People We Meet on Vacation

by Emily Henry

Alex Nilsen is a study in control. In that tall, broad, permanently slouched and/or pretzel-folded body of his, there’s a surplus of stoicism (the result of being the oldest child of a widower with the most vocal anxiety of anyone I’ve ever met) and a stockpile of repression (the result of a strict religious upbringing in direct opposition to most of his passions; namely, academia), alongside the most truly strange, secretly silly, and intensely softhearted goofball I’ve had the pleasure to know.

like how, when we go out, he always beelines toward the bar, because he knows I like to sit there, even though he once admitted that every time we do, he stresses out over whether he’s making too much or not enough eye contact with the bartenders.

honestly real

“My life turned out how I hoped it would, and now I just miss wanting something.”

“I’m saying,” Rachel replies, “that purpose matters more than contentment. You had a ton of career goals, which gave you purpose. One by one, you met them. Et voilà: no purpose.” “So I need new goals.” She nods emphatically. “I read this article about it. Apparently the completion of long-term goals often leads to depression. It’s the journey, not the destination, babe, and whatever the fuck else those throw pillows say.”

“This car,” Alex says, “isn’t going to live long enough to see the end of the Star Wars franchise.” “But who among us will?” I say.

“You were never a Jessica,” he says confidently. I arch an eyebrow. “How do you know?” “Because.” His eyes hold fast to the sun-bleached road. “You’ve always been Poppy.”

I shove down the hazy memories of everything that mouth did in Croatia.

WOAHHHH

But this, this is the moment I first think it. I am in love with you. The thought is terrifying, probably not even true. A dangerous idea to entertain. I release my hold on it, watch it slip away. But there are points in the center of my palms that burn, scorched, proof I once held it there.

We stand there grinning for a few more seconds, our locked hands swinging back and forth between us. “I thought you didn’t like holding hands,” I say. “And you said you did,” he says.

“Poppy,” he says, “there may come a day when I no longer need to be touching you at all times, but that day is not today.”

Ten years of friendship flushed down the drain just so I could know what Alex Nilsen tastes like.