Happy Place(55)

The idea of being one of Gloria’s family members, of being groundbreakingly special, pricks at my heart.

“It’s been weirdly fun, living with her,” he says.

“Nothing weird about it,” I say. “Gloria’s a blast.”

He smiles to himself. “It’s just funny. I spent all those years convincing myself I needed to get away. I saw my sisters finding their things and talking about leaving, and my parents being so proud of how they were going to make something of themselves, chart their own path or whatever. And I thought I needed to do that too.”

I think back all those years to the day the five of us, sans Kimmy, lay on the Armases’ dock, charting our alternative paths, how even then, Wyn used his hypothetical other life to go back to the one he’d left behind. A part of him knew he belonged there.

Once I went home with him for the first time, met Hank and Gloria and Lou and Michael, saw the woodshop and the childhood bedroom filled with proof of a happy, love-filled childhood, a part of me knew he belonged there too.

I tried to hold on to him anyway. Watched, those months in San Francisco, as the walls closed in around him—and it killed me to see him so broken, so hunted, but I hadn’t been brave enough to cut him loose. Maybe that was part of the anger that burned in me too: disappointment that I hadn’t loved him well enough to make him happy nor well enough to let him go.

“Anyway,” he says, “if someone had told me, at twenty-two, that I’d end up living in my childhood bedroom and doing crosswords with my mom over breakfast every morning, I would have believed them, but I’d be shocked to hear I’m actually happy in this scenario.”

“You do crosswords?” I say. “You never wanted to do crosswords when we lived together. I used to try to get you to, every time it rained.”

“And I always said yes,” he says.

“And we never finished them,” I say.

“Harriet.” His eyes settle on mine, a knowing glint in them. “That’s because I could never sit still that long across from you without touching you.”

Blood rises to my cheeks and chest, thrums down into my thighs.

Without my realizing it, we’ve moved closer together. Maybe it’s like Cleo’s Bernie’s-induced hangover: a Pavlovian response that will always draw us together.

I say, “And here I thought it was the crosswords themselves getting you riled up.”

“As it turns out,” he replies, “it’s not writing letters in tiny boxes that gets me riled up.”

“That’s good,” I manage. “That would make breakfast with Gloria pretty awkward.”

The fan blows a wisp of hair across my face, and he catches it, twisting it between his calloused fingertips. My heart pounds, my every cell tugging toward him.

Behind us, the door to the theater swings open. Our friends stream out in a flurry of chatter and laughter. Intermission has begun.

I start toward them, but Wyn catches my wrist.

“I like the bowl,” he says. “She showed me a picture. I thought it was beautiful.”





19





REAL LIFE

Wednesday


“I THOUGHT YOU weren’t staying for the second movie,” I whisper to Cleo as we settle back into our seats. This time, Wyn and I are in the middle, and I can’t help but wonder if Sabrina nudged us into this position so we wouldn’t run out again.

Cleo shrugs. “This clearly means a lot to Sab. Plus, I don’t want her hanging it over me that I left early.”

“Pssst.” Kimmy leans forward around Cleo. She holds a plastic sandwich bag out to me.

I squint at the contents. “Are you trying to sell me drugs?”

“Of course not,” she says. “I’m trying to give you drugs.” She swings the little red gummy bears in front of Cleo’s face and tosses them into my lap.

“You are,” I say, “so discreet.”

“I don’t have to be discreet,” she says. “It’s legal here.”

Wyn leans in. “Is Kimmy selling drugs?”

“Want some?” she asks.

Sabrina shushes us, eyes glued to the screen as she shovels popcorn into her mouth.

Wyn looks at me, then back to Kimmy. “If Harriet’s in, I am.”

“How strong are they?” I whisper.

Kimmy shrugs. “Not too strong.”

“Not too strong for you or not too strong for me?” I say.

“Let’s put it this way,” she says. “You’ll have a great time, but you won’t make me call the hospital and ask them if you’re going to die. Again.”

What the hell. When in Rome.

Each of us takes one. We tap them together in a toast before throwing them back.

“Hey,” Sabrina says at full volume, “are you guys doing drugs down there?”

“We’re taking tiny weed gummies,” I say.

“Got any more?” Sabrina asks. “I haven’t gotten high in forever.”

Kimmy passes the bag down the line. Parth and Sabrina each take one. Cleo waves off the offer. “I don’t smoke anymore, really.”

“And I’m cutting back too,” Kimmy says. “So whatever we don’t finish this week, you all can fight over.”