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.

Not that I have any clue what a Roman nose is. But whenever a historical romance writer mentions one, I think of Peter’s.

Life, I’d learned, is a revolving door. Most things that come into it only stay awhile.

Miles is the other kind. 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.

I don’t know how to talk along the surface of things, but I also don’t want to unearth the ugly stuff, over and over again, for people who are just passing through my life. It’s depleting. Like every time I dole out a kernel of my history to someone who’s not going to become a fixture in my life, a piece of me gets carried away, somewhere I can never get it back.

You can’t untell someone your secrets. You can’t unsay those delicate truths once you learn you can’t trust the person you handed them to.

“Things go smoother if you don’t let people get a rise out of you,” he says. “If you give them control over how you feel, they’ll always use it.” “Finally, I see your cynical side,” I say. He smiles, but his jaw is tight, and the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not cynical. If you don’t give other people responsibility for your feelings, you can have a decent relationship with most of them.”

If a person lets you down, it’s time to reconsider what you’re asking of them.

I’m not sure what parts of me are him and which parts are genuinely my own. And I want to know. I want to know myself, to test my edges and see where I stop and the rest of the world begins.

“The spot,” I say, “sounds exactly like where high schoolers come to smoke weed.” “True,” he says, “but I haven’t had any luck yet tracking down the stretch of beach where thirtysomethings go to smoke weed.”

In general, I don’t put too much stock into a person’s charm, but I think he might be the rare real deal. A genuinely kind person who likes everyone and deserved better than a note on the counter and Petra’s room-sized closet cleared out.

I—and the weed—tell him, “I think you might be the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

“It’s a library, Daphne. If you can’t be a human here, where can you?”

But as an adult, I find kids so much easier to understand. They say how they feel, and they show it too. There are fewer ulterior motives and unwritten rules. Silences aren’t unbearably awkward, and abrupt segues to different subjects are the norm. If you want to be friends with someone, you just ask, and if they don’t want to, they’ll probably just tell you.

“You are either the friendliest man on the planet,” I say, “or a world-class serial killer.” “Why not both?”

You can’t force a person to show up, but you can learn a lesson when they don’t. Trust people’s actions, not their words. Don’t love anyone who isn’t ready to love you back. Let go of the people who don’t hold on to you. Don’t wait on anyone who’s in no rush to get to you.

He was willing to be good to me, but he wasn’t willing to be any better.

As a kid, I was so jealous of my friends who had siblings. My best memories were all of movie nights with Mom or our long Saturday morning wanders through kitsch shops and record stores, but so much of my childhood was sitting in an otherwise empty apartment, longing for the kind of noise, clutter, permanence that comes from having a family, rather than just one overworked mother. Julia might be a slob, but having her stuff everywhere makes the empty apartment feel a little less lonely.

“You’re not a tagalong,” she says. “You’re a we-girl.” “Like a wee lass?” I ask. “No, like, We love that restaurant. We always vacation there. We don’t really like scary movies. A woman who’s more comfortable being a part of a whole, who never goes anywhere without a partner.”

“I don’t want to just be a part of we,” I say. “I want to be an I.” “You’re already an I. It’s just about how much you embrace it.”

I close my eyes and breathe him in, and it’s not complicated: I want him, I like him, and I care about him enough to push those first two thoughts aside.

To him, he’s the brother who ran away. To her, he’s the one who stays, even when he shouldn’t.

“I mean,” I say, more fervently, “you’re probably the only person I’ve ever met who’s genuinely curious about everyone he meets. And makes them feel interesting and welcome, and like—like they should be confident in what they do. You make them feel like growing corn or making cherry salsa or recommending books is a superpower.”

“I just think,” I say to Miles, “you like people almost as much as they like you. And it makes being around you feel like—like standing in sunlight.” His mouth softens. Briefly, he studies the space between our feet. “You feel like sunlight too.”

“You were shy, but you were brave.”

Not that I know what makes a boat in good shape, but it’s not on fire or anything.

And I know he won’t be forever, or maybe even very long, but it helps knowing that right now he is. That can be enough.

“Somebody recently told me that feelings are like the weather. They just kind of happen.”

“She can hold her own,” he says. “So can I,” I argue. He draws back to look into my face. “I know,” he says. “I just don’t want you to have to.”

Life isn’t a competition, and neither is love, but I’m still the loser.

I feel a twinge. Of guilt? Like I’m betraying Mom if I let Dad back in? Or maybe just fear. That I’m doing what I swore I never would: making space in my heart for someone whom experience has taught me not to trust.

“You always assume I’m being so selfless. Like it hasn’t occurred to you I might want to hang out with you. So when you turn me down, I have to figure out if you just don’t feel the same way, or if you think you’re doing me some kind of favor. And I never can.”

I see him laugh but can’t hear it, and I feel robbed of the sound.

Kissing him is so different now that I know him. Now I understand that the breezy, carefree Miles I first met is only his topmost layer, that his nonchalant way of moving through the world is a product of self-control, but beneath that surface, he wants.

“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this, Daphne. How much I’ve needed you.”

I fling an arm over my eyes as a ludicrous wave of laughter overtakes me. “Daphne?” Miles says, voice hoarse with alarm. “What’s wrong?” He moves my arm down so he can meet my eyes. “Nothing,” I get out. “Then why are you laughing?” he says, dubious. I hardly understand my own reaction. “Because I’m happy, I guess.”

Then he asks, “Are you hungry?” For some reason, this makes my heart feel like it’s about to burst. “Starving.”

When I’m done, I take over while he rinses off too, then pads back into the room in nothing but a pair of sweatpants and one new hickey I have no memory of giving him.

“Maybe you didn’t notice,” I say, “but that ‘dick’ is essentially universally loved.” “By strangers,” Miles says. “By people who don’t know him or need anything from him. Excuse me if I don’t find that impressive.”

“Do you know how often you do that?” “Do what?” I ask. “Act like my opinion doesn’t matter to you,” he says. My jaw drops. “Of course it matters.” “Everything I say,” he replies, “it’s like, Oh, of course you’d say that, Miles, you’re just nice. Or, You don’t get it, because you’re you, or, my new favorite, You’re just like my asshole dad.” “That’s not what I meant,” I say. “At all.” “You said no one wants you around,” he replies. “What about me?”

“If it was about you,” he says, “he could’ve ended it. Instead he blew up his life. That’s about him. I’ve been that guy, a dozen times, with a dozen people I didn’t deserve. It’s easy to be loved by the ones who’ve never seen you fuck up. The ones you’ve never had to apologize to, and who still think all your ‘quirks’ are charming. “It’s easy to be around people who don’t know you. But as soon as someone starts to figure you out—as soon as you can’t be perfect—it’s easier to move on. Find someone new to be the cool, fun, laid-back one with.”

“You make the people you care about feel like…” He pauses. “Like you want all of them. Not just the good parts. And that’s terrifying to someone who’s spent a lifetime avoiding those other pieces of themselves.”

“I do want all those parts of you.” His eyes open, molten, warm. “Good,” he says. “They want you too.”

My life, five months ago, was picture perfect, but it wasn’t the picture I wanted.

I don’t want to be a part of the wrong we. I’d rather be on my own, even if it hurts right now.

All those moments throughout the days, weeks, months that don’t get marked on calendars with hand-drawn stars or little stickers. Those are the moments that make a life. Not grand gestures, but mundane details that, over time, accumulate until you have a home, instead of a house. The things that matter. The things I can’t stop longing for.

“I was just so scared I couldn’t really do it on my own,” she goes on. “And so many decisions I made were based on the fear of what could go wrong, instead of my hopes for what might go right. Every time that fear got tripped, I picked you up and moved you away, rather than facing the possibility of discomfort. I never took any chances.”

“Honey.” She laughs. “I’m a cynic. And a cynic is a romantic who’s too scared to hope.”

“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.”

“Whenever it counts, you’re here. When I grow up, I want to be you.” She laughs. “Oh, god no. Just be you. The best you. The most you.”