Page 24 of Happiness for Beginners

I thought of the night I’d kicked Mike out. I’d gone in for a pregnancy checkup that day, and instead of getting a little stack of ultrasound images to tape up on the fridge, I got the news that I was having a miscarriage. My body, apparently, had “shut down production,” as the nurse described it, and the doc sent me home, warned me that I’d have a lot of cramping in the coming week, and instructed me to find someone to bring me tea and hot water bottles. That someone, of course, should have been Mike, who should have been there with me at the appointment. Who would have been there had he not completely forgotten to show up.

Later, I found out that he’d had a few drinks at a business lunch, goofed around at the office a little tipsy that afternoon, and then headed out to happy hour with “some coworkers.” Happy hour led to late-night carousing, and he didn’t make it home until after I was asleep. I drove myself home that afternoon in a blur, and, as if my body had been waiting for permission, started the miscarriage in earnest that night.

The next morning, I woke Mike to tell him what had happened and announced that I had given up on our marriage. I did it all in about ten minutes and without tears, or sorrow, or regret. That would all come later. Mike was too humbled—and too hungover—to argue. He just kept his eyes down and nodded. I was surprised, once we were separated, at how certain I was: Kicking him out was the right thing to do. Things had been so bad for so long that once he was out, I never seriously considered asking him to come back. And despite a few phone calls and logistical meetings, Mike never made a serious bid to try again. That’s not to say I wasn’t utterly hollowed out and lost after that. I was—and then some. But it was clear to me from that sad day forward that as bad as things were without Mike, they would truly have been worse with him.

That’s what the past year had been—pendulum swings between all the panic and what-ifs that come with giving up on your life, and the wide, numb, blinking sense of shock that fills every space in between. I’m sure there were moments of relief sprinkled in there, as well, but when I think back on the year, I think of one thing: me, alone, under the fluorescent lights in the grocery store, Muzak in the background, ambient noise in the foreground, pushing a squeaky-wheeled cart full of Campbell’s soup. My sad attempt at comfort food.

But I was done with fluorescent lights and Muzak. The year had gone on way too long, but it was over at last. I was ready to amaze myself, dammit! I was ready for something profound! I was ready to experience something transcendent! And Jake and his lips, no matter how mouthwatering they might be, did not qualify. Like the grown-up I was, I refused to give him even one more thought.

Until we stopped for the night.

Jake insisted on carrying both our bags. In the motel room, he dropped them with a thunk. At that, he turned to me, crossed his arms, and ruined everything.

He said, “Remember when I said the bet was off?”

“Yes.”

“It’s back on.”

“You can’t turn it back on!”

“Sure I can.”

I put my hands on my hips in my most authoritative pose. “That wasn’t even a real bet. You plied me with wine and spaghetti Bolognese.”

“I didn’t ply anybody. You plied yourself, lady.”

“Regardless! I was drunk!”

“You were hardly drunk. You were tipsy at best.”

“Jake,” I said, acutely aware that if an almost-kiss could mess with me as much as that one had, an actual kiss could capsize me entirely, “it’s really not a good idea.”

“I disagree.”

“It’s a terrible, laughable, ridiculous idea.”

“Why?”

“Because! Because you’re Duncan’s best friend. Because I don’t even know you. Because we’re headed to the middle of nowhere together tomorrow. And because you’re half my age.”

“Two-thirds.”

“Whatever.”

“I haven’t heard one good reason from you yet.”

“Jake,” I said then, pretty sure I was lying, “I just don’t want to.”

That did it. He looked down. He let out a slow breath of defeat. Then he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “That’s a good reason.”

Next, he reached down for the hem of his shirt and pulled it up, over his head, and off in one swoop. “I’m taking a shower,” he said.

He did it on purpose. At that distance, I literally couldn’tnotstare at the muscles rolling and flexing on his flank as he rooted in his bag for his toiletries. Nor could I help but ogle him as his perfectly perfect male figure walked to the bathroom. He was like an Olympic diver or something—and as soon as that hit me, an image of him swan-diving off a high board in a Speedo popped into my head before I could stop it.

Good God. I gave my forehead apull it togethersmack as Jake shut the door. But it didn’t work. In fact, all I could do was stand still as my mind went carousing without permission. I was still in the exact same spot when Jake finished his shower and came out, now in the pajama pants and the Harvard shirt he’d worn the night before. His towel-dried hair made the same little damp crescents against his neck.

He shuffled right past me, climbed on his bed, and opened a book. The whale book. The only one he’d brought.

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