Happy Place

WYN LEFT THE drapes and windows open last night, and now the room is cold and bright, salt wafting in on the breeze, and bringing with it the distant squawk of herring gulls. My body feels like melted ice cream, in the best way. Bits of last night glance over my mind: hands fisting into bedding and hair and skin, ragged whispers and pleas.

And then everything that came before.

The fight. The rest of the week. Everything with Wyn.

That today is the last day of our trip.

The pleasant soreness gives way. Now I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus, then backed over and hit one more time at an angle. Wyn is fast asleep, one arm still draped over my ribs and one corner of his mouth lifted. My chest aches at the sight.

Usually, he’s a back sleeper. We used to fall asleep curled up like this, but we’d never get any rest until he shifted onto his back. If we were fitted together like spoons, he’d always start moving restlessly in his sleep, and we’d find our way to each other in a heady, lust-crazed blur. Which was great until the morning, when we both had to get up for work or school.

He’s made it through the whole night beside me, but the whole night, for us, was no more than a couple of hours.

He doesn’t so much as stir as I slide out from under him. He always looks younger when he’s asleep. I wonder if that’s some evolutionary trait: What animal could stand attacking someone who looks so peaceful and innocent?

Okay, I could, but the nice thing would be to let him sleep.

I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater and sneak out of the room, making my way through the silent house. As eager as I am to fix what happened last night, everyone’s either still asleep or in hiding.

After a couple of minutes of aimlessly wandering the kitchen, I decide to walk into town and get everyone drinks from the Warm Cup as a peace offering.

I’ve often thought that the world saves its very best weather for days when you feel like everything’s gone wrong, and today is no different. It’s gloriously sunny, with a refreshing breeze. When the sun reaches its high point, Knott’s Harbor will no doubt be sweltering. Or sweltering for the midcoast anyway, which is to say extremely comfortable when compared to the swampy summers of southern Indiana or the burning-under-a-microscope heat of July in New York City.

A midcoast summer day is the exact day you pine for in the dead of winter.

Still, after ten minutes of following the curving road, past overflowing rhododendron bushes and graying wood-shingled inns being scraped and repainted for the hundredth time, I’m wishing I’d put a tank top on under my sweater.

I’ll have to find a cab back, easier said than done in a tiny village like this. Usually, Sabrina schedules our transportation, and I’m not sure how far ahead she has to do it.

If I waited on all of you, this friendship would already be over, she said. She’s not entirely wrong. Friendship with Sabrina, with this whole group, has always felt like a current I could toss myself bodily into. And that’s what I’m most used to: coasting along on other people’s whims and feelings.

It had never occurred to me that that could be read as apathy. That they might think I just don’t care. Guilt twinges through me.

The cracked sidewalk turns and deposits me in town in front of the coffee shop. Under the faded awning over its walk-up window, collecting a recycled drink carrier, is Cleo.

She stiffens at the sight of me, slowly lifts one hand.

I do the same.

For a moment, neither of us moves. Then the barista calls out, “Doug!” and the only other waiting customer nudges Cleo aside to pick up an order.

She ambles toward me with her carrier, and I meet her halfway, in front of the cheerily painted bench in front of the Italian restaurant. In between rows of cutesy red cartoon lobsters, in cutesy font, are the words FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY!!!

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I say.

She lifts the drink carrier. “Coffee?”

“Then you’d only have three left,” I say.

She cracks a half-hearted smile. “The salted-caramel latte is for you.”

I look down at the carrier. Three very average-sized drinks, and one that’s the coffee shop equivalent of a Big Gulp. “So they were out of 5-Hour Energies and Adderall, I see.”

Her smile widens. “I couldn’t carry five drinks. So I got one big-ass Americano for Sabrina and Parth to split, a black coffee for Wyn, and a matcha for Kim.”

My chest stings. “You have our drink orders memorized.”

She lifts one shoulder. “I know you.”

Another beat of silence.

“You want to walk for a minute?” she asks.

I nod.

“Here.” She balances the carrier on the bench and pries my paper cup out of it.

“I’ll Venmo you,” I say.

She winces a little. “Please don’t.”

We meander down toward the water, the brine in the air thickening.

After a second, I tell her, “I never learned how to fight.”

She glances sidelong at me.

“Especially not with people I care about,” I say. “I mean, not with anyone. But especially not with the people I love. In fact, I specifically only know how to avoid fights. Or, usually I do.”

She watches me with a divot between her eyebrows.

“I don’t know how fights are supposed to end when you love the person you’re fighting with,” I go on. “In my family, everyone always left when things got bad. Eloise would storm out, or my parents would send her to her room and then go shut themselves in opposite sides of the house, and things never got better afterward. They always felt a little worse.

“And I guess I thought . . . if I kept us from ever fighting, then everyone would stay. I was never trying to cut anyone out. It was the exact opposite. I haven’t been fun to be around in a long time, Cleo.”

Her brows knit tighter, an air of utter mystification to her expression. I wonder if I accidentally said the whole sentence backward.

“The point is,” I say, “I’m sorry. I should have told you about Wyn and me. I should’ve called more.”

After a moment, she looks back over the water. “I wasn’t totally fair last night,” she says. “I understand why you wouldn’t tell us.”

“You do?” I say.

She looks back at me, nods once.

“Lucky,” I say. “Can you explain it to me like I’m five years old?”

She doesn’t crack a smile this time. “You were in denial,” she says. “And telling us would’ve made it all feel real. And even if it is real, even if it’s what you chose, you still know it’s going to change everything, and that’s scary. Because you need us. We’re your family.”

I stare at her. “Damn.”

“Was I close?” she asks.

I set my drink down on one of the posts that line the water here, thick rope strung between them. “More like, are you psychic?” I say.

She lets out a little breathless laugh and looks back to the water sloshing against the bank. Tears glint in the corners of her eyes. “I’m pregnant,” she says.

I know there must be sounds all around me—the water, the low horn of boats leaving the harbor, the lobstermen across the bay shouting back and forth, ribbing one another as they load and unload traps.

But it’s like someone’s clipped the wires to my ears.

When it rushes back in, I hear myself burst into tears, which makes Cleo burst into tears.

I grab the drink carrier from her hands and deposit it on the next post over. Then I pull her into a hug.

“Why are you crying?” she asks wetly, arms twining around me. “You’re not the one who’s going to have to push a squash out of her body.”

“I know!” I say. “I’m just so happy.”

Cleo laughs. “Me too. And fucking terrified. I mean, I chose this. I knew what it meant—it’s not like I tripped through the door of a sperm bank. We spent months choosing the right donor. But . . . I think I expected it to take longer. To have longer to wrap my head around the idea of being a mom.

“But that’s not how it happened. And I . . . I’m so scared I’ll be bad at it.”

I pull back to look into her eyes as she wipes away her tears. “Are you kidding?” I say. “You’re going to be a perfect mom. You’re going to be your mom 2.0, and—wait a second! How far along are you? How long have you known you were doing this?”

She ducks her head. “Like I said,” she murmurs, “it wasn’t entirely fair to be so upset about your secret.”

“Apparently,” I say.

“And that’s why I’ve been hesitant to have Sabrina and Parth visit the farm,” she goes on. “We already have a ton of baby shit. Kimmy’s dad mails us something new every day, and I haven’t felt ready to explain why we have four separate bassinets.”

“Because Kimmy’s dad is a baby-obsessed hoarder?” I say.

“He’s going to be an amazing grandpa,” she says wistfully. “I didn’t even want to tell him yet, but Kimmy accidentally blurted it out. I’m only a couple months along. So many things could still go wrong.”

I jog her by the elbows. “So many things could go right too.”

She gives a wan smile. “I don’t know what it means for us.”

“It means you’re going to be moms,” I say.

She shakes her head. “What it means for all of us, Harry. If my Google searches are anything to go on, I’m going to be tired all the time and a worried wreck whenever I’m conscious. I’m already not the ‘fun one’ in the group—”

I snatch her hands. “Cleo! That’s completely ridiculous. You are so fun.”

“Kimmy is fun,” she says, skeptical. “And I mean, it’s why I fell in love with her. But sometimes it’s hard not to feel like . . . like everyone already likes my girlfriend more than me. Even my best friends. And the more I grow into myself, the less room there might be for me.”

“How long have you felt like this?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Probably since I stopped drinking.”

“I wish you would’ve said something.”

“It’s embarrassing!” she says. “Being jealous of your own partner? I didn’t even tell Kimmy until a few months ago.”

“I love Kimmy,” I say, “and you know that. She has a lot of amazing qualities, and she’s become one of my best friends. But you know what my favorite thing about her is?”

The corners of Cleo’s mouth turn up. “Her banging body?”

“That’s number two. Number one is how happy she makes you. When you two started dating, it felt like the final missing puzzle piece to . . . all this. Our family. But that doesn’t make you any less essential. You and Sabrina are my best friends. Always. And I’m so sorry I ever gave you reason to doubt that.”

Her eyes gloss, and her voice quivers. “But what if having a baby changes me? What if the gulf gets wider and wider until we don’t have anything in common?”

“I don’t need you to stay the same, Cleo,” I say. “And it’s not ‘having things in common’ that makes me love you. We’re so different, Clee. All of us. And I wouldn’t change anything about you. Like I said, you are a missing piece of my heart, and Sabrina is too. If your schedule has to change, or you start singing Barney songs to yourself, or become one of those people who post about their kids’ diaper blowouts on social media—”

“You’ll put me out of my misery?” she asks quietly.

“God, yes. I’ll take your phone and feed it to the sea. But I’ll also still love you. You’re family to me. You and Sab both.”

Cleo’s smile fades. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on her either.”

“There might’ve been a better way to say it,” I admit, “but I think you needed to get some of that off your chest. And we probably needed to hear it.”

“Maybe.” Cleo chews her lip. “Sabrina’s pretty loyal, but when she feels wronged . . .”

“I’m not telling you to use your pregnancy as a bargaining chip,” I say, “but I think when she finds out what you’ve been dealing with, she’s going to understand. And then she’s going to plan you a very over-the-top party, with a photorealistic baby cake and actual live storks flapping around your house.”

Cleo devolves into laughter, letting her head fall against my shoulder. “I can’t wait.”

She laces her fingers through mine, and we stay there a little longer, watching the boats glide in and out, listening to full conversations held over megaphones as people pass one another in the water.

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.

Another maritime metaphor. I am truly a local’s worst nightmare. But the point stands: change happens.

Two of my best friends are having a baby.

A near-painful joy flares through me. “Oh my god.”

Cleo looks up. “Hm?”

“I just realized,” I say, “I’m going to be an aunt.”

She snorts a laugh. “Harry,” she says. “You’re going to be a co-godmother.”