Happy Place

by Emily Henry

The most important friendships in my life all came down to a decision made by strangers, chance.

My best friends taught me a new kind of quiet, the peaceful stillness of knowing one another so well you don’t need to fill the space. And a new kind of loud: noise as a celebration, as the overflow of joy at being alive, here, now.

“I’d rather not guess, Harriet.” He uses my name a lot. Every time, it’s like his voice plucks a too-tight string in a piano deep in my stomach.

“I’m much better at flirting than that makes me sound.” “Have you ever considered,” I say, leaning over to insert myself into his frame of view, “that that might be the problem?” He smiles. “Flirting never killed anybody, Harriet.” “Clearly you’re unfamiliar with the concept of the Regency-era duel,” I say.

The point is, some people live the bulk of their lives in their minds (me), and some are highly physical beings (Wyn).

“I think I need to pee,” I tell Parth, hauling myself from the pool. “Or drink water. One of those.” “If you can’t tell the difference between those, Harry,” Parth calls after me, “I think you need to see a doctor!” “Parth,” I say, pausing in the doorway. “I am a doctor.” “Seems like a conflict of interest.”

While she’s always shared blunt observations and flippantly self-aware comments about her family life and her past—like Sorry if that came out too strong. It’s my child-of-a-narcissist complex. I still think I have thirty seconds to make my case before everyone gets bored—it’s rarer for her to share happy memories. It’s a gift, this bit of tenderness she’s brought out to show us. It’s an honor to be trusted with something so sacred and rare as Sabrina’s softness.

You, my girl, I remember Mom saying, are going to do great things. We always knew it, Dad had agreed.

Parth and I are amazing houseguests, by the way. We always bring chocolate babka from Zabar’s.”