“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.”
7
HAPPY PLACE
KNOTT’S HARBOR, MAINE
THE KIDS’ ROOM. Warped floorboards and crooked windows, creamy drapes, and twin beds topped in matching blue-gray quilts on either wall. My first week back with my friends after my London semester, and I’m sharing a room with a virtual stranger.
A pleasantly musty smell, tempered by lemon verbena furniture polish.
By cinnamon toothpaste. By pine, clove, woodsmoke, and strange pale eyes that wink and flash like some nocturnal animal. Not that I’m looking at him.
I can’t keep looking at him. But within hours of meeting Wyn Connor, it’s obvious he has his own gravity. I can’t bring myself to look at him straight on in the full light of day, always start loading dishes or drawing a net through the pool when he’s too close.
From the early mornings curtained in mist to late at night, my subconscious tracks him.
I’m living two separate weeks. One of them is bliss, the other torture. Sometimes they’re indistinguishable.
I laze in the pool with Cleo while she reads some artist’s memoir or encyclopedia exclusively about mushrooms. I wander the antique shops, junk shops, fudge shops in town with Sabrina. Parth and I walk up to the coffee place and the little red lobster roll stand with the constant hour-long line.
We play chicken in the pool, Never Have I Ever around the firepit. We pass around bottles of sauvignon blanc, rosé, chardonnay.
“Will your dad mind that we’re drinking his wine?” Wyn asks.
I wonder if he’s worried, like I was the first time Sabrina brought Cleo and me here, if he’s realizing she’d have every right to present us with bills at the end of the week, bills that the rest of us couldn’t afford.
“Of course he’d mind,” Sabrina replies, “if he ever noticed. But he’s incapable of noticing anything that’s not inside a Swiss bank account.”
“He has no idea what he’s missing,” Cleo says.