Happy Place(48)

There’s a beat of silence as everyone considers.

“It’s a good idea,” Wyn says. Across the table, his eyes meet mine. His overgrown hair is damp from the rain, tucked behind his ears. So many of his details are slightly different, but my heart still sees him and whispers into my veins, You.

Hearts can be so stupid.

“I like it too,” Cleo says.

Parth shrugs. “I’m down.”

“Do we say what our goals are, or do we have to keep them secret?” Kimmy asks.

“Why would you have to keep it a secret?” I ask.

“So it comes true,” she says.

“It’s not a birthday wish,” Sabrina says.

“No, I like that.” Wyn’s eyes dart toward Kimmy. “It’s less pressure if it’s private.”

Parth nods. “So no one tells one another their goals until after we’ve met it.”

“You all love rules too much,” Kimmy says.

“This started with you, Kimberly Carmichael,” Sabrina reminds her.

“Lots of things start with me. That doesn’t make them good ideas.”

Cleo puts her hands on the tabletop and gyrates in another stunning approximation of Kimmy’s dance moves.

Sabrina narrows her eyes. “What am I looking at, and why do I feel like I had a nightmare about it last night?”





16





REAL LIFE

Wednesday


WHILE EVERYONE ELSE in town is packed into coffee shops and restaurants, sipping tea or eating clam chowder, the six of us brave the rain to tromp between candy stores and home decor boutiques filled with snarky hand towels about loving wine, our arms uselessly folded over our heads in lieu of umbrellas.

“Maybe we should go back to the house and chill,” Cleo suggests after one particularly loud crack of thunder and jarringly close bolt of lightning.

“What? No!” Sabrina cries.

Kimmy squints at the roiling sky. “I don’t think this rain’s going to let up.”

“Then we’ll go to a Roxy double feature,” Sabrina says.

“Do you even know what’s playing?” Cleo asks.

The Roxy has only two screens. At night, each is devoted to a new release, but in summer, the matinees are reserved for double features of movies set in Maine. Ninety percent of these are Stephen King adaptations, which works for Sabrina but is less than ideal for Cleo.

“Who cares what’s playing?” Sabrina says. “We always used to do this when we got rained out. It’s tradition.”

We follow her down the block toward the bored teen in the ticket booth out front.

Cleo eyes the marquee skeptically. “Salem’s Lot and Return to Salem’s Lot. Weren’t those miniseries?”

“Um, no,” Sabrina says. “Salem’s Lot was a two-part miniseries, and Return was a feature, and combined, they are glorious. You’re gonna love it.”

“I’m not sure I’m up for four hours of vampires?” Cleo says.

Kimmy pokes her ribs. “What if they glitter, though?”

“Oh, come on, Cleo,” Sabrina says. “Don’t be a wet blanket.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Cleo says.

Sabrina lifts her hands in supplication. “I’m just saying, this is the last time we’ll ever get to do one of these.”

I glance between them. We’re headed for a standoff. “Maybe you just come for the first movie,” I suggest.

“Miniseries,” Cleo reminds me.

“And then you can go to the Warm Cup and we’ll meet you after?”

Kimmy touches Cleo’s elbow. “I’ll go back to the house with you if you want, babe.”

Cleo’s delicate point of a chin lifts. “No, it’s okay. I don’t want to miss out. I’ll come to the first movie.”

Sabrina squeals, wheeling back to face the booth. “Tickets on me!”

At some point in the last thirty seconds, the attendant has donned a top hat, and it takes Sabrina a beat to remember what she’s even doing, face-to-face with this somber freckly teenager in Victorian headwear. “Six for the double feature?” she says.

“Yes, milady,” the teenager says.

On our way inside, Wyn hangs back. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Do what?” I ask.

“Find some crafty compromise to their disagreements. They’ll work it out on their own if you let them.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say.

His brows flick upward in amusement. “None?”

“Zero,” I say.

“They’re having a great trip,” he says. “Try not to worry.”

My stomach flips. As much as has changed between us, he still knows me a little too well. “I’m fine.”

We take up the whole first row of the tiny theater, and since it’s otherwise empty, we stretch our wet outer layers on the seats behind us to dry. I’m trying to find a way to sneak in between Sabrina and Cleo; I wind up at the end of the row, with no one to talk to but Wyn, who fumbles with his phone—angled pointedly away from me—until the house lights come down.

At the first minor jump scare, I fight the impulse to burrow into his side. It’s not helping that it’s freezing in here, and every time I unthinkingly put my arm on the armrest, it brushes his arm, which is scalding in comparison to the meat-locker temperature of the room at large.