Funny Story

by Emily Henry

“And Starfire?” he asks. “The missing sixth member of the Spice Girls,” I say.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Julia walking into the room, with the flowers in a vase. She, very smartly, turns and heads right back into the kitchen.

“She’s very smart,” he says. “And hot, if that’s relevant.”

“You’d be doing me a favor,” he says. “Julia and I have never shared a room in our lives, and for all I know, she yodels in her sleep.”

So I respond, very naturally, “Starfire told me I could call her ‘Mom.’ ” Miles chokes over a laugh. “Does it make you feel better or worse that she said the same thing to me?”

Miles stands at the water’s edge, shielding his eyes against the light. “Are you coming?” I shout back over the water’s roar. I see him laugh but can’t hear it, and I feel robbed of the sound. He takes off his shirt and pants, and comes toward me in easy, lazy strides. He picks up speed as he reaches me, water splashing up to my thighs and stomach as he catches me around the waist, hoists me off my feet. I shriek with surprised laughter, and he carries me deeper, my arms locked over his.

In the night I get up to pee, and when I come back, Miles is splayed out in the middle of the bed, arm outstretched like he’d been reaching for me in his sleep. Seeing him there, lit by the moon, sends a crushing tenderness through me. I tiptoe through the chilly room, climb into bed as gracefully as I can, but he still wakes enough to sleepily drape an arm around my waist and haul me into the warm nook of his body. “You were gone,” he murmurs. “Now I’m back,” I whisper. With a low, drowsy hum, he kisses my shoulder, and drifts back to sleep.

“Good!” he half shouts. “Expect something! You want to put me on a hook? Put me on the hook. I freaked out, Daphne, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

“No,” I stammer. “No?” Miles gives a hoarse laugh. “How is that a response to what I just said? I just told you I love you, Daphne.”

“Thank you.” I chance a look her way, but her eyes are glued to her monitor, nails clacking against her keyboard. “A few of us went in on it,” she deadpans. “Give them my regards,” I say.

“Maybe I should get a dog.” She looks to me for feedback. “I think you should do exactly what you want to do,” I tell her. “Let’s rob a bank,” she says. “I think you should get a dog.”

She asks about his day, and he confirms it was “so boring he almost died” and also that “Ricky Landis puked in first period, and Tinsley G”—there are two Tinsleys in his first period—“was so grossed out, she threw up too.”

A minute later, he adds, “Aren’t you guys a little old for sleepovers?”

My shoulders loosen. “I can do that.” “Of course you can,” she says. “You’re Daphne Fucking Vincent.” “Aww.” I touch my chest. “You know my last name and my middle name.”