Funny Story

by Emily Henry

Until that moment, I’d carried my life like a handkerchief knapsack at the end of a broom handle, something small and containable I could pick up and move at the drop of a hat. And I never knew what it was I was running from, or to, until he said it. Home. The word stoked an ember in my chest. Here was the permanence I’d been waiting for. A place that would belong to us.

Her voice has the force of a blunt object, and she once told me she “doesn’t mind confrontation” in a tone that made me wonder if maybe we were already in one.

“The love of your life sucks,”

“Yes,” I finally manage. “A shared cuckolding is the most fertile ground from which love could ever spring.”

It’s just that Petra wears the aesthetic like an edgy pop starlet, and Miles looks kind of like the guy from high school who intentionally failed his senior year to stick around for a while, then started selling bootleg cologne out of the trunk of his car in the mall parking lot.

“I’ve got stuff to do, but if you hear from your ex, tell him I said . . .” He holds up his middle finger.

I’d thought we were building something permanent together. Now I realize I’d just been slotting myself into his life, leaving me without my own.

There’s being bad at small talk, and then there’s being so reticent that your coworkers assume you’ve recently testified against a mob boss, and I never knew how thin the line between the two was.

“Oh! When I first had Mulder, I had no idea what to do with him ninety percent of the time while Duke was at work. So I’d bring him to the library to this moms’ group, and I’d find the calmest parent in the bunch and ask if they could watch him while I went to the bathroom. Then I’d go lock myself inside, set a timer, and sob as hard as I could for five minutes.” “Ashleigh! That’s heartbreaking!” I cry, but she’s laughing now too. “It was terrible!” she agrees. “Every day I’d wake up and have, like, one second of peace. Then I’d remember, Oh, shit, I’m someone’s mom.

“I’m not moping. I just like sad music.”

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.

His face remains deeply, painfully earnest. “I don’t want you to move away. I like you.”

They just like me because I spend a fuck-ton on their asparagus.

So I lean into him and lift my chin, and he ducks his forehead, and we have one of the top five worst kisses of my life, junior high included.

“What do you like about it,” he says. “Everything,” I say. His mouth curls. “Fascinating.” “I like that it feels like I can live as many lives as I want,” I say.

“As a kid, I never read for fun. I’m dyslexic, and it took too long.” “What about audiobooks?” I say. “Does that count?” he asks. “Of course it counts,” I say. His eyes narrow. “Are you sure?” “I’m a librarian,” I say. “If anyone gets to decide whether it counts or not, it’s me.”

All the blood in my body might as well hang out in my upper third, because as soon as it leaves, it’s getting called right back.

“No, don’t be self-conscious,” he says. “It’s so fucking cute.”

He smiles. “She’s going to give me shit for the beard.” “Oh, the mourning beard?” I tease. “The moving-to-the-woods-and-never-loving-again beard? Why would she have a problem with that?”

If he’s a Labrador, she’s more of a clumsy pit bull, thwacking into corners and swinging her head into coffee tables without batting an eye, completely unselfconscious. I like her immediately.

“It’s fun when you’re sassy,” I tell him,

“I just realized I’m a cool, laid-back girl,” Miles says.

“I think Miles could be alone in a room with a paper bag and there’d still be a vibe,”

But how can I teach my kid not to settle if I’m not willing to fight for the life I want?

“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.” “Shit,” I say. “You’re right.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “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.”

My hand involuntarily clenches into the fabric of his shirt, like that will do any good, protect him from anyone who doesn’t understand what kind of gift he is.

“I want to kiss you all the time, Daphne,” he says. “Sometimes it’s just easier to find an excuse.”

“Come on,” Julia says, reading my hesitancy. “Wouldn’t it feel good to just . . . let this stuff all go?” I scan the stuff in question. What am I waiting for? This, I think. Them. To not be alone. To have friends bear witness to the death of this dream. I take the box from Julia. “I’m ready.”

“You lubed my zipper,” I say.

“You were shy, but you were brave.”

“It’s just . . .” He shakes his head. “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.”

He wants it all, even the things he’d never let himself ask for, or won’t let himself have.

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

“I’m used to keeping all of this separate. And nothing is, with you. You’re my roommate and my best friend and the woman I just slept with.”

“I don’t want to scare people off,” I say, throat aching. He shakes his head. “It’s worth being scared. Trust me. You’re worth it.”

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

I knew being with him like this would be good, and fun, and maybe even funny, but I’m surprised how my chest keeps twinging like my feelings have too much weight, and my rib cage might crack under them. I keep catching myself just before the words can tip over my lips: I love you.

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.

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

To me, libraries have always represented the best of humanity. The way we all share knowledge and space, and . . . and how we find ways to look after each other. It’s not a perfect system, but it’s powerful.

I made it through.

But you—you make love so easy, Daphne. You make me think I already deserve it, exactly how I am.

“And I feel lucky every time you look at me. Not because I think I’ve managed to earn you, but because it feels like you don’t need me to. Like you just . . . like me.”

“And I know I’m not who you pictured yourself with, but I think I could be, eventually. If you’ll let me. So don’t go. Because I don’t want you to. Because you’re my best friend, and I’m in love with you.”

“Just stay. I love you. I want you. Stay.”

“You mean so much to me, Miles,” I say. “So much. But you can’t be everything. You were right that I’d love it here. I do. And you’re a huge part of why I want to build a life here. But I can’t build it around you. If this ends, I need to know that I don’t just disappear. I need to have my own stuff that’s not about anyone else. Whether it works out between us or not, I need that.”

You’re wonderful. You’re the reason for the word wonderful. It really shouldn’t be used for anything else.

You’re the person I want to be with when everything’s going wrong, instead of just wanting to skip over those times entirely.

I honestly can’t totally figure out why someone as good as you would love me, when I can be kind of a pessimistic asshole. But I do feel like the luckiest person in the world, to be who you want. Because I want you too. I love you too.