Happy Place

by Emily Henry

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

We were loud. I’d never been loud before. I grew up in a quiet house, where shouting only ever happened when my sister came home with a questionable new piercing or a new love interest or both. The shouting always gave way to an even deeper silence after, and so I did my best to head the shouting off at the pass, because I hated the silence, felt every second of it as a kind of dread. 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 LOVE GIRLHOOD

Think of your happy place, Harriet.

This man has never once called me honey. He never even calls me Harry, like our friends do. Once, when I had a terrible flu, he called me baby in such a tender voice, my feverish brain decided it would be a good time to burst into tears. Aside from that, it’s always been strictly Harriet. Whether he was laughing or frustrated, peeling off my clothes or ending our relationship in a four-minute phone call.

When he catches me studying him, his brow lifts in tandem with his lips. Quicksand, I think again. An old predator-prey instinct seems to agree, my limbic system sending out marching orders to my muscles: Be ready to flee; if he gets any closer, you’ll never get away.

“You’re not slow-release hot.”

Regency era or not, in a lot of ways, he ruins me.

“What should I have done, Harriet?” Found an excuse. Simply told her no. Not have broken my heart like it was a last-minute dinner plan. Not have made me love you in the first place.

A very diplomatic way of saying they’ll expect him to be touching me, constantly. Pulling me into his lap or hooking me under his arm or wrapping my hair around his hand and kissing me at the dinner table as if we’re entirely alone, burrowing his face into my neck while I’m talking, or tracing my bottom lip when I’m not, and—

and he threw all that away for whattttt

It was why I hadn’t let myself cry when Wyn dumped me, or ask for answers or a second chance. I knew the only thing more painful than being without him would be being together knowing I no longer truly had him.

“Maybe you make me a little nervous.” “Yeah, right,” I say, spine tingling. “Just because you don’t see me grabbing a mop every time you walk into a room doesn’t mean I don’t notice you’re there.”

“Just to be clear, you’re always welcome to touch me.”

HEHEHEH

“Why isn’t he smiling?” “He is,” I say. “That’s how he smiles. It’s subtle.” “This guy,” Wyn says, “only smiles when he’s looking in the mirror. Which is also how he masturbates. While wearing his Harvard sweatshirt.”

wyn is hilarious i love him

He’s a golden boy. I’m a girl whose life has been drawn in shades of gray. I try not to love him. I really try.

“Is there one that looks like us?” he asks. They all do, I think. You are in all of my happiest places. You are where my mind goes when it needs to be soothed.

“Everything keeps spinning,” he says in a low, hoarse voice. “But my mind’s always got one hand on you.”

I could never forget how to love Wyn. Sometimes, lying beside him in our bed, my ice-cold feet tucked between his warm calves, the words flit through my mind, like they’re coming from somewhere else, like my soul hears his whispering in its sleep, You belong here.

“No,” he says quietly. “In every universe, it’s you for me. Even if it’s not me for you.”

Time doesn’t move the same way when we’re there. Things change, but we stretch and grow and make room for one another. Our love is a place we can always come back to, and it will be waiting, the same as it ever was. You belong here.

“What if I’m bad at it?” I ask. “Being a parent.” He sweeps my hair back from my neck. “You won’t be.” “You don’t know that,” I say. “I do,” he says. “How?” I say. “Because you’re good at loving,” he says. “And that’s all you have to do.”

He listens, waits, and like it always has, his presence pulls the truth out of me. Like whispering secrets into a box and shutting it tight, I used to think.

I know you’re scared, but you can’t keep putting this off. The longer you wait, the worse it will be. You have to tell her, Wynnie—

Harriet has me fucked ass up you already know im reading the rest of this text!!

I’ll be home soon.” You’re already home, I think. I wonder if I ever will be.

“Everything’s different and nothing’s changed, Harriet,” he says. “I tried so fucking hard to let you go, to let you be happy, and when I see you, I still feel like—like you’re mine. Like I’m yours. I got rid of every single piece of you, like that would make a difference, like I could cut you out of me, and instead, I just see everywhere you’re supposed to be.”

“I . . .” He darts a glance at our hands. “You were in pain, and I didn’t even notice, Harriet. Or I did, but I thought it was about me. I fucked up, and I lost you for it.” I shake my head ferociously. “You had bigger things going on.” “There was nothing bigger than you,” he says raggedly. “Not to me. Not ever.”

“Wyn,” I whisper shakily. His fingers twitch, tightening through my curls. “Are you saying I can come home?” “I’m saying,” he murmurs softly, “it’s not home unless you’re there.”