Funny Story

by Emily Henry

“I know it’s a cliché,” he says after a minute, “but being on the water always does feel like what I imagine church is for some people.” “I get that,” I say. “Out here, you’re small and there’s no one else around, but you’re not lonely. It’s like you’re connected to everyone and everything.” “Exactly,” he says. “And you remember to marvel. It’s so easy to forget how incredible this planet is.”

“I guess it’s nice being around people who’ve made it through shit, you know?” He shrugs. “Like probably all their worst mistakes are behind them, and they know who they are now, and how to be who they want to be.”

“Honey.” She laughs. “I’m a cynic. And a cynic is a romantic who’s too scared to hope.” It feels like a nail driven into my sternum. “Is that what I am?” I ask her. “You?” she says. “You, my girl, are whoever you decide to be. But I hope you always keep some piece of that girl who sat by the window, hoping for the best. Life’s short enough without us talking ourselves out of hope and trying to dodge every bad feeling. Sometimes you have to push through the discomfort, instead of running.”

“But if I’ve learned anything from parenting, it’s that it matters way more that you’re present than that you’re perfect. Just be here, really be here, and the kids will love it.”

I’d tempered my expectations, packed them tight into bricks, built a fortress to protect me. But keeping every glimmer of hope out has isolated me too, and I want to be seen. I want to be loved. I want to live with the hope that things can get better, even if, in the end, they don’t.

Things were allowed to be complicated. They were allowed to be messy. We were allowed to disagree and argue and even hurt each other, on occasion, and it didn’t mean it was time to let the revolving door of life carry us away from each other.