Happy Place(77)

Wyn smiles faintly. “When I left that job and went home, I was pretty sure I was done even trying. Figured I’d stick with the repairs.”

“What made you change your mind?”

He eases onto the hot metal of the hood beside me. “It’s hard to explain.”

We’re back to the push and pull, the little drips of him and then the droughts that follow.

I’ve never known how to take him in small doses. One taste only ever makes the thirst worse.

“Well, I’m proud of you,” I say thickly, folding my arms, barricading myself from him the same way he’s done to me.

His eyes return to mine. “I could make you one, if you want.”

“A table?” I ask. He nods. “I don’t have that kind of money, Wyn.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I couldn’t take something like that for free,” I say.

“It’s going really well, Harriet,” he says. “And I hardly have any expenses right now—maybe you’ve heard: I live with my mom?”

I laugh. “I think I remember reading that on TMZ.”

He touches my hand against the hood, and god help me, I turn my palm up to his. I need to hold on to him right now, need to feel the calluses I’ve memorized on his palm.

“I would love to make you one,” he murmurs. “I’ve got time, and I don’t need money.”

Reading my expression, Wyn says, “Or if you don’t want one . . .”

“It’s not that.” I shake my head. “It’s amazing. Seeing you like this. So happy.”

He studies me for a beat before dropping his gaze on a nod. “I am. I’m really happy.”

Now my chest is folding over on itself. “I’m so glad.”

“You too, right?” He matches my gaze.

That seesaw feeling rocks through me. “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

“Good,” he says softly.

“Why was Gloria so worried about you telling me this?” I ask.

“Because she thinks we’re still together,” he says, his gaze dark and steady. “She thinks you’re still waiting for me to come back.”

Back to San Francisco.

Back to me.

I’m not waiting. I’ve known for months he wouldn’t be coming back.

So why does hearing it hurt so much?

My phone chimes, and I break eye contact, blinking rapidly as I pull it out, read the new message. “Sabrina,” I tell him thickly, sliding off the hood.

His mouth hitches, an unconvincing quarter smile. “Looks like our time’s up.”

It already was, I think. But the pain, it still feels fresh.





28





DARK PLACE

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA


AFTER HANK’S DEATH, Wyn insists we don’t have to postpone. He says we shouldn’t lose the venue or the deposit money. But he’s barely eating, hardly sleeping.

“It will be easier this way,” I tell him. “I’ll have more time to adjust to the residency, and then we can figure everything else out.”

Months go by, and his grief doesn’t abate. Mine hovers close too, always waiting to trip me up. Everything still makes me think of Hank, of what Gloria must be feeling, what Wyn must be keeping inside.

Something as innocent as a car commercial can split me open. I start taking long showers so I can let it all out without piling my pain onto his. Wyn starts taking long runs to burn it all off.

We don’t paint the apartment. One weekend he offers, but between his two jobs, it’s his one day off, and he looks so tired.

“We’ll get to it eventually,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, grabbing me by the hips, pulling me toward where he sits on the couch, burrowing his face into my stomach.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I promise.

“I want to be better for you,” he says.

“Stop,” I whisper. “I don’t need that. I don’t need anything from you. I’m okay.”

I’m not. I live in a state of terror that he won’t ever come back to himself. That I’ve taken him from his friends and a job he liked and his family, and now I can’t even give him the time he needs.

And then there’s the loss of Hank, the dad of my dreams, and the guilt I feel for thinking that, after everything my own father gave up to give me this life.

The sacrifices he’s made, the jobs he’s hated and worked anyway, every bit of proof of his love. But he’s never been a soft man. He’s only accessible to a point.

The last time we visited the Connors before Hank’s death, Wyn’s father cried from happiness when we got there. As we were getting ready for bed that night, he gave me a tight hug and said, Sleep well, love you so much, kiddo, and afterward I’d shut myself in the bathroom and run the water while I cried for reasons I didn’t entirely understand.

More homesickness, I guess. That lights-on-in-an-unfamiliar-kitchen pang.

Love you so much, kiddo had been such a constant refrain of Wyn’s childhood that he and his sisters had all gotten it tattooed in Hank’s handwriting when we went to Montana for the funeral. They said I could too, but it didn’t seem fair. Hank didn’t belong to me. Now he never will.