”

Before Sabrina can reply to that, I jump in: “Well, I’m so glad you and Kim could still make the trip work. That means a lot.”

Cleo’s mouth softens into a smile. “I’m glad too.” She brushes a hand over Sabrina’s elbow. “I mean, how often do two of your best friends get married?”

Sabrina grins now too, irritation apparently forgotten. “Well, in this case, at least twice, since we’ll still have to do a big family wedding next year. Plus, if Parth has his way, there will probably be three or four more sprinkled in there somewhere.”

“Well, of course,” I say. “You’ve got to make sure it sticks.”

From the far end of the shop, I can hear Kimmy barking orders at Wyn and Parth like she’s a musher. Their strategy in this pseudo-game is always to go as fast as possible, which means they end up having to circle the whole store like three times, while Cleo, Sabrina, and I lazily meander, testing fruit and sorting through the impressive imported cheese fridge. There are usually even a couple of Cleo’s favorite nut cheeses.

The game’s gotten more elaborate over the years. We are now to the point where Sabrina makes the list, cuts it into tiny oneline strips, folds the strips, puts them in a bowl, and has each of us take turns pulling random grocery items out until both “teams” have an even number.

Another reason I know this is not a real game: Sabrina clearly does not give one single shit about winning, and she is always hypercompetitive.

“Hold on a sec.” Cleo ducks down the row of fridges and returns with three large coconut waters. She drops two into our cart and pushes the other at me. “You’re green.”

Sabrina examines me. “More like chartreuse.”

A flash of memory: Parth shoving green drinks with paper umbrellas into our sweaty hands as we danced around the patio.

I wince. “Don’t say that word.”

Sabrina cackles. “What about puce?”

“Puce is more like a dark red,” Cleo puts in helpfully.

“Like if one were to puke up red wine?” Sabrina asks.

I grab a loose Maine blueberry and throw it at her. At the front of the store, someone is whooping. “We Are the Champions” starts to play over phone speakers.

“Wow,” Sabrina says, tossing a couple of blueberries into her mouth. “They win again. Who would’ve thought?”

“How is Kimmy even alive,” I ask, “let alone whooping and cheering?”

“I don’t know, dude. She’s superhuman,” Cleo says. “Plus, she woke me up to tell me about the body shots, and I took the opportunity to pour three gallons of water into her mouth.” Her brow arches. “Kind of surprised Wyn didn’t think to do that for you. He was totally sober when I went to bed.”