Happy Place

by Emily Henry

And what can I say? That I’m not happy? That I’ve tried dating someone else and it was the emotional equivalent of bingeing on saltines when all I wanted was a real meal? Or that there are whole parts of the city I avoid because they remind me of those first few months in California, when he still lived with me. That when I wake up too early to my screaming alarm, I still reach toward his side of the bed, like if I can hold on to him for a minute, it won’t be so hard to make it through another grueling day at the hospital, in a never-ending series of grueling days. That I still wake from dreams of his head between my thighs, and reach for my phone whenever something particularly ridiculous happens in the cozy mystery I’m reading, only to remember I can’t tell him. That I spend more time trying not to think about him than actually thinking about anything. All that heady nostalgia and sweltering lust has become combustible, erupting into anger. “Yes, Wyn,” I say. “I’m happy.”

“He needs a stern hand,” Michael says. “He’s not a workhorse,” Lou says with an eye roll. “No, of course not,” Michael says. “Much more of a mule.” Wyn pulls me across his lap, looping his arms around my waist. “How do you know Harriet isn’t even more stubborn than I am?” “He’s right,” I tell them. “Between the two of us, I’m the mule.” “Well, if you’re the mule,” Michael says, “then Wyn’s the ass.” “If I’m going to be an ass,” he says, “I’m glad to be yours.”