Happy Place

THE “BIG BEDROOM” is a disaster. A beautiful, amazing, nightmarish disaster. The kids’ room is at the front of the hallway and thus is part of the original house. This is at the back, in the behemoth extension. There are no wonky doors that get stuck, or windows you have to prop open with books, or floorboards that snap and groan when no one’s even touching them.

This room is pure luxury. The king-sized bed has four-zillion-thread-count sheets. A set of double doors opens onto a balcony that overlooks both the saltwater pool and the bluffs beyond it, and there’s both a massive stone tub and a two-person shower made of dark slate and glass.

However, if I could make one minor interior design suggestion, it would be to put one or both of the aforementioned amenities behind a door. As it stands, they’re out in the open.

Sure, the toilet gets to hide in a shameful little cabinet, but if I plan on changing my clothes at any point during this week, my options are (1) accept that I’ll be doing so with an audience of one, namely my ex-fiancé; (2) stuff myself into the shit-closet and pray for good balance; or (3) find a discreet way to sneak down to the infamous outdoor shower stall over by the guesthouse.

All this to say, I spend my fifteen minutes of “relaxation” taking a private shower while I can. Then I pull on a pair of jeans and a clean white T-shirt. One of Wyn’s and my few areas of overlap is our complete absence of personal style.

His work has always required him to dress practically, and most of his clothes quickly get beaten up, so there’s no point in having anything too nice to begin with.

For me, though, the overreliance on tight Levi’s and T-shirts has more to do with the fact that I hate making decisions. It took me years to figure out what kind of clothes I like on my body, and now I’m sticking with it.

Another solar flare–bright memory: Wyn and me lying in bed, lamplight spilling over us, his hair a mess, that one obstinate lock on his forehead. His mouth presses to the curve of my belly, then the crease of my hip. He whispers against all my softest parts, Perfect.

A shiver crawls down my spine.

Quite enough of that.

I knot my hair atop my head and trudge back downstairs.

Everyone’s moved out to the wooden table on the back patio. Four feet worth of charcuterie runs down its center, and because Sabrina is Sabrina, there are place cards, ensuring that Cleo and Kimmy are seated in front of the vegan offerings, while I’ll be face-to-face with a Brie wheel so big it could be fixed to a wheelbarrow in a pinch.

Wyn looks up from his phone as I step onto the patio. I can’t tell if the momentary splash of anxiety across his face is wishful thinking on my part, because as soon as I clock it, he puts his phone away, breaks into a smile, and reaches out to collect me around the waist, pulling me in against his side.

Rigidly, I drop into the wrought iron chair next to his, and his arm rearranges, loosely crooking around my shoulders.

Sabrina rises from her seat at the head of the table. “I’m not sure if you had a chance to look at your itineraries yet . . .”

“Is that what that was?” Cleo says. “I’ve been using it as a doorstop.”

Kimmy, with two gherkins sticking out of her mouth like walrus tusks, adds, “So much of it was redacted, I assumed it was a deposition.”

“Those are just a couple of surprises,” Sabrina says. “The rest of the week will be our usual fare.”

Wyn takes a hard chomp of carrot, the force of which rattles down my body. I can’t get a good breath without hundreds of the nerve endings along my rib cage and chest pressing into him, which means I’m barely getting any oxygen.

“Grocery Gladiators?” Kimmy squeals right as Cleo says hopefully, “Murder, She Read?”

“Yes and yes,” Sabrina says, confirming we will be doing two of our usual—and most diametrically opposite—Maine activities: a trip to the local bookstore (Cleo’s and my favorite) and a very ridiculous way of grocery shopping, which has been Parth and Kimmy’s great passion ever since they teamed up three years ago and started a “winning streak,” insomuch as one can “win” at grocery shopping.

Wyn and I used to debate whether Sabrina concocted the game of Grocery Gladiators because she got tired of how long our trips to the market were. There’s a heavenly bakery in one corner, and a whole local snacks section, and between the six of us, it’s like shopping with very bougie, somewhat drunk toddlers, one person wandering off every time the rest of us are ready to go.

“But tonight I figured we’d swim, do our usual cookout and all that,” Sabrina says. “I just want to bask in the togetherness.”

“To togetherness,” Parth cries, initiating the fifth toast of the day. As soon as Wyn removes his arm from around my shoulders, I scooch my chair sideways under the pretense of grabbing the open prosecco to refill my glass.

“To Grocery Gladiators,” Kimmy joins in.

To drinking your body weight in wine and hoping you wake up and realize this was all a dream, I think.

Across the table, Cleo’s looking at me thoughtfully, a little divot between her delicate brows. I force a smile and lift my flute in her direction. “To that one guy at Murder, She Read who still gives us the student discount.”

Cleo’s mouth quirks faintly, like she’s not fully convinced by my display, but she clinks her glass—water; Cleo gave up alcohol years ago because it irritated her stomach—to mine anyway. “May we always be so lucky, and so youthful.”

“Shoot, bottle’s empty,” Sabrina says from the end of the table.

I lurch to my feet before Wyn can volunteer. He starts to rise anyway, and I shove him back down in his chair. “You stay here and relax, honey,” I say, acidly sweet. “I’ll get the wine.”

“Thanks, Har,” Sab calls as I beeline for the back doors. “Door should be open!”

Another facet of Mr. Armas’s upgrade to the cottage: he had the old stone cellar converted to a top-of-the-line vault for his immense and immensely expensive wine collection. It’s password protected and everything, though Sabrina always leaves it open so any of us can run down and grab something.

Too quickly I find a bottle whose label matches the one on the table. I’m guessing that means it’s not a thousand-dollar prosecco, but with Sabrina, you never know. She might’ve pulled out all the stops for us, regardless of whether our unrefined palates are able to appreciate said pulled stops.

It makes my heart twinge, thinking of this perfect final week she’s planned for us and my utter inability to enjoy it.

One day. Let them have one perfect day, and tomorrow we’ll come clean.

By the time I get back upstairs, everyone’s laughing, the very picture of a laid-back best friends’ trip. Wyn’s gaze snags on mine, and his dimpled smile doesn’t fall or even falter.

He’s fine! No big deal that his ex-fiancée’s here, or that we’re essentially staying in a honeymoon suite with an extreme every-surface-here-is-specifically-designed-with-fucking-in-mind vibe!

No discernible reaction to my presence.

This time, the zing that goes down my spine feels less like a zipper undone and more like angry flame on a streak of gasoline.

It’s not fair that he’s fine. It’s not fair that being here with me doesn’t feel like having his heart roasted on a spit, like it does for me.

You can do this, Harriet. If he’s fine, you can be too. For your friends.

I set the wine bottle on the table as I round it and come to stand behind Wyn, sliding my hands down his shoulders to his chest, until my face is beside his and I can feel his heartbeat in my hands, even and unbothered.

Not good enough. If I’m going to be tormented, so is he.

I burrow my face into the side of his neck, all warm pine and clove. “So,” I say, “who’s up for a swim?”

Goose bumps rise from his skin. This time, the zing feels like victory.

•   •   •

“I’M STARTING TO suspect,” Kimmy says, “that we might be a wee bit in-bree-biated. In-bee-biatred.”

“Who? Us?” I say, slowly trying to push myself to my feet on the slippery stand-up paddle mat as Kimmy crouches on the far end. Wife Number Five bought the mats for “aqua yoga” a couple of years back, and I’d forgotten all about them until tonight.

Kimmy screams, and Parth dives out of the way as the mat flips over, dumping us back into the pool for easily the sixth time.

The three of us pop out of the water. Kimmy flicks her head back to get her matted red-gold hair out of her face. “Us,” she confirms. “All of us.”

“Well,” I say, jerking my head toward the patio table, where Cleo, Sabrina, and Wyn are deep in a game of poker, “maybe not them.”

“Oh, no,” Parth says. “Sabrina absolutely is. But competition sobers her up, and her big goal of the week is to finally beat Cleo.”

“And to get married,” I point out.

“And that,” Parth agrees, swimming toward the side of the glowing pool. Kimmy’s already trying to wrangle her way back upright on the paddle mat, but I kick my way over to follow Parth.

“How did it happen?” I ask.

“Don’t you want to hear it from her?” he asks.

“No, I want to hear the detailed version,” I say. “Sabrina’s terrible at telling stories.”

“I heard that!” she cries from over at the table, then lays her hand down. “And I’m not terrible. I’m succinct. Straight flush.”

Beside her, Cleo grimaces a little and says, almost guiltily, “Royal flush.”

Sabrina groans and drops her forehead to the table. From behind us comes the unmistakable sound of another Kimmy belly flop.

Conspiratorially, Parth says, “I asked her a year ago,” and I’m so surprised, I accidentally smack him.

“A year?” I cry. “You’ve been engaged a year?”

He shakes his head. “Back then, she was still saying she never wanted to get married! Wouldn’t even take the ring. And then, a few weeks back, she found out about the house, and . . .” He glances toward the poker match. Sabrina’s absorbed in shuffling. “She asked me.”

“What?”

He grimaces and rubs the back of his neck. “And I said no. Because I thought it was, like, this knee-jerk reaction. You know how it is for her. This house was the last place she felt like she had a family, before her parents split. And then once she brought you and Cleo here—and then the rest of us—this cottage is the place she considers home. So when her dad told her he was selling it, I figured she was scrambling to put some kind of anchor down. That wasn’t a good enough reason for me to say yes.”

“So you proposed and she said no,” I reply, “and then she proposed and you said no?”

He nods. “But that was a month and a half ago, and I thought she was mad at me for it. Until a couple weeks ago. She asked me again, with this for-real proposal. Like, planned an elaborate scavenger hunt and everything.”

“Wow,” I say. “Parth vibes.”

“I know,” he agrees. “Anyway, at the end, she got down on one knee in Central Park, like a bona fide romantic, and told me that she’s always known she wanted to be with me forever, but she was so scared that was impossible, she’d never let herself say it aloud. Because of her parents, you know. And Cleo’s.” He gives me an apologetic look as he adds, “And yours.”

It was something she and I bonded over early on: her dad, who burned through marriages like they were limited-series thrillers, and my parents, who stayed together but rarely seemed happy about it.

Sabrina had never wanted to get married, lest she have to go through a vicious divorce. I was more scared of marrying someone who couldn’t bring himself to leave me or to keep loving me.

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.

Parth, Wyn, and Kimmy were all the product of loving, lasting marriages, and Cleo’s parents had split when she was little but stayed on excellent terms. They still lived a block apart in New Orleans and had regular family dinners with each other and their respective spouses.

“Anyway,” Parth says. “Sabrina decided she’d been letting her dad have too much impact on her life. She didn’t want to make any more decisions just for the sake of not doing what he’d do. So I said yes and then planned my own proposal.”

“Well, naturally,” I say. “You’re the Party King of Paxton Avenue.”

He laughs, flicks back his wet hair. “I needed her to know I wanted it too, you know. Maybe it’s weird to combine the wedding with this goodbye trip, but I don’t know. I just need this week to be absolutely perfect for her.”

My chest aches. My palms itch.

“I’m really, really happy for you,” I tell him.

He grins crookedly, plants a loud smooch atop my head. “Thanks, Har. We really couldn’t have figured our shit out without you and Wyn. I hope you know that.”

“Oh, come on,” I say.

“I’m serious,” he replies. “You were the first ones to cross that friendship line, and to prove it could work. Sab says all the time that she spent way too much time worrying that going after what she wanted could jeopardize what the six of us already had, and watching you two keep loving each other for all these years, that really helped her believe we could do this.”

My throat squeezes, and my eyes go straight to the poker match. Wyn’s not looking, is focused on his phone, but heat unfurls from my hairline to my collarbone anyway.

Behind us, Kimmy cries, “I did it! I’m a god!” right before she topples again.

“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.” He flips backward, away from the wall, and strokes toward Kimmy.

I towel off as I make my way through the cool, silent house. The kitchen is a mess, so I wipe down the counters, add the empty bottles to the recycling, and then head toward the powder room tucked back by the laundry. No one ever uses this one, because it’s been here in some form since the early 1900s and thus is approximately two feet wide.

I take hold of the sink as I try to catch my breath. In the mirror, my face is already sunburnt, my hair a salty, tangled mess. So much for that shower. Maybe I can sneak away for a quick rinse while everyone’s still out back.

Maybe I can throw all my clothes back into my bag and run away and, I don’t know, not ruin my best friends’ wedding. Oh god. This is a disaster.

I pee, wash my hands with the luxurious grapefruit-scented soap Mr. Armas stocks all his hotels with, take one last deep inhale, and open the door.

My first instinct when I see Wyn waiting in the narrow hall is to slam the door shut in his face. Like this is a bad dream, and if I close it and open it again, he’ll have disappeared.

But as usual, my body is two and a half steps behind my brain, so by the time I’ve registered him and the sound of overlapping voices down the hall in the kitchen, he’s already pushing me back and shutting us in together.

My heart is hammering. My limbs feel hot and unsteady. I’d already turned off the light, and for some reason he doesn’t reach to switch it back on, so we’re cast in the dim, candle-like glow of the sensor-operated night-light mounted beside the mirror.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Relax.” The dark makes his voice sound too close. Or maybe that’s the six inches between us.

“You can’t shove a woman into a dark room and tell her to relax!” I hiss.

“I couldn’t figure out how to get you alone,” he says.

“Have you considered that might be intentional?” I say.

He huffs. “Our plan isn’t going to work.”

“I know,” I say.

His brow lifts. “You do?”

“I may have just mentioned that,” I say.

He sinks back against the door, chin lifting, a deep inhale filling his lungs to the point that our chests brush. I try to step backward and am met with a towel rack.

“We’ll have to stick it out five more days,” I say.

He rebounds from the door. Our chests press together, a current of angry electricity leaping from his skin into mine, or maybe the other way around. “You just agreed with me that we couldn’t do this.”

“No, I said we can’t follow through with our plan. They need this week to be perfect, Wyn. Sabrina’s already a bundle of nerves. This could mess up everything.”

“Oh, it’s going to mess up something,” he growls.

“Talk to Parth,” I say. “If you leave that conversation feeling good about blowing up this week, then I can’t stop you. But you’re not going to.”

He sighs. “This is so unbelievably messed up.”

“It’s certainly not ideal,” I say, parroting his phrasing from earlier.

His eyes flash. “Hilarious.”

“I thought so.” I lift my chin like I am not at all intimidated by his closeness. Like there definitely aren’t hundreds of hornets batting around in my chest trying to get to him.

Our glares hold for several seconds. I’m not sure he’s ever glared at me. As a categorically conflict-averse person, I’m surprised how powerful the glare makes me feel. I’m finally getting a rise out of him, getting past that granite facade he used to shut me out.

“Fine,” he says. “Then I guess we have to do this.” He catches my hand. My whole body feels like it’s made of live wires, even before I register the cool white-gold loop slipping over my finger.

I jerk back before he can get the ring on. He lets me, but again, the towel rack doesn’t.

“Someone’s going to notice if you’re not wearing it,” he says.

“They haven’t so far,” I say.

“It’s only been a couple of hours,” he says. “And Kimmy was dancing and singing into a wooden spoon to that one Crash Test Dummies song for the vast majority of that. People were busy.”

“So we commandeer the playlist,” I say. “I can easily think of at least twenty-six songs that will put Kimmy into show mode.”

Wyn’s eyebrow arches. It tugs on his mouth, revealing a sliver of glow-in-the-dark smile. That snow globe feeling hits, where up is down and down is up and everything is either glitter or corn syrup.

“Why do you even have this?” I demand.

“Because,” he says, “I knew I was going to see you, and it’s yours.”

“I gave it back,” I remind him.

“Well aware of that,” he says. “Now are you going to put it on, or should we go tell them it’s over now?”

I shove my hand out, palm up. I’m sure as hell not letting him slide my old engagement ring onto my finger.

He hesitates, like he’s debating saying something, then sets it in my palm. I put it on and hold my hand up. “Happy?”

He laughs, shakes his head, and starts to leave. He turns back, leaning into the door. “How long should we say it’s been? Since we last saw each other, if anyone asks.”

“They won’t ask,” I say.

My vision’s adjusted to the dark enough that I can see, in detail, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Why not?”

“Because it’s a boring question.”

“I don’t think it’s a boring question,” he says. “I’m desperate to know the answer. I’m on pins and needles, Harriet.”

I roll my eyes. “A month.”

His eyes close for a moment. If I knew they would stay closed, I wouldn’t be able to help myself: I’d trace a finger down his nose, around the curve of his mouth, not touching him but relishing in the almost. I hate how entangled we still feel on a quantum level. Like my body will never stop trying to find its way back to his.

His eyes slit open. “Did I come to San Francisco, or did you come to Montana?”

I snort.

His eyes flash.

“I haven’t had time to do laundry in the last month,” I say. “I definitely didn’t fly to Montana and walk around a ranch in a ten-gallon hat.”

Somberly, he asks, “How many pairs of underwear do you own?”

“Now, that I’m sure no one will ask you,” I say.

“You haven’t done laundry in a month,” he replies. “I’m just doing that math, Harriet.”

“Well, if I run out, at least Parth’s packing list for you has me covered.”

“And if you visited me,” he says, “no part of your visit would have been me marching you around a ranch in a ten-gallon hat. What exactly do you think I do all day?”

“Furniture repair,” I say with a shrug. “Rodeo clowning. Maybe that one senior water aerobics class Gloria was always trying to get us to go to when we used to visit.”

Date beautiful women, breathe in the Montana air, and feel whole-body relief to have left San Francisco, and me, behind.

“How is Gloria?” I ask.

Wyn’s head falls back against the door. “Good.” He doesn’t go on.

It stings like he meant for it to, this reminder that I’m not entitled to any more information about his mother, his whole family, than this one-word reply.

Then his face softens, mouth quirking. “I did try the water aerobics class with her.”

“Yeah, right.”

He sets a hand across his heart. “I swear.”

My snort of laughter catches me off guard. Even stranger, it doesn’t stop after one, instead devolving until it’s like popcorn is exploding through my chest, until I feel—almost—like I’m crying instead of laughing.

All the while Wyn stands there, leaned against the door, watching me, bemused. “Are you quite finished, Harriet?”

“For now.”

He nods. “So I visited you in San Francisco. Last month.”

Any trace of humor evaporates from the air. “That’s the story.”

He studies me for a beat too long. My face prickles. My blood hums.

We both jump at a sudden, high-pitched blast of sound from down the hall.

Wyn sighs. “Parth got an air horn app.”

“God save us,” I say.

“He used it like fifteen times before you got here. As you can imagine, it hasn’t gotten old.”

I bite my lip before any hint of a smile can surface. I refuse to let myself be charmed by him. Not again.

“Well.” He pushes away from the door. “I’ll leave you to . . .”

He waves toward me, as if to wordlessly communicate Standing alone in this dark bathroom.

“That would be great,” I say, and then he’s gone.

I count to twenty, then let myself out, heart still pounding. After pausing in the kitchen long enough to fill my abandoned wineglass to the very brim, I step back out into the brisk chill of night. Everyone’s bundled up now, a fire burning in the stone pit, my friends crowded around and wrapped in a mishmash of towels, sweatshirts, and blankets. I take a seat beside Cleo and she pulls me into a side hug, rearranging her flannel blanket over my bare legs too. “Everything good?” she asks.

“Of course it is,” I insist, snuggling closer. “I’m in my happy place.”