Some Sort of Happy

by Melanie Harlow

  “I’m sure. I’m not hungry. I just came in to talk to you.”

  and terrestrial bodies will always fall

  “You did?” I rocked forward onto the balls of my feet.

  “Yes. I owe you an apology.”

  A blush warmed my cheeks. “It’s OK.”

  “No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t have rushed off yesterday. I feel bad about it.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have come in here screaming like a banshee either.”

  He shrugged. “It’s all right.”

  God, he was so damn cute, all wet and sheepish. “Sure I can’t get you some coffee? I hate to send you back out into the rain so fast. I’ll sit with you.” Come on, let’s get you out of those wet clothes.

  His lips tipped up again, and my heart ka-banged like a sixth grader’s with her first crush. I loved how one of his eyebrows sort of cocked up higher than the other when he smiled. “No, thank you. I should go.” He turned and pushed the door open, then looked back over his shoulder. “But it’s good to see you again.”

  When he was gone, I stood there staring out the window at the rain for a solid five minutes, suddenly wide awake and more curious about him than ever.

  • • •

  Coffee Darling was only open until mid-afternoon, so I had plenty of time left over in the following weeks to help my mother finish the guest houses. I’d get up at five, work at the shop until the lunch crowd left, and then head back home to paint, put up window treatments and light fixtures, and make up beds with beautiful linens in soft, neutral colors. On my days off, I’d go hunting at antique shops for old chairs I could recover, tables my dad could help me refinish, or just pretty things that would look nice hanging on the walls or sitting on a shelf.

  In the evenings, I helped my mother tweak their website, which was dated and busy. I also convinced her to hire a photographer to take some professional photos of the houses and grounds, and found a graphic designer to work on a new logo.

  I can’t say I was any closer to figuring what to do with my life, but I felt good about helping out my family, and staying busy made it easy to put off worrying about the future. My most immediate concern was that damn reunion—could I show my humiliated face? My final episode of Save a Horse had aired, (no, I did not watch) but I still felt the disgusted stares and heard the angry whispers of locals here and there. Perhaps if I hadn’t thrown that cosmo in fan favorite Whiney Whitney’s face, I’d have come off a bit more sympathetic, but I just couldn’t take one more of her tearful meltdowns. Besides, I let her push me in the ranch’s pool in an evening gown and stilettos. Ratings for that episode were sky high!

  If only I had someone to go to the reunion with. But my two closest girlfriends from school lived out of town and weren’t attending, and Natalie said showing up with her as my date would be worse than going alone. If Sebastian had come into the shop again, I would’ve asked him about it, but he never did. I asked Natalie about him once, and she said he was kind of like that—he might come in every day for a week and then not at all for two. Then she teased me about the crestfallen look on my face so much that I didn’t ask again.

  I was starting to think I’d imagined his poetic words about me when I ran into him at the hardware store one night in late May.

  I was in aisle four looking for screws for these cool cast iron bin pulls I’d just bought at an old barn-turned-antiques store, and I was having trouble finding the right size. Frowning again at the vast selection in front of me, I was thinking of asking for help when I heard a voice behind me.

  “Skylar?”

  I turned, and there he was. “Oh! Hi.” Suddenly I remembered my hair was in a ponytail and quickly tugged the elastic out before he could notice my Nixon ears. Slipping it over one wrist, I tried to shake out my hair, fluff it a little.

  “Hi.” He smiled and my heart thumped hard at the slow stretch of those full lips and the arched brow. Why on earth had he hidden that face for so long? “How are you?”

  “Good. I’m just looking for a screw.” My eyes went panicky wide as I realized what I said. “For some screws, I mean. Not a screw.”

  He laughed then, a warm, genuine chuckle that sent joy spiraling up inside me. “Do you need some help?”

  “I do, actually.” I held up one bin pull. “I bought this antique hardware but I can’t find the right fit for the hole.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  “I hate when the fit is wrong for the hole.” With an easy grin on his face, Sebastian took the pull from me and examined it. “Hmm. Let’s see.” He hunted around for a moment, during which I covertly studied him from the corner of my eye. He was tall and trim, with a nice round ass which I may or may not have leaned backward to check out while he tested a few different size screws. “Aha.” He faced me and held one out. “This should work.”

  “Great. If they have eight of them, I can get this job done tonight.”

  “You need eight screws to get the job done?” That brow cocked even higher. “That happens to be my favorite number.”

  Now this guy I could flirt with.

  I rolled my eyes and pushed gently on his chest, which was broad and thick. He wore a dark gray track-style jacket which fit his upper body much better than the old baggy sweatshirts he used to wear in high school. “Very funny. So you’re talking to me today, huh?”

  The smile slid off his face, and immediately I was sorry I’d mentioned anything about our previous meeting. “Yeah. Sorry again about… that one day. I was just…” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, his muscular chest rising and falling. “I don’t know. I was having a bad day.”

  “Me too. God.” My shoulders shuddered at the memory. “An awful day.”

  He looked at me sideways. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I got fired. And then I fell on my face in front of you at the beach. And then the Cherry Pageant people took my crown away.” At the time, it had seemed like such a serious personal insult—now it just sounded silly, like I was a child whose favorite toy had been taken away.

  “Why?”

  I sighed, closing my eyes. “It’s a long and embarrassing story.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “We all have those.”

  I thought about what Natalie had said about his recent past. What do you know, Sebastian Pryce and I have something in common. It gave me an idea. “Hey. Want to trade long and embarrassing stories over a drink?”

  His expression immediately went from sympathetic to scared, and I wondered if I’d gone too far.

  “I’m sorry.” I glanced around. “You came here for something, and the store’s about to close. I shouldn’t keep you. It was just a thought. Maybe some other time.”

  “No, no. It’s OK.” He paused. “Actually, I think I’d like that.”

  I cocked my head. “You don’t sound too sure about it.”

  “I’m sure.” He tapped my nose, an affectionate gesture that surprised me. “Listen. It’s not every day that the Skylar Nixon asks me for a drink. You have to give me a minute.” Lifting an arm in between us, he pinched the skin on his wrist.

  “Oh, stop.” Flustered, I pushed his hand down. “Don’t be silly.”

  He grinned. “I need to grab some chairs, though. Should we meet out front?”

  “Chairs? You’re shopping for furniture at the hardware store?”

  “For my patio. They’ve got some on sale here this week.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “On Old Mission. I built a cabin.”

  “Really? I live on Old Mission too. I mean, my parents do, and I’m—” I shook my head. “Never mind. That’s another embarrassing story. Anyway, that’s awesome about the cabin. I love cabins. So much charm.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure you’d call it charming yet, but it’s working for me.”

  “I’d love to see it. Maybe I can help.” He looked at me sort of oddly, and again I wondered if I was being too forward. “Sorry—it was just a thought. I tend
to say anything that comes into my head. I should really learn to think before speaking.”

  “No, it was a nice thought. I just—haven’t had many visitors.”

  I decided to drop it. “Well, I’m going to pay for my screws”—I sighed, squeezing my eyes shut. “Don’t even make a joke, please—and then I will meet you out front. Sound good?”

  He nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. I liked the way the bottom one was fuller than the top. “Sounds good.”

  He brushed by me, and I pretended to occupy myself counting out eight screws, but really I watched him as he walked away, enjoying the fluttery feeling in my stomach. I admired the round ass, the trim waist, the V of his torso to his shoulders. I imagined what he’d look naked, and the flutter moved lower.

  Whoa, there, Skylar. Just calm down. Yes, it’s been a while since you were in the saddle, but that is no mechanical bull you’re looking at. And if what Natalie said was true, he probably needs a friend.

  Still.

  I tilted my head to get a better view.

  I could go seven seconds on that body. I could go seven seconds on that body all. night. long.

  The fact that I ran into Skylar again on a good day was the most mercy I’d been granted in a long time. It’s not that the obsessive thoughts weren’t there, but they didn’t feel so huge or compelling. I was able to consciously file them in a compartment of my brain I thought of as the Fuck You I Don’t Care folder and be myself. On my good days, I could do that.

  It felt so easy to talk to her, and she was so sweetly embarrassed about her unintentionally dirty remarks.

  But I’d had an unintentional twitch in my pants when she put her hands on my chest, and I’d faltered when she mentioned my behavior from two weeks ago. I had no decent explanation. The truth was, not a day had gone by that I hadn’t thought about her.

  And then there she was. Chatting me up. Asking me for a drink. Expressing interest in where I lived. Wanting to come over and see it.

  And I’d handled myself just fine.

  I could have said no to the drink. I could have gone home, crossed Talk to Skylar Nixon off my list, called today one of my best days yet, and allowed myself a celebratory beer on the deck in one of my new chairs, most likely followed by celebratory jerking off to the memory of her ass in those yoga pants. (Twice, of course.)

  But the truth was, I didn’t want to be alone.

  Was it wrong to take her up on her offer just for a little company? Would it be too misleading? She was pretty and sweet, but dating was out of the question. She deserved better than me. And I couldn’t see her as a fuck friend, either. She was too good for that.

  Keep it in your pants asshole. She said a drink, that’s all.

  So while I selected and paid for my Adirondack chairs, I made up my mind to get to know her the way I wished I would have in school, and not to let either my attraction for her or my irrational fear of hurting her get in the way. I’d keep my compulsions in check, and stay in the moment.

  For a guy like me, it was a pretty fucking tall order.

  But today was a good day.

  • • •

  She pulled up next to me as I slid the heavy boxes containing the chairs into the back of my truck. “What do you think?” she asked through the open windows of an old Ford Explorer. It surprised me—I’d pictured a girl like her driving a much flashier car. Although her clothing today had surprised me too. I couldn’t ever recall seeing Skylar Nixon in sweats before. They looked good on her, though. She was small but curvy, not waif thin like a lot of the beautiful women were in New York. Skylar looked like the kind of girl you could go hiking with, but then you could take her out for ice cream afterward, and maybe she’d order a double scoop.

  It gave me an idea.

  “Hey, have you had dinner yet?” It was close to six, and I hadn’t eaten. A restaurant was always a trigger risk, but if ever I was going to take one, it should be on a day like today.

  “No.” She glanced at the plastic bag on the passenger seat. “I was trying to get this last chore done first, but I don’t care about it now.”

  “Would you maybe want to grab a bite?”

  She smiled. “Sure. Place?”

  “What do you feel like?”

  She thought for a second. “I wouldn’t say no to a cheeseburger.”

  “How about Sleder’s?” I suggested. “Meet there?”

  “OK. Or we could drive together,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll ride with you and you can drop me here afterward.”

  “All right.” I said it, but the hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I moved around to the passenger side to open the door for her.

  “Thanks.” She hopped up into the cab and I shut the door, my heart pumping a little too quickly for comfort.

  And then the voice spoke up.

  Maybe this was a mistake. Now you’ll be alone with her in your car, and—

  No. No. This is a good day. Please don’t ruin it, I begged the voice. Please let me enjoy her company without complications. One evening. It’s all I ask. One normal evening with a friend, the first one in a year.

  I slid behind the wheel and shut the door, feeling the tension in my shoulders, my arms, my jaw. Sticking the key in the ignition, I put both hands on the wheel and gripped tight. Fuck.

  “Hey.” She put her hand on my arm, and I couldn’t even look at it. “Hey. Look at me.”

  Reluctantly, I met her eyes. Their color looked even sweeter in the soft pink light of the sunset. I flexed my fingers on the wheel. My composure was slipping, and she knew it. You’re going to scare her. Fucking quit it. But how could I explain my erratic behavior to her without scaring her? Before I could get a handle on what to say, she spoke up again.

  “I don’t know you at all, Sebastian. And maybe girls shouldn’t jump into trucks with strange men who could be serial killers. But you know what? I need a nice night out with a friend. And for whatever reason, I trust you. Somehow I get the feeling that it’s me making you uncomfortable.”

  Damn, she was intuitive. And a chatterbox, just like her sister. For a second, I felt like smiling—how did those two ever have a conversation without talking over each other? I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”

  “Would it be better if I drove myself to Sleder’s?” She took her hand from my arm and put it on the door handle. “I really don’t mind. I shouldn’t have just assumed I could jump in with you.”

  “No,” I said, too quickly and loudly. After a deep breath, I turned my upper body to face her. Better to tell her on a good day. It’ll come out clearer. “Please stay. I’m just going to be upfront about this, Skylar. And if you want to drive yourself after I tell you, or if you want to forget dinner altogether and just go home alone, I’ll understand.” I’ll die a little, but I’ll understand.

  “OK.” She put her hands in her lap and looked at me expectantly. Her trust in me was so endearing, suddenly I couldn’t resist a little joke.

  “I’m really a serial killer.”

  For a second, her face blanched, but she recovered quickly, slapping me on the arm. “You big jerk! Come on. Talk to me. I know we weren’t friends in school or anything, but we’ve at least known each other for a long time. Fourth grade, right? You came in the middle of the year.”

  She was right. We’d moved up here from Chicago after my mom died to live closer to my dad’s family. “You remember that?”

  “Yes. And I remember that you were really good at math and once stayed in at recess to help me with lattice multiplication.”

  “I did?” Holy shit, how could I have forgotten that? I was touched that she remembered something about me—something positive and not odd. The tension between my shoulders eased a little. “OK, I’m not a serial killer. But the problem is that sometimes I think I could be.”

  “What?” She looked at me strangely, then glanced behind her out the window, like she was considering making a run for it. Not that I blamed her. I hesitated…was telling her the right thi
ng? If she bolted, wouldn’t I feel even worse?

  Stop fucking second guessing yourself. Just tell her.

  “It’s this glitch in my brain,” I finally said. “A fear of doing harm lodges there and refuses to leave. I’ve read that other people have these thoughts occasionally, a fleeting image of doing something completely out of character, something violent and horrible, but then it passes as quickly as it comes. Not for me. When that kind of thought enters my brain, it takes up permanent real estate, and nothing I do or say can evict it.”

  “Like what kind of harm?” she asked cautiously.

  I couldn’t tell her about choking her—I just couldn’t. “It’s usually something specific,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “For example, I used to refuse to pick up knives in the kitchen at home if anyone else was around because I was scared I’d lose my mind and stab someone. In fact, I made my father hide the sharp knives, and I’d only use plastic.”

  Her jaw dropped. “What? But you know you wouldn’t stab anyone.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I feel like since the thought is there, that must mean I really want to do it and I’m not the person I thought I was.” I braced myself, waited for her to say You’re not the person I thought you were either, so I’m getting the fuck out of here.

  “That’s awful,” she said softly. “Have you always felt like that?”

  “It started when I was about eight, but I didn’t really get diagnosed until my mid-teens. And all the stuff I used to do, that I still sometimes do, the counting and all that, the obsessions with certain numbers—somehow my brain thinks that helps. It relieves the anxiety for the time being and makes me feel safe, makes me feel other people are safe.”

  She nodded slowly, taking it all in. “And the…germ thing? The hand washing?”

  So she does remember that. “That’s related too. Those are visible, compulsive aspects of OCD, the ones people tend to focus on, but for me, at least at this point in my life, the worst are the obsessive thoughts. I’m usually able to manage the other stuff.”

  “Can’t you just…” She flipped a hand in the air. “Shove them out of your mind? Like, think about something else? That’s what I do.”