Beach Read

by Emily Henry

On my third trip, I stopped before the kitchen window facing into Gus’s house. He was sitting at the table, holding an oversized note up for me to see. Like he’d been waiting. I balanced the box against the table and swiped my forearm up my temple to catch the sweat beading there as I read: JANUARY, JANUARY, WHEREFORE ART THOU, JANUARY?

“Anyway, he put in his nickel and the two tickets came out. Hers said, You will meet a handsome stranger, and his said, Your story’s about to begin.”

“The greatest disappointment of this evening by far,” I said, “is that they didn’t actually include the paper umbrellas.” “See,” Gus said. “It’s shit like this that makes it impossible for me to believe in happy endings. You never get the paper umbrellas you were promised in this world.” “Gus,” I said. “You must be the paper umbrellas you wish to see in this world.”

I DREAMED ABOUT GUS Everett and woke up needing a shower.

I sat down in the sand, folded my legs to my chest, rested my forehead against my knees, and cried. I cried until my face was hot and red and soaking wet, and I would’ve kept crying if a seagull didn’t shit on my head, but of course, it did.

“Wow. That’s a lot of shit.” He was staring at his hand and the goop dripping off of it. “Yeah, I said ‘bird’ but it very well could have been a dinosaur.”

When we got back, I opened the tailgate and put the middle seats flat, revealing the setup of pillows and blankets I’d packed earlier, along with the cooler full of beer. “Impressed?” I asked Gus. “By your car’s trunk space? Absolutely.” “Har-har-har,” I said. “Har-har-har,” Gus said back.

I took a cold shower. Or, at least, I took one second of a cold shower, during which I screamed the f-word and almost broke my ankle lunging away from the stream of water. How the hell were people in books always taking cold showers?

“You know that feeling, when you’re watching someone sleep and you feel overwhelmed with joy that they exist?”

That’s the key to marriage. You have to keep falling in love with every new version of each other, and it’s the best feeling in the whole world.”

“Vodka,” Maggie said airily, ticking the ingredients off on her fingers. “Coconut rum. Blue curaçao. Tequila. Pineapple juice. A splash of regular rum. Do you like it?” “It’s great,” I said. It smelled like an open bottle of nail polish remover. “Gussy?” she asked. “Wonderful,” he answered. “Better than last year, isn’t it?” Pete said, abandoning her post at the grill to join us. “At least more likely to strip the paint from a car if spilled,” Gus said.

He scratched a hand through his hair. “I’ve always admired that. The way your writing always makes the world seem brighter, and the people in it a little braver.”

“Falling’s the part that takes your breath away. It’s the part when you can’t believe the person standing in front of you both exists and happened to wander into your path. It’s supposed to make you feel lucky to be alive, exactly when and where you are.”

Because I know no matter how long I get to love you, it will be worth whatever comes after.”

“When I watch you sleep,” he said shakily, “I feel overwhelmed that you exist.”

For January, I don’t care how the story ends as long as I spend it with you.

“And to answer your question about the best-case scenario for a love story, yes. If I were hit by a meteor while in the car with you, I would still think I went out on a high note.”