Funny Story

by Emily Henry

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.” Honestly, that’s not far off from thoughts I’ve had. Only for me, it’s never been about controlling the feelings themselves. I wouldn’t know where to begin with that. It’s more, controlling the expectations you have for certain people. If a person lets you down, it’s time to reconsider what you’re asking of them.

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.

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

“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?”

“What about you?” I say. “Me wanting you doesn’t count?” he asks, brows knitted together. A fiery heat wave, a series of them, one after another. Me wanting you. Me wanting you. Me wanting you. “It counts,” I say. It’s terrifying how much it counts. I set my plate aside. “What about you?” “Me?” he says.

“You’re my best friend too.” It comes out as a throaty whisper. “That’s why today was so hard, when my dad left.” My throat twists, my voice wobbling: “Because you saw it. And it makes me feel pathetic. Even more so because the truth is, if he turned around and came right back here, I’d be thrilled. I’d forgive him again and again, just hoping that eventually I’d actually mean something to him. I’d call and beg him to come back, if I thought there was a chance he’d say yes. But I can’t, because I know he won’t. And I don’t want to hear that. I don’t want him to prove that I’m…” I’m trying to find alternate words.

“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.