Happy Place(74)

It takes a few months to find my footing at the hospital. Or hospitals, rather. They have us bounce around, get experience in a lot of different environments. I’d thrived in medical school, like I’d always thrived in college and high school, but this is different. Things move too quickly, and I’m always trying to catch up. My feet and knees hurt from standing all day, and my brain can’t seem to store a map of any one hospital floor without blending it into another, so I’m always the tiniest bit late. Four weeks in, a fourth-year named Taye, with big dark curls and a model-esque stature, catches me by the shoulders as I’m hurrying past. “Breathe for a second,” she says. “Rushing makes you clumsy, and we can’t afford to be clumsy.”

I nod my understanding, but the conviction is somewhat dampened when I immediately knock a jar of pens off the reception desk as we’re parting ways.

Wyn’s the one who finds the wedding venue: a renovated warehouse overlooking the bay, with an opening this coming winter. “If you like it,” I say, “I like it.”

We put down the deposit. In the month that follows, though, we make little progress on the rest of the plan. There are too many decisions to be made, and everything costs too much, and despite his business degree, Wyn’s struggling to find work that pays above minimum wage.

“I’m terrible at interviews,” he says late one night, rubbing the stress from his face after yet another we’ve-decided-to-go-in-a-different-direction email.

“Only because you talk yourself down,” I promise, climbing into his lap, wreathing my arms around his neck. “Next time you’re in one, just answer every question like you’re answering for me.”

He nods somberly. “So when they ask for my best qualities, I tell them I’m amazing in bed.”

I snort into his neck, inhale his scent. “I mean, it worked for me getting my residency.”

He smooths my hair back, kisses the corner of my mouth.

“Answer how the people who love you would answer for you, Wyn,” I say.

He keeps trying. We keep trying.

He finds another bookstore job, but it’s barely over minimum wage, not enough to cover the rest of the rent, so after a couple more weeks, he takes another part-time gig, doing upholstery repair.

Then one morning, I come home from a graveyard shift and find him sitting at the table, still in his clothes from the day before, his phone on the ground with a crack through its screen.

“Wyn?” I say, heart in my throat.

He looks at me and breaks, descends into sobs. I go to him, kneel on the floor, take his weight as he slumps into me, his forehead against my shoulder, his hands wringing my scrubs so hard I think they might tear.

It takes him a long time to get out the words.

To tell me that Hank is gone.





27





REAL LIFE

Friday


“I THINK WE should give you a proper wedding tomorrow,” I announce over breakfast.

“Oh, thank god, someone said it,” Kimmy says, dropping her spoon into her acai bowl.

Parth casts a quick glance over at Sabrina, who dusts her hands off on her cloth napkin.

We’re sitting at a white wrought iron table in the Bluebell Inn’s overgrown garden, tucked up in one of the hills that overlook the harbor. Our server stops by to drop off fresh cappuccinos, then moves off to another table.

“We don’t need anything fancy,” Sabrina says. “This, the six of us, is all that matters.”

“I’m not saying fancy,” I reply. Lying awake, late into the night, it became apparent that the only way to make it through these last two days without crumbling was to give my brain something else to focus on. “I’m just saying, like, a cake. A photographer. Maybe something old, new, and blue, or whatever the saying is?”

Wyn softly snorts beside me.

“Could be nice,” Parth says, eyeing Sabrina again.

“It’s tomorrow,” she reminds me.

“It would only take a few hours,” Cleo says.

“We can split up tasks and knock it all out,” I add. A completable chore and alone time: the perfect combo.

Sabrina’s head tilts as she sips the foam from her cappuccino. “Okay.” She nods to herself. “Okay, sure. You and Wyn handle the cake.”

I balk. “Wouldn’t it be faster if we all divided up? Covered twice as much ground?”

“No, it would be chaotic. We’d end up with six cakes.”

“Probably why Harriet suggested it,” Wyn says.

I ignore him, regroup, and face Sabrina again. “If we’re teaming up, then you and I should be on cake duty. I want to be sure I get something you like.”

Her head slightly cocks, and something flits behind her eyes.

She and I have barely had a second alone together since the ride from the airport, and for the first time, I’m wondering if that’s because I’ve been afraid she’d find Wyn and me out or if she’s been avoiding me.

She gives a little shake of her head. “I don’t care about the cake. If I care about absolutely anything other than the ceremony, it’s the bachelorette-slash-bachelor party, so I’ll figure that out.”

“I want to plan that,” Parth says.

“Duh,” she says. “We’ll do it together, and Cleo and Kim can try to find a photographer, if they’re up for it.”