You and Me on Vacation

by Emily Henry

“God, Poppy,” he says. “I spent so much time trying not to want you.”

“I’m so happy you’re—” His eyes fall to our clasped hands and he claps his together. “Holding hands!”

“I thought you didn’t like holding hands,” I say. “And you said you did,” he says. “So, what? I just get whatever I want now?” I tease. His smile flickers back into place, calm and restrained. “Yes, Poppy,” he says. “You get whatever you want now. Is that a problem?” “What if I want you to have what you want?” He arches an eyebrow. “Are you just saying that because you know what I’m going to say, and you want to make fun of me for it?” “No?” I say. “Why? What are you going to say?” Our hands go still between us. “I have what I want, Poppy.”

That’s how it always is when I’m with you. No one else matters.

“Then you thought you were pregnant and it scared me so fucking much. And I didn’t even totally understand why, but I was a mess for days after that, Poppy. And then the day after we got back from Tuscany, I was walking past this antique store and I saw this ring. An old, yellow-gold art deco thing, with a pearl. I saw it and thought, That would be a perfect engagement ring. Maybe I should buy it. And my very next thought after that was, What the fuck am I doing? Sarah would’ve hated that ring. And then I realized I wasn’t even looking for her. I saw it, and right away I thought of you.

He shakes his head. “I scared myself so much that I couldn’t tell you what had happened. It was terrifying to realize how much I loved you. And then you and Trey broke up, and––God, Poppy, of course all of it was because of you. Everything is because of you. Everything.”

He breaks off, shaking his head again. The tears in his eyes make them look like the surface of some river, dangerous and wild and gorgeous. “I don’t know how to love someone as much as I love you,” he says. “It’s terrifying. And I get these bursts of thinking I can handle it and then I think about what it will do to me if I lose you, and I panic and pull away, and—I’ve never known if I’ll be able to make you happy.

“Nothing will change how I feel about you,” he murmurs. “I’ve been trying to stop loving you since that night you went inside to make out with the pothead water taxi driver.”

“Can you just do me one favor?” I ask. He knots his hands against my spine. “Hm?” “Only hold my hand when you want to.” “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.”

“Poppy,” he says pointedly, “I remember everything.” I narrow my eyes at him. “But you said—” He sighs. “I know what I said. But I’m telling you now, I remember it all.” “Some would say that makes you a liar.” “No,” he says, “what it makes me is someone who was embarrassed to still remember exactly what you were wearing the first time I saw you, and what you ordered once at McDonald’s in Tennessee, and who needed to preserve some small measure of dignity.”

“No.” He slips his hand back into mine. “Actually, I think I just developed a fetish that’s specifically you delivering hard truths to my father.” “In that case,” I say, “let’s go have some words with him about that mustache.”

I start to walk away, and Alex pulls me back to him, his hands light on my waist, voice low beside my ear. “In case I don’t kiss you as pornographically as I want to for the rest of the night, please know that after this trip, I’ll be investing in therapy to understand why I feel incapable of expressing happiness in front of my family.”

“Yes,” Ed says. “Starting off strong,” Alex whispers tightly.

Maybe things can always get better between people who want to do a good job loving each other. Maybe that’s all it takes.

The same one who’s chugging margaritas on the dance floor with Alex while “Pour Some Sugar on Me” plays at top volume and drops of sweat and champagne sprinkle over the crowd.

Vacations always end. It’s the very fact that it’s finite that makes traveling special. You could move to any one of those destinations you loved in small doses, and it wouldn’t be the spellbinding, life-altering seven days you spent there as a guest, letting a place into your heart fully, letting it change you. The song ends. The dance ends.

Not long after that, there are sparklers being lit in a long tunnel of people who love David and Tham, and then they’re running through it, their faces awash in warm light and deep love, and then, as if it’s a person drifting off to sleep, the night ends.

At that, he smiles, grips my hand against the gearshift, and lifts it to his lips a few seconds later, holding it there but not quite kissing it. “What, am I sticky?” I ask. He shakes his head. “Just want to remember what your skin feels like.” “That’s really sweet, Alex,” I say, “and not at all something a serial killer would say.”

“Poppy.” He reaches for my hand, takes it lightly in his. “I know what I want. You need to figure this out. I’d do anything for you, but—please don’t ask me to if you’re not sure. I really—” He swallows hard. The line is gone. It’s time for him to go. He forces out the rest in a hoarse murmur. “I can’t be a break from your real life, and I won’t be the thing that keeps you from having what you want.” His name catches in my throat. He bends a little, resting his forehead against mine, and I close my eyes. When I open them, he’s walking onto the jet bridge without looking back.

On our last night, the three of us get roaring drunk at a restaurant overlooking the sea, watching the pinks and golds of the sun melt across everything until the water is a sheet of light, replaced gradually by a blanket of deep purple. Back at the resort, the sky gone dark, we part ways, exhausted in more ways than one and heavy with wine.

There’s nothing in this whole world that I’ve built in my head that I’m not prepared to let go of to build a new one with you.

I still have a lot to figure out, but the one thing I know is, wherever you are, that’s where I belong. I’ll never belong anywhere like I belong with you. No matter what I’m feeling, I want you next to me. You’re home to me, Alex.

“No,” he says. “I know if I got on a plane with you back to New York, I would be so fucking happy. For as long as you’d have me, I’d be happy.”

“I’m afraid of loving you for our entire lives, and then having to say goodbye. I’m afraid of you dying, and the world feeling useless. I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep getting out of bed if you’re gone, and if we had kids, they’d have these horrible lives where their amazing mom is gone, and their dad can’t look at them.”

I love him so much. I love him more than I did yesterday, and I already know tomorrow I’ll love him even more, because every piece of him he gives me is another to fall in love with.

“You are, you know.” “A fighter?” I say. “My home,” he says, and kisses me. We are, I think. We’re home.

It’s cold out, and the city looks its best for us, springy pink and white blossoms skittering across the streets as we sip our cappuccinos.

Wherever he is, that will be my favorite place.