Funny Story

by Emily Henry

Petra is also a stoner without a college degree, but I guess it’s different when you’re a perfect ten with a picturesque family and well-padded bank account. Then you’re not a stoner; you’re a free spirit.

and she once told me she “doesn’t mind confrontation” in a tone that made me wonder if maybe we were already in one.

My first shift working alongside her, a middle-aged guy with a wad of dip in his cheek walked up, stared at her boobs, and said, “I’ve always had a thing for exotic girls.” Without even looking up from her computer, Ashleigh replied, “That’s inappropriate, and if you speak to me like that again, we’ll have to ban you. Would it be helpful if I printed you some literature about sexual harassment?”

All that to say, I admire and fear her in equal measure.

In the corner of my eye, a sudden movement surprises me so badly I yelp and slosh half my glass onto the rug. But it’s just Miles. Lying face down on the couch. He groans without so much as lifting his face out of the squashy cushion.

“You looked dead,” I tell him, moving closer. He grumbles something. “What?” I ask.

“I said I wish,” he...

Miles sits up. “Oh, it’s real. You got one too.”

“I work at a winery, Daphne,” he says. “Since when?” I say, disbelieving. “For the last seven years,” he says. “What did you think I did?”

The kind that’s disarming enough that you don’t feel nervous talking to him, or like you need to show your best angle, until—wham! Suddenly, he’s smiling at you with his messy hair and impish smirk, and you realize his hotness has been boiling around you so slowly you missed it.

“What realm?” “Sex Realm,” I say. “Do you lie there and stare at the ceiling in silence?” he asks.

“I just make utterly unblinking eye contact like any respectable woman.” “See?” he says, gesturing for me to take the stairs ahead of him. “Not boring. Haunting, maybe. But not boring.”

I squint after him, confused. “Doesn’t he usually have hair?” Miles bursts into not-at-all-quiet laughter. I smush my hands over his mouth to shut him up. “You thought that hair was real?” he asks.

“Maybe we should date,” Miles says. I choke. He watches me coughing, an impish grin forming on his impish mouth.

Miles’s face as I enunciated as clearly as I could manage: It’s going to get easier. This time next year, you won’t even remember her name. If we keep drinking like this, he replied, I’m not sure I’ll even remember my name.

“A coworker and I are going to stop by Cherry Hill tonight,” I tell Miles from the doorway as he’s brushing his teeth in our tiny, pink-tiled bathroom. He meets my eyes in the mirror, toothpaste foam spilling out of his mouth. “Why did you say it like that?” he asks. “Like what?” “Menacingly.” He spits into the sink and knocks the faucet on. “Like, Me and my friend are gonna pay you a little visit, and we might have a baseball bat with us.” “Because me and my friend are going to pay you a visit,” I say, “and we might have a baseball bat with us.”

Miles slides his forearms across the glossy wooden bar. “Well, well, well,” he says, just loud enough to be heard over the room’s ambient noise. “If it isn’t my adoring girlfriend.”

“That’s no problem,” Miles says, pouring a taste of white wine for each of us. “All we have to do is get married, and then stay together until they split up. And if they have kids, just have one more than them. If they get a dog, we get a cuter dog. If they buy a new house, we get a mansion.” “A perfect plan,” I say. “Why didn’t I think of it?”

In the corner, Ashleigh and Greg-Craig (can’t be sure which one he introduced himself as) are fully making out. They went over there to exchange numbers, roughly six minutes ago.

“So,” Miles says, “Craig’s friend wasn’t up to your standards?” I’m embarrassed to realize Miles witnessed my painful attempt at conversation with Craig’s wingman, a guy in a V-neck so deep I caught a flash of belly button. “I wasn’t up to his standards,” I say. “He got a pretty urgent work-related text and excused himself. Then I went to the bathroom, and when I passed him, he was playing solitaire on his phone at the far side of the bar.”

He holds the door open for me. “What about milkshakes?” “What about them?” I say. “Are you in the mood for one,” he says. “Because I’ve been thinking about Big Louie’s all night.” “Who’s Big Louise,” I say, stepping out into the still night, “and does she know how much you think about her?”

The country road has reached a four-way stop, and he essentially pulls over to look at me. “Daphne.” “Such an air of disappointment. Every time you say my name.” “Was Peter keeping you locked inside a bunker?” he says. “Just tell me about these rocks, Miles.”

“You know what we should do?” “I don’t want to sob to Bridget Jones together,” I say. “At most, it was a slow trickle of tears,” he objects.

Miles ducks his head to peer into my eyes, a funny grin quirking his mouth. “Do you want to get into the car and listen to Adele?”

Miles pulls the checkered paper fry trays out and sets them atop the flattened bag. I catch him watching me as I take my first bite. “What,” I say, mouth full. One shoulder lifts in tandem with the corner of his mouth. “Just waiting to see if you moan again.” My face heats as I bite into a jalapeño. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “The sound you made when you tried the milkshake,” he says. “I want to know if the fries live up to that.” “Honestly,” I say, “my mouth is on fire right now.” He grabs my milkshake and lifts it toward me. I lean over the straw and take a slurp. “Better?” he asks.

“Mid-August,” I confirm. After a moment, he says, “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to be your tour guide.” “I’m not doing acid with you, Miles,” I say.

“Yeah, well,” I say, “I thought about taking a video of myself giving you a lap dance, but I don’t have anything to mount your phone on, so this was the next best thing.” “I will happily go back into the woods, find some sticks, and build you a tripod, Daphne,” he says.

Harvey harrumphs, pushes his gold wire-frame glasses up his nose. “It’s a library, Daphne. If you can’t be a human here, where can you?”

“If that impressed you, you should see me do the old woman who lives in a shoe,” I say. “I’ll clear my Saturdays,” he says. “I was kidding,” I say. He grins. “Not me.” I gesture toward the stacks. “Can I help you find something?” “I was hoping you could spell out every word of a love poem to me,” he deadpans. “That guy already called today,” Ashleigh pipes up from the reference desk. “Yeah, I’ve hit my limit on daily X-rated flower metaphors, so that’s the one thing I can’t help you with,” I tell him.

“So where are we going,” I ask. “Shopping.” “Really?” I turn toward him, the wind whipping my hair across my face. I catch a fistful and push it out of my eyes, pinning it to my forehead. “Are we doing a makeover montage?” He looks down at himself. “Are you trying to tell me something here?” “I mean, when you showed up at Story Hour yesterday, I caught Mrs. Dekuyper looking between you and a Big Bad Wolf picture book, like she was trying to spot the difference.”

“And if I needed to take out a hit on someone,” I say. “Gill from MEATLOCKER,” he answers, not missing a beat.

“Aren’t you going to try one?” “Is this some kind of kink for you?” I say.

“You know what, Peter,” I say, “thank you for pulling me aside today.” His face brightens, relief flooding his features. “It’s always nice to be reminded that your ex really was as big of an asshat as you remember him being.”

With that, I turn and power walk across the brilliantly sunlit parking lot to the guy slouched against the truck, the driver’s-side door hanging open, waiting for him. “You okay?” Miles asks, right as I pitch myself into his arms, wrapping mine around his neck. His brows shoot up in amused surprise. “Is he looking?” I whisper. Miles nods. “Can I kiss you?” A half-amused, half-scandalized smile overtakes his face. “Okay.” So I lean into him and lift my chin, and he ducks his forehead, and we have one of the top five worst kisses of my life, junior high included. The problem is, I go in way too hot, whereas he’s aiming for a chaste teenage-actors-doing-a-high-school-play kind of thing, so basically I end up biting his entire mouth, which makes him laugh into mine, which in turn makes me laugh, only by then, he’s adjusted his approach to match mine, and the laugh dies in the back of my throat as he grips my hip in one hand, my jaw in the other, and kisses me for real. Rough, impatient, but not clumsy

His mouth is still cool from the lemonade, his breath tinged with hints of lavender, and his hand slides around to the small of my back, fisting into my shirt. His other moves into my hair as he pulls me tight against him, my spine curving up until we’re flush with each other. His tongue slips into my mouth, experimentally, and then a little deeper, tangling with mine. A thrill shoots down the front of my rib cage as he turns us one hundred and eighty degrees, backing me into the side of the driver’s seat, settling his hips in against mine. I’ve read interviews with actors, about how filming sex scenes isn’t sexy, how the performance of it is mechanical. A little awkward, but overall professional. But that’s not what’s happening to me. What’s happening is biological, not cursory. My nipples are tightening against his chest, and heat is sinking lower in my stomach until it drops between my thighs, and when I feel him hardening against me, the shock of it almost instantly gives way to a frazzled, confusing want. I don’t remember moving my hands into his hair, but I feel it slip betwee...

“So if that’s the mild amusement laugh,” he says, “then the low chortle is reserved for…” “When you’re actually funny,” I say. Without warning, he grabs my ankles and yanks me down the couch, draping my legs across his lap, my butt resting against the side of his thigh so that his face hangs over me.

At the sarcasm, his grin spreads. He takes hold of my wrists. “No, don’t be self-conscious,” he says. “It’s so fucking cute.”

“Should be fun either way,” Julia says. “So should we all head to Cherry Hill, throw tiny pretzels at Miles while he’s working?” “We don’t serve pretzels,” Miles says, audibly offended.

No, I argue with myself. It’s because I want to wear a skirt to work tomorrow. I’m not buying it, though: the last time I wore a skirt at work, Handsy Stanley told me I was going to give him a heart attack. The hem reached midcalf.

“Or get three cats and name all of them The Goddess,” he adds. “Really? That was actually my favorite thing about Keith.”

Yesterday I had to ask a guy to stop leading wild pigeons inside with a breadcrumb trail.” “Again?” I say. “Not Larry,” she replies. “Different guy.”

“No,” I say firmly, turning in to Miles. I loop my own arms around his waist, basically propping my boobs up on his chest, and gazing into his eyes as I say, “But the roommate thing is pretty hot.” Miles’s pupils flare as he takes the cue, one hand cupping my jaw, and kisses me.

and in a second, I’m going to turn you ninety degrees and kiss you again, and when I stop, I want you to look to your left and see his face. Then you can tell me if he thinks his new life, without you, is something better.”

And as soon as he says the last word, he does it. Moves us in a half-turn, drops his nose along mine, and it’s like we picked up where that last kiss left off, everything already more urgent, intense from the jump. And I’m not wondering what Peter thinks of all this when Miles parts my lips with his tongue, his hand sliding firmly down to the curve of my ass. And when Miles’s other hand winds itself into my hair, and my spine arches up into him of its own accord, I’m thinking only of the spicy scent of ginger, the taste of espresso macaron in his mouth, the feeling of his erection between us. For a few seconds, I’m nothing but a body seeking more of his.

Miles’s gaze drops on a hoarse laugh, a shake of his head. He steps in closer, our hips brushing. Then he looks back up, takes my face in both hands, and kisses me again. Rough, deep, messy, breathless. With no one to see it. Nothing to stop us. His hips pin mine back to the side of the passenger seat. His hands move around to my back, spreading out over my bare spine, our chests pressing together, his heat cutting through the cold night. “I want to kiss you,” he murmurs, drawing back a mere inch, “every time you take a sip of something and make that sound.” I pull him back to me, that sound slipping from my mouth into his. My hands climb into his hair. His scrape down over my sides, his thigh pushing in between mine. “I want to kiss you every time I walk past your bedroom and hear your laugh through the door,” he says, and his hands steal beneath the hem of my dress, all the way up to cradle my hips, my skin prickling like every cell wants to be a little bit closer to him. I untuck his shirt from his waistband. My hands skim up over his back, greedily touching every warm curve I can get to.

“I want to kiss you every time I hear the shower turn on and know that you’re in there,” he rasps. I touch his stomach, his chest, the muscles tightening as my fingertips brush over them, and he takes hold of my hips, lifting me up into the truck. “I want to kiss you all the time, Daphne,” he says. “Sometimes it’s just easier to find an excuse.” I pull him closer by the belt loops, his hands grazing over my thighs as he pushes in between them. The curves of our bodies melt together. His parted lips run along my neckline. I scoot deeper into the truck, drawing him in after me, then climbing across his lap. His hands trace down my sides, his eyes dark. “Daphne,” he says, a throaty rumble.

He nods. “Any grievances to air?” “Well.” I think for a beat. “I’m not a huge fan of global warming.” The corners of his eyes crinkle, my heart leaping in response. “I hear the Great Barrier Reef is in trouble,” he says.

“Do you have any ChapStick?” he asks. “Can your mouth moisturization wait a minute?” I cry. “Nah, not really—it’s for the zipper, Daphne.” “In the medicine cabinet,” I tell him. We shuffle together into the cramped bathroom, him holding up the back of my dress as we go. I hand the tube to him and he does whatever it is he thinks he’s going to do with it, then goes back to wrestling the zipper. He loses purchase and smacks an elbow into the wall behind me with a grunt of pain. “It’s too cramped in here.” We shuffle-step back into the hall. He tries again, his frustrated huff turning into a laugh. “What?” I ask over my shoulder.

“Now I can’t see anything.” He drags me by the skirt through his bedroom door, bumping the lights on. “Can you lean over the dresser?” he asks. “Seriously?” I say. “I need more leverage,” he says, “and every time I pull, you come with me.” Dear god, what did I do to deserve this?

“I’m feeling unbearably stupid right now, Miles, so you’re going to have to do better than that. Tell me something awful.” He laughs. “Okay. What about this: when Petra and I got your save-the-date in the mail, she told me she didn’t want to get married, and I was like, Cool, no worries. Because I thought she meant in general, not specifically that she didn’t want to marry me.” I drop my face toward the dresser. My pained groan gives way to something more forceful, the emotion shaking through my shoulders.