Happy Place

by Emily Henry

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.)

It sends a zing of surprise down my spine, like a zipper undone.

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.

“Are there any places you go back to again and again in your dreams?”

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 don’t want to feel like I don’t have time or energy to try anything new because everything I have is getting poured into a job I don’t even like. I don’t want to live my life like it’s a triathlon and all that matters is getting to some imaginary ribbon. I want my life to be like—like making pottery. I want to enjoy it while it’s happening, not just for where it might get me eventually.

“I want a life,” I say. “I don’t love surgery enough for that to be mine. I want to sleep in sometimes. I want to stay up too late and take vacations with my friends, and I want to have energy to decorate my apartment and to try new things. I can’t do any of that when I’m this worn-out. I know that’s disappointing, but it’s my choice.”