Happy Place(92)

When I tell him so, he flips us over one more time, my arms pinned above my head. Sweat slicks our skin as we become feverish, wild. I bow up under him, meeting his rhythm, trying not to come apart, not yet. I say his name like it’s a spell.

Or a goodbye and I love you, a promise.

I just know my heart agrees: You, you, you.



* * *



? ? ?

WE LIE IN a sweaty heap, Wyn toying with one of my curls, his lungs lifting and lowering me like a boat on a tide. “Do you forgive them?” I whisper.

“Honestly,” he says, “I was having trouble being mad. I know they shouldn’t have lied, but . . . I don’t know. It’s felt worth it. To be here. To see you.”

“To me too,” I whisper, holding him a little tighter. Then, after another minute: “Do you think they’ll forgive us?”

“Yes,” he says.

“You didn’t think about it,” I chide.

“I didn’t need to,” he says.

I lift up to peer into his eyes. “How are you so sure?”

“More Hank wisdom,” he says. “Love means constantly saying you’re sorry, and then doing better.”

I smile, let my fingers play across Wyn’s chest. “He did okay with you, Wyn Connor. He’d be proud.”

He wraps his arms tight around me. “I’m glad you think so.”

Within minutes, I’m asleep, dreaming of a sunlit pine forest, the warm wood of a table beneath me, the smell of clove everywhere. And I know this place, even if I can’t name it. I know that I’m safe, that I belong.





33





REAL LIFE

Saturday


WYN LEFT THE drapes and windows open last night, and now the room is cold and bright, salt wafting in on the breeze, and bringing with it the distant squawk of herring gulls. My body feels like melted ice cream, in the best way. Bits of last night glance over my mind: hands fisting into bedding and hair and skin, ragged whispers and pleas.

And then everything that came before.

The fight. The rest of the week. Everything with Wyn.

That today is the last day of our trip.

The pleasant soreness gives way. Now I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus, then backed over and hit one more time at an angle. Wyn is fast asleep, one arm still draped over my ribs and one corner of his mouth lifted. My chest aches at the sight.

Usually, he’s a back sleeper. We used to fall asleep curled up like this, but we’d never get any rest until he shifted onto his back. If we were fitted together like spoons, he’d always start moving restlessly in his sleep, and we’d find our way to each other in a heady, lust-crazed blur. Which was great until the morning, when we both had to get up for work or school.

He’s made it through the whole night beside me, but the whole night, for us, was no more than a couple of hours.

He doesn’t so much as stir as I slide out from under him. He always looks younger when he’s asleep. I wonder if that’s some evolutionary trait: What animal could stand attacking someone who looks so peaceful and innocent?

Okay, I could, but the nice thing would be to let him sleep.

I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater and sneak out of the room, making my way through the silent house. As eager as I am to fix what happened last night, everyone’s either still asleep or in hiding.

After a couple of minutes of aimlessly wandering the kitchen, I decide to walk into town and get everyone drinks from the Warm Cup as a peace offering.

I’ve often thought that the world saves its very best weather for days when you feel like everything’s gone wrong, and today is no different. It’s gloriously sunny, with a refreshing breeze. When the sun reaches its high point, Knott’s Harbor will no doubt be sweltering. Or sweltering for the midcoast anyway, which is to say extremely comfortable when compared to the swampy summers of southern Indiana or the burning-under-a-microscope heat of July in New York City.

A midcoast summer day is the exact day you pine for in the dead of winter.

Still, after ten minutes of following the curving road, past overflowing rhododendron bushes and graying wood-shingled inns being scraped and repainted for the hundredth time, I’m wishing I’d put a tank top on under my sweater.

I’ll have to find a cab back, easier said than done in a tiny village like this. Usually, Sabrina schedules our transportation, and I’m not sure how far ahead she has to do it.

If I waited on all of you, this friendship would already be over, she said. She’s not entirely wrong. Friendship with Sabrina, with this whole group, has always felt like a current I could toss myself bodily into. And that’s what I’m most used to: coasting along on other people’s whims and feelings.

It had never occurred to me that that could be read as apathy. That they might think I just don’t care. Guilt twinges through me.

The cracked sidewalk turns and deposits me in town in front of the coffee shop. Under the faded awning over its walk-up window, collecting a recycled drink carrier, is Cleo.

She stiffens at the sight of me, slowly lifts one hand.

I do the same.

For a moment, neither of us moves. Then the barista calls out, “Doug!” and the only other waiting customer nudges Cleo aside to pick up an order.

She ambles toward me with her carrier, and I meet her halfway, in front of the cheerily painted bench in front of the Italian restaurant. In between rows of cutesy red cartoon lobsters, in cutesy font, are the words FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY!!!