You and Me on Vacation

by Emily Henry

On vacation, you strike up conversations with strangers, and forget that there are any stakes. If it turns out impossibly awkward, who cares? You’ll never see them again!

I love everything about this place in theory, but in practice, I think letting my bare foot touch the anonymous filth on the laminate might be a good way to contract one of those rare diseases kept in the refrigerated vials of a secret CDC facility.

And he brightens a little, like this is good news, and I’m not sure why, because having the fact of the Linfields in common is sort of like having had the same cold: not the worst thing in the world, but nothing to high-five over.

“How do David and Tham live here?” he says, sounding disgusted. “The same way you live in Ohio,” I say. “Sadly, and with heavy drinking.”

He locked the door and wouldn’t let me in for fear of passing the strep along, so I started yelling, “I’m keeping the baby, okay?” through the doorway and he relented.

“Surprises,” I say. “Lots of them.” I try to dramatically fling the car keys to him. They fall to the floor two feet short. He looks down at where they lie. “Wow,” he says. “Was that … one of the surprises?” “Yes,” I say. “Yes, it was. But the others are better so pick those up and let’s hit it.”

“Have you considered building a dome, Councilwoman?” he says dryly as we plod down the steps. “Hey, that one guy did it in that one Stephen King novel,” I say. “I’ll probably leave that out of the pitch.”

“Yeah, and if they think we’re going to go easy on them just because we’re delusional from heat exhaustion, they’ve got another think coming.” “But if they sell milkshakes, I’m inclined to leave them a largely positive review,” Alex says quickly under his breath, and turns the car off. “Well, we’re not monsters.”