Happy Place(68)

But somehow he’s convincingly enthusiastic about everything: the sweet-tart-flavored Ohio Riesling, the very tame stroganoff, and even the conversation.

He tells my family how he and I met, as if they asked, and about our favorite park back in the city. He talks about how much we’ve missed Cleo since we last visited her up near her new farming job north of Montreal.

I probably did tell them about Cleo’s international farming adventure at some point, but they’ve never met my friends, so I doubt they remember who Cleo is. Still, they nod along.

“And you’re a cosmetologist, right?” Wyn asks Eloise, who stares at him for a second like she’s trying to remember who he is and how either of them got here.

“That’s right.”

“Well, she’s in cosmetology school,” Mom says.

Eloise picks her fork up and goes back to eating.

“She’s really good,” I say. “When I was in high school, she always did my makeup for dances.” Those were some of the few sisterly moments to pass between us. We’d barely speak, but they were nice memories all the same, having her tip my chin back and forth as she dusted bronzer on my cheeks and taught me how to use shadow to make my small almond eyes pop.

It was the only time I ever really felt like I had a sister.

“This girl was smart as they come,” Dad says, jerking his noodle-laced fork in Eloise’s direction. “Even skipped the third grade. Wanted to be an astronaut, same as I did when I was a kid. But she fell in with the wrong crowd in high school.”

Eloise doesn’t even roll her eyes. She is perfectly unflappable as she drags her steak knife through her stroganoff and stuffs another bite in her mouth. My hairline is sweating.

“I was never good at school,” Wyn says. “And I can’t blame the crowd, because there were like forty people in my grade.”

“But you got into Mattingly,” Mom says. “You’re clearly very intelligent.”

“He is,” I say, right as he says, “I was a student athlete.”

“Well, to get into medical school, anyway,” Dad says.

I full-body wince, but Wyn squeezes my knee reassuringly. “I’m actually not a med student,” he says.

“He’s in law school, Phil,” Mom says, irritable.

“That’s Sabrina and Parth,” I say. “Wyn works at the bookstore and does furniture repair.” You know, I think, the one I’m engaged to. But I think it with a smile that hopefully says, No big deal that you don’t remember the slightest thing about the love of my life.

“Oh.” Mom tries to smile pleasantly. She and my dad exchange the briefest of looks, allies for a second.

“Have you thought about the wedding at all?” Eloise asks.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s way too early for that,” Mom says. “Harriet’s still got a couple of years of medical school. And then she’ll have to do a long residency.”

Anxiety gurgles through my gut. “We’re figuring it out.”

Under the table, Wyn’s hand finds mine, and he laces our fingers together. He drags the pad of his thumb over the callus where I burnt my index finger with Sabrina and Cleo on our first trip to the cottage. I got you.

“We’re not in a rush,” Wyn says. “I don’t want to do anything that gets in the way of Harriet’s career.”

It’s the perfect answer for my parents. My chest relaxes at my mom’s pleased smile. Eloise downs her glass of wine and sets her napkin on the table. “I should get going,” she says. “I’ve got work early in the morning.”

“Who gets their makeup done early in the morning?” Mom asks, like it’s an entirely innocent question and not a thinly veiled expression of two decades’ worth of disappointment.

“Brides.” Eloise pulls her denim jacket off the back of her chair. “Like Harriet.”

Mom starts to stand. “At least let me put some leftovers together for you.”

Eloise holds her off, insists she’s too busy the next couple of days and won’t get around to eating them, and Mom sags a little but relents. After quick waves and nice to meet yous, Eloise sees herself out.

“More wine?” Mom says.

We have another glass, sitting around the cleared table. Some of the awkwardness and tension fades as we sip, largely because Wyn brings up the research position I’ve scored for the summer, how proud he is of me.

“You know,” Dad says, “we never had to worry about Harriet. Never even had a rebellious phase.”

“Never got a detention,” Mom says, “had perfect grades, got plenty of scholarships. No matter how stressful anything else was, we always knew Harriet was fine.”

Wyn gives me a look I can’t read, a tenderness around his mouth but concern in his brow.

He’s good at getting them talking about themselves too: Mom talks about her receptionist job at the dentist’s office—“Of course it’s not brain surgery,” she says brightly, “but it’s fast-paced work, and it keeps me busy; I don’t do well with boredom”—and Dad tells Wyn about teaching eighth-grade science.

“It wasn’t the plan,” Dad says, “but it’s all been worth it. Our girl Harriet is going to change the world.”