Page 111 of What You Wish For

“Oh,” I said, feeling a little sting in my heart as this theoretical scenario suddenly shifted to feeling far too real. More quietly, I said, “Max had a beach funeral.”

“Did he?”

“It was packed. You wouldn’t think you could pack a beach, but he did.”

Duncan recognized my shift in perspective. “I wasn’t here yet. For that.”

I let out a long breath. “You would have loved Max so much.” I looked over, then added, “He would have loved you, too.”

Suddenly, I couldn’t help but think about how sad this conversation was. Not just remembering Max, and the unbelievable day when we’d all said goodbye to him, but the idea of Duncan planning his own funeral. As funny as he was being about it, it said a lot about what life had led him to expect.

We fell quiet for a bit. The wind off the Gulf—that steady current washing over us—was relaxing me. It was almost like a micro-massage. The stress was draining away, but in its place was something like sorrow. But not only sorrow. Companionship, too. I let go of his arm and fell into the comforting rhythm of just walking side by side with somebody.

We had survived the Iron Shark. And so many other things, too.

That really should have been enough.

But of course, I wanted more from him. Couldn’t help but notice how our hands kept accidentally brushing past each other as we walked. Each time it happened I felt a little jolt. It would have been so easy to edge a little closer and just give mine permission to find a way into his.

But what if he said no? Or—worse—what if he said yes?

I was in an impossible situation. One I had no idea how to get out of. Mostly because I wanted to be there so badly.

After a while, Duncan said, “Thank you for telling me about your epilepsy.”

I pointed at him. “That’s need-to-know information, by the way. Don’t use it against me.”

“I won’t,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

He did look serious. “Yeah, well,” I said, walking on, “I’ll believe you when I believe you.”

“You’ve been through some hard things,” he said.

“Sure. Who hasn’t?”

“It’s just—you kind of seem like someone who doesn’t have any problems.”

“Is there anyone in the world who doesn’t have any problems?”

“What I mean is, you seem like a person life has been kind to.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“I don’t know. You wear all those crazy polka dots and stripes and pom-poms. You worerainbow suspendersthe other day.” He looked down. “You are literally wearing clown socks right now. You’re just so… weirdlyhappy.”

“You think I’m happy because I don’t know any better?”

“I don’t know.”

“Dude—I’m not happy because it comes easily to me. I bite and scratch and claw my way toward happiness every day.”

Duncan squinted at me, like that almost made sense.

“It’s a choice,” I went on, feeling like I needed to make him see. “A choice to value the good things that matter. A choice to rise aboveeverything that could pull you down. A choice to look misery right in the eyes… and then give it the finger.”

“So it’s a hostile kind of joy.”

He was mocking me. “Sometimes,” I said defiantly.

---