Page 14 of Happiness for Beginners

“That’s right.”

“Why on earth not?”

He looked out the window. “It just turns out not to be a great fit.”

This was the vaguest answer I’d heard from him all day. “You’ve spent years doing coursework and prerequisites, you’ve taken the MCATs and gone to the trouble of applying, and you’vegotten in—and now you decide it’s not a great fit?”

“That’s about right,” he said, like we were done.

“But what changed?”

“I changed.”

I was ready to press him for more. It was, as he himself had pointed out, a long drive to Evanston, and if he could make me talk about Duncan then I was happy to make him talk about anything I pleased. But he must really have wanted to change the subject, because before I could ask another question, he caused a diversion.

“You know what?” he said. “I need to pee.” Next thing, he was rolling down the window and emptying out his half-full water bottle.

The wind came in like a roar. “What are you doing?” I shouted.

“Emptying this out,” he shouted back.

“You’re not going to pee into that!”

“Sure I am!”

“No, no! There’s an exit right up here!”

“It’s cool! I have great aim!”

“It isnotcool!”

“But I’m fine with the bottle!”

“But I’m definitely not!”

The bottle was empty now, and he rolled his window back up. The car seemed suddenly too quiet. “I’ll make a little shield with my book,” he said then. “You won’t even see.”

“Stop!” I said. “Do not unbutton, unzip, or even think about your pants. We’re pulling over!”

He shook his head. “It’s a waste of time.”

“But guess what?” I said—not lying, exactly. “I need to pee, too. And we need gas, so we’re stopping anyway.”

“Oh,” he said, letting his hands fall from the top button of his pants. “I guess you’ve got a point there.”

I veered toward the exit without even using the blinker. This, I reminded myself, was exactly the issue. This guy wasn’t just a twenty-something: He was a toddler, and not even potty-trained. I had forgotten who I was dealing with for a minute there. All that talk of Nathaniel Hawthorne and medical school had obscured the essential facts: This kid was not someone I could relate to. He adored my awful brother. He had ditched medical school for no apparent reason. And he was about to unzip his pants and relieve himself into an Evian bottle. In the passenger seat of my Subaru.

Ramping off, I turned right, then right again, then stopped by a pump at the gas station. “When I said I drew the line at peeing in bottles, I meant for both of us,” I said, yanking up the parking brake and turning to meet his eyes. “For this to work,” I added, “you’re going to have to keep your pants on.”

He suppressed a smile like I was terribly funny.

“Got it?” I asked, giving in to an impulse to reach over and knock him on the forehead.

“Got it,” he said, and his smile broke through. “I vow to keep my pants on,” he said, offering a little salute. “Unless you command me otherwise.”

Chapter 4

We made it to Grandma GiGi’s before nine, surpassing all expectations.

---