Happy Place

by Emily Henry

“Wow,” I say, “things descended into orgy territory pretty quickly.” Another Trademark Sabrina Laugh. She jiggles the doorknob. “I guess I should’ve specified we were all sitting on our own hands.”

“Is it really you?” She shakes me by the shoulders. “Are my eyes deceiving me?” “You’re probably confused because she got a new face on Etsy,” Sabrina tells her.

The next time I saw him, I was supposed to be in a sexy Reformation dress with a hot new boyfriend and a full face of makeup. (In this fantasy, I’d also learned how to apply a full face of makeup.) Most importantly, I was supposed to have no perceivable reaction to him.

“Tell us the story,” Kimmy says as Cleo continues, “You once told me you’d rather spend five years in prison than one year as a wife.”

“It’s true,” I say. “In real life, I’m three-dimensional.”

“You should try sending a big-ass nude painting of yourself ahead when you’re going to meet someone new,” I say. “It’s always worked for me.” “I’ll take that into consideration,” he says. “You don’t look like a Wyndham Connor.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Navy-blue jacket with gold buttons. Captain’s hat. A big white beard and a huge cigar?” “So Santa, on a yacht,” he says. “Mr. Monopoly, on vacation,” I say. “For what it’s worth, you’re not the stereotypical image of a Harry Kilpatrick either.” “I know,” I say. “I’m not a Dickensian street orphan in a newsboy hat.”

“Why do you think our entire generation expects everyone to turn out to be a murderer?” he asks with a laugh. “As far as I know, I’ve never met a single one.” “That just means you’ve never met a bad one,” I say.

“Clearly you’re unfamiliar with the concept of the Regency-era duel,” I say. “Oh, I’m familiar, but since I rarely find myself flirting with the unwed daughters of powerful dukes, I figure I’m okay.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I say. “You don’t date your friends? Who do you date, Wyn? Enemies? Strangers? Malevolent spirits who died in your apartment building?”

Which is to say, I still feel like utter shit, but shit ensconced in books and sun-warmed windows. Shit with sugary iced latte flowing through its veins.

“Like why do you love cozy mysteries?” I shrug. “I don’t know. They’re so . . . mild.” His kiss against the side of my head melts into a laugh. “Mild?” “The worst thing that can happen to a person happens, right at the start of the story,” I explain. “And it’s like . . . this feeling of safety. You know exactly what’s going to happen by the end. So many things are unpredictable in life. I like things you can trust.”

Everything is changing. It has to. You can’t stop time. All you can do is point yourself in a direction and hope the wind will let you get there.