Page 15 of Happiness for Beginners

Jake didn’t want to drive at night—something to do with his new glasses—and so, after the rest stop, he took the remaining daylight shifts and kept us steady at ninety miles an hour. By the time the sun went down and I slowed us back to sixty-five, we were impressively ahead of schedule. We were so pleased with ourselves that we high-fived on arrival. In fact, we accidentally hugged.

When we knocked on Grandma GiGi’s door, though, she didn’t answer. I had to go hunt for the hidden key in the garden. And when we let ourselves in, instead of my white-haired grandmother in her red kimono with a glass of pinot noir in the hand with her dragonfly ring, we found a note on the kitchen table:

Duncan says you got a late start and won’t make it for dinner. I’ve gone out to book club. Don’t wait up!

XX! GG

P.S. Helen, rumple that cute boy’s hair for me.

Jake read the note over my shoulder. “I told you she loves me,” he said.

“I’m not rumpling your hair,” I said.

“I’ll tell if you don’t.”

“It’s self-rumpling,” I said. “It doesn’t need me.”

Dinner—spaghetti Bolognese—was warming in the oven. A bottle of wine sat on the table.

“This is a great wine,” Jake said, examining the label.

“I’m too tired for wine,” I said.

“Not this one, you’re not.”

I rolled my eyes at Jake and plunked down into a kitchen chair. “You don’t know about wine.”

“I do. I took a class.”

I frowned at him. “Why?”

But then I figured it out, and just as he answered, I answered, too, and we said, in unison, “To get girls.”

“That’s right,” he said. “The same reason I learned to juggle. And took swing-dancing lessons. And readThe Beauty Myth.”

“You readThe Beauty Mythto get girls?”

“Sure.”

I put my hand over my eyes. “You usedThe Beauty Mythfor evil?”

“Not for evil,” he said, looking over. “For good. A whole lot of good.”

“I’m going to bed,” I said.

“Nope,” he said. “We’re having dinner.” And as he said it, he carried two plates waiter-style to the back door and let himself outside. When I didn’t follow, he poked his head back in. “Come on,” he said.

“Where are you going?” I asked, but he was gone again.

A minute later, he came back for the wine. “We’re having a picnic,” he said, pulling me by the hand out the back door, across the yard, and out to the old tree house that my grandpa had built back when my mom was a kid.

I stopped at the base and looked up. At just below shoulder-height, it wasn’t as tall as I remembered, but it was still taller than anything I felt like climbing.

“I’m not going up there.”

The words were hardly out of my mouth when Jake brought his shoulder down to scoop me into a fireman’s carry. He hoisted me up and sat me neatly on the tree house deck before I could even protest. A second later he landed beside me, handing over my plate and a glass of wine like we ate this way every night.

“You’re awfully lively,” I said.

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