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...

Without lifting his face, he feels around on the coffee table to grab a piece of paper, then holds it aloft. I walk over and take the delicate square of off-white parchment from his hand. Instantly, he lets his arm flop down to his side. I start reading the elegant script slanting across it. Jerome & Melly Collins along with Nicholas & Antonia Comer joyfully invite you to celebrate the marriage of their children, Peter & P— “NO.” I fling the invitation away from me like it’s a live snake.

“No,” I say. “This can’t be real.”

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

“Why the hell would they invite us?” I demand. Of him, of them, of the universe. He leans forward and tips more coconut rum into his mug, filling it to the brim. He holds it out in offering. When I shake my head, he throws it back and pours some more. I grab the invitation again, half expecting to realize my brain had merely malfunctioned while I was reading a take-out menu. It did not. “This is Labor Day weekend!” I shriek, throwing it away from me again. “I know,” Miles says. “They cou...

Miles looks up at me, genuine concern contorting his face. “Daphne,” he says. “I think that ship sailed when he fucked my girlfriend, then took her to Italy for a week so he didn’t have to help you pack.”

The apartment building sways. I sink onto the couch, right atop Miles’s calves. He fills the mug again, and this time, when he holds it out for me, I down it in one gulp. “Oh my god,” I say. “That’s gross.” “I know,” he says. “But it’s the only hard liquor I had. Should we switch to wine?” I look over at him. “I didn’t have you pegged for a wine guy.” He stares at me. “What?” His tipsy-squinting eyes narrow further. “Can’t tell if you’re kidding.” “No?” I say.

“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?”

Somehow, out of everything, that’s what does it: I start to cry. “Hey.” Miles moves closer. “It’s okay. It’s…fuck.” He pulls me roughly into his chest, his wine bottle still hanging from his hand. He kisses the top of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

stranger. “It’s ridiculous,” he says. “It’s unbelievably fucked.” He smooths my hair back with his free hand as I cry into his T-shirt, which smells only very faintly of weed, and much more of something spicy and woodsy. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should’ve thrown the invitation away. I don’t know why I didn’t.” “No.” I draw back, wiping my eyes. “I get it. You didn’t want to be alone with it.” His gaze drops guiltily. “I should’ve kept it to myself.” “I would’ve done the same thing,” I say. “I promise.” “Still,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

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.

“We shouldn’t mope,” he goes on, with another shake of his head. “But I’m getting so good at it,” I whine. “Let’s go out,” he says. “Out?” It sounds like I’ve never even heard the word before. “Out where?” Miles stands, stretching a hand out to me. “I know a place.”

Two hours ago, I never would’ve guessed I’d end the night at a neighborhood bar called MEATLOCKER, but here I am, taking shots with my roommate and an old biker named Gill.

But Gill tucks the bill in the pocket on Miles’s shirt, then claps one leathery hand on each of our cheeks. “Stay strong, kids,” he says sagely, then turns, tosses his beat-up leather jacket over one shoulder, and literally whistles a goodbye to the bartender.

“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.”

wave him off rather than answer, and try to get my key into our door’s lock. Unfortunately, it seems the door has grown three extra locks and I can’t seem to line the key up to the right one. Through laughter, he bumps me aside, clumsily swiping the key from my hand to make his own attempt. “Shit!” he says as it glances off the lock. We keep fighting for control of the doorknob, knocking each other out of the way in increasingly dramatic fashion, until he almost knocks me over and just barely manages to catch me by pinning me to the wall with his hips. We’re both laughing so hard we’re crying when our elderly neighbor pops his head into the hallway to hiss, “Some of us are trying to sleep around here!” “Sorry, Mr. Dorner,” Miles says like a chastened schoolboy. Mr. Dorner retreats.

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.

A couple of hours ago, this might’ve tripped the start crying ASAP wire in my brain. Instead we’re just back to cackling. Mr. Dorner’s lock rattles again. Miles spins away to get our door unlocked, yanking me inside before we have to face another scolding.

“We should RSVP,” I say. “They’re not the bigger people. Fuck that!” “Fuck that!” he agrees. “Fuck that!” I half shout. Mr. Dorner pounds on the wall. Miles presses a pointer finger to my lips. “Fuck that,” he whispers. “Fuck that,” I whisper back. He watches my lips move against his finger. I feel another pleasant zing. “We should go to bed,” I say. And then, because it came out a little too low, I say, “I mean, I should get to bed.” He lets his hand fall away. “After we RSVP.”

I rattle the knob. Or I expect to, but it’s unlocked. So instead, I basically just fall into his room, catching myself against his dresser. The TV atop it wobbles, and as I steady it, a voice says from behind me, “Are you stealing my TV?” I turn, expecting to find Miles sprawled out in his bed. Instead, he’s standing in the doorway, fully dressed with a grease-mottled paper bag in hand. I release the TV. “I almost knocked it over,” I explain. “Why?” he asks. “I told Peter we were dating,” I say.

“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.”

“Plus I know basically nothing about you, so this was a good chance to find out if your house is full of surveillance equipment.” I blink. “Surveillance equipment?” “Landon and I have been taking bets on whether you’re in the FBI,” she provides helpfully. I squint at her. “And you think I’m in the FBI because…?” “I don’t,” she says. “Landon does. My guess is witness protection.”

He leans across the counter to hear what a pretty redhead is saying, then laughs and grabs an open white wine from an ice bucket, twirling it a little as he pours her another glass. “See?” Ashleigh says, leaning in to be heard. “Hot drug dealer.” My gaze judders over to her, follows hers straight back to the far side of the bar. “Miles deals drugs?” I cry. His gaze snaps sideways at the sound of his name. He lifts his chin in greeting, a smile pulling at one side of his mouth. “Wait, you know him?” Ashleigh asks. He drops the bottle back into the ice bucket and crosses toward us. “Order the pinot,” I quickly tell Ashleigh.

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?”

“You told her we’re sleeping together?” I say. “Yeah, she said, Is that your girlfriend, and I was like, We have sex, and we’re in love. Someday, when we have a baby, we’re going to name her Sue Ellen after my mom. No, Daphne. I didn’t tell her we’re sleeping together. Petra told her I’m living with my new girlfriend. I’m just guessing Katya might do some high-level deduction here. But if you want me to go ask whether she thinks we’re having sex, I can.”

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.”