Happy Place(36)

Now it’s my turn to stare at him in disbelief. He still wants absolution.

And what can I say? That I’m not happy? That I’ve tried dating someone else and it was the emotional equivalent of bingeing on saltines when all I wanted was a real meal? Or that there are whole parts of the city I avoid because they remind me of those first few months in California, when he still lived with me. That when I wake up too early to my screaming alarm, I still reach toward his side of the bed, like if I can hold on to him for a minute, it won’t be so hard to make it through another grueling day at the hospital, in a never-ending series of grueling days.

That I still wake from dreams of his head between my thighs, and reach for my phone whenever something particularly ridiculous happens in the cozy mystery I’m reading, only to remember I can’t tell him. That I spend more time trying not to think about him than actually thinking about anything. All that heady nostalgia and sweltering lust has become combustible, erupting into anger.

“Yes, Wyn,” I say. “I’m happy.”

He starts to reply. Overhead, a rapid series of beeps sounds, followed by the door bursting open and Sabrina’s voice: “HARRIET!? WYN?! ARE YOU OKAY?”

I call, “We’re fine.”

If he can be happy, surely I can be fine.





12





REAL LIFE

Tuesday


BEFORE DINNER, WYN “goes for a run.” I’m reasonably certain this is an excuse for him to use the outdoor shower by the guesthouse, so I take the opportunity to fume while I lather up in the shower in our bedroom. Afterward, I riffle through my assortment of Tshirts, tanks, jeans, and sundresses. Basically I packed a blob of white, black, and blue.

And then there’s the lone splash of red, which I’d thrown in more to please Sabrina than because I actually planned to wear it. She’d sent the dress to me on my last birthday, without even knowing my size—she’d always had an eye for that sort of thing—and I’d tentatively thought of it as my Getting Back Out There Dress, though in my few depressing attempts to Get Back Out There, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to wear it.

Now it strikes me more as the kind of too-short, too-tight, too-red dress you’d wear to the wedding of a man who jilted you, with plans to tip over his cake and set his tie on fire.

In brief, it’s perfect. I stuff myself into it, twist my hair into a clip, slip the one pair of hoops I brought through my ears, and grab my heels on my way out the door.

Downstairs, Sabrina’s watching the progress of our approaching cab on the phone while plying everyone with water. Well, everyone except Wyn, who isn’t in the kitchen.

“Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate,” she chants. “Tonight, we’re going full twenty-one-year-olds on spring break.”

Kimmy guffaws, her strawberry blond waves jouncing with the motion. “You all should be very glad you didn’t know me when we were twenty-one. Four Loko still had caffeine in it then.”

“I got great pictures of the body shots, by the way,” Parth says. “Those will be perfect for the photo wall.”

“Photo wall?” I repeat.

The back of my neck tingles in the second before I hear his voice: “For the wedding.”

I turn toward the patio door he’s stepped through, his hair damp and that one lock curled toward his brow.

He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, half tucked into slate-blue chinos, and the color combination brings out all the green in his eyes as they rove over what I now must rename my Vengeance Dress. He misses a half step in the process but recovers quickly, averting his eyes as he heads to the fridge and starts filling his water bottle.

I wonder if my cheeks are nearing the color of the skintight chiffon yet. It takes me a second to retrace the conversation to where we left off. “So what’s this about a photo wall for Saturday?” I manage. “Something I can help with?”

“No, it’s not for our wedding,” Sabrina says. “The photo wall is for yours.”

“Remember?” Parth says. “We got your parents’ contact info so we could get your baby pictures? We’ve been slowly accumulating a wall of humiliation for years.”

The flush in my face is downright itchy now. “This isn’t ringing any bells whatsoever.”

“You weren’t part of the conversation. You were TAing that semester,” Wyn says, without looking over.

Sabrina glances up from her phone and clocks the dress for the first time, her face lighting up. “Harry! Va-va-voom. I told you red was your color.”

I force a smile. “You were right. This has become my go-to Date Night Dress.”

The sound of water splatting against the floor draws all of our attention to the fridge. “Shit!” Wyn’s gaze snaps away from me like a whip to the water spilling out over his full water bottle onto the floor.

Cleo yelps as she lurches off her stool at the marble island, out of the water’s path. Her new mushroom book (or maybe her old one) goes flying out of her hand.

“Sorry,” Wyn says under his breath, grabbing a lobster-print tea towel off the dishwasher handle so Cleo can sop up some of the water that hit her clingy black midi dress and boots. In this outfit, she could easily be the gorgeous front woman of a famous nineties grunge band.

As Wyn stands from soaking up the rest of the water on the floor, Parth claps a hand on his shoulder. “You okay, man? You seem kind of out of it.”