Happy Place

WHEN WE GET back to the cottage, everyone disperses to wash the day’s grit and sunburn away before dinner. It’s Taco Thursday, a tradition in which Sabrina makes a much-too-large meal while the rest of us bumble around, acting as her semi-inept sous-chefs.

“Tonight,” Sabrina says, ticking her menu items off as we walk up to the front door, “we’re doing a grapefruit and avocado salad, doused in citrus dressing and fennel. Zucchini fritters and grilled corn. And then fried fish tacos for the meat eaters among us, and pulled jackfruit ones for Kimmy and Cleo.”

The side dishes change, as do the taco toppings, but Sabrina’s always been adamant that the worst thing about vacationing in Knott’s Harbor is the absence of a good taco place, and she cannot abide that. I linger downstairs while everyone else goes up, waiting until Wyn comes back with clean clothes, headed to the outdoor shower, as I knew he would be.

“It’s all yours,” he says, tipping his head back toward the stairs at the front of the house.

“Thanks.” We both root to the spot for a few seconds.

He cracks first, heading for the back door.

Upstairs, I rifle through my luggage for something comfy and warm enough to sit out on a cool night like this, and then head toward the bathroom portion of the suite. My phone lights up on the side table, and I stop to pick it up.

Mom’s texted me, and I have no idea what she’s talking about.

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—

I drop the phone like it’s a live snake.

His phone, not mine. Mine’s on the other side of the bed.

I step back, heart beating furiously. I’m unsure if I’m more afraid of being caught with Wyn’s phone or of what else I might see on it. Scratch that, it’s the second one.

For a minute I don’t know what to do. My mind is cycling through all the worst possibilities, the things Gloria might want Wyn to tell me.

Something about her health. Something about his.

Or maybe he’s started introducing the idea of the breakup to her, slowly guiding her toward the expectation that we don’t belong together and that it has nothing to do with the physical distance caring for her requires.

It doesn’t. Not anymore. The thought pings through me, a drunken, angry pinball rebounding back and forth between my ribs. He’s happy. He might’ve gone to Montana for his mom, but he’s there for himself now.

She must see how happy he is. She must know he’s ready to let go of me.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, tears pouring down my cheeks out of nowhere. I don’t know why, but it feels like a whole separate breakup. Accepting, now, the truth: That he’s moved on. That all these moments I cling to, like little mental life rafts, are just memories for him.

The truth is, I don’t know what this text means.

I can talk myself in and out of worrying about it all day, but it’s not my business. Just like I told him my life wasn’t his business.

I won’t ask. I can’t. If he wants to tell me, he will, but it’s been a long time since Wyn has given me any answers. Much longer than five months.

I take a shuddering breath, square my shoulders, and get into the shower.

Where I cry some more.

Stupid, stupid, stupid heart. Don’t you know he hasn’t been yours to cry over for a long time?