Perfect Happiness

by Kristyn Kusek Lewis

  “Did you give your phone to the attendant?” he asks.

  “Yes,” she says, remembering how she’d stopped at a rope line on the way over from the compound’s theater and was asked to leave her phone at a check station.

  “I’m sure you can appreciate that we prefer to be without distractions here, to be able to exchange ideas with purity and freedom,” he says, leaning in and peering into her eyes in a way that is aggressive and off-putting, invasive somehow, like he’s wanting to check the spaces between her teeth. She takes what she hopes is a subtle step back and looks away, breaking the intense eye contact.

  “Yes, always nice to go off the grid,” she says. “Though I suppose that I alluded to my feelings on that during my talk,” she says, attempting to make light of it.

  He nods once, taking her arm. “Let me walk you around. There are several people here who I’m sure would love to speak to you.”

  Oh, I’m sure, she thinks, cringing inside.

  “But first,” he says, waving over a waitress. “A drink? We’re serving only natural, biodynamic wines tonight. Nothing with additives. Terroir blends,” he says, handing her a glass of cloudy white. “See,” he says, holding it up to the light. He taps his finger on her glass. “That sediment means no hangovers.”

  “Even better,” she says, clinking her glass to his. Maybe the talk wasn’t so bad, she thinks, assessing his smile. As they weave through the crowd, she drinks, and begins to finally relax and enjoy herself, deciding to ignore the odd looks she gets from many of the attendees. Screw them, she thinks, remembering her father’s old advice, that being universally liked is a sign you’re not risking enough. She’ll probably never have another opportunity like this, to interact with this kind of crowd, and so she gives in to the moment, forgetting whether or not they think she’s a moron, just like she would tell her readers to do.

  It’s a whirlwind, and thirty minutes in, she finds herself disappointed by her encounters. It seems like most people here are interested in making money or pushing their own brands. An executive at one of the television streaming services corners Charlotte, asking if she would be interested in doing a reality show where she would give participants “happiness makeovers.” He’s a big guy, with coal-black hair that matches his coat, and at first, she finds herself drawn to his charismatic pitch about how they could “focus on the internal rather than the external,” but before long, he leans over, his rank cheese breath in her face, and says, “But we’d of course do physical makeovers, too, because no matter what anyone says about regular people on TV, pretty sells.”

  Before long, she feels like she’s been twirled around the room, do-si-doed from one conversation to the next, and she realizes that she needs to eat. She’s continued to accept glasses of organic wine as they’ve come around, but only nibbled at a single shrimp wonton when a server passed by with a tray. “Do you know if there’s any more food?” she asks another guest as she’s walking by, and the woman kind of laughs, mentioning something about dinner being served soon and making a face at the person she’s with. Seeing the exchange, the way their eyes widen at each other, about her, she realizes she’s had more to drink than she thought. She weaves among the crowd. There’s no way she can make it through a dinner like this. She remembers the cheese tray in her room. She’ll go back there, catch her breath, eat something and sober up, and then she’ll be fine. She’ll go to the dinner and redeem herself and everything will be fine.

  She retrieves her phone, then walks down the long hallway that leads to her suite and punches her code into the keypad on the door, then realizes, looking at the name carved into a little piece of framed wood on the door—Elk—that this isn’t her room at all. She’s in Lynx, she remembers, because she took a photo of the little plaque and sent it to Amanda, making a joke about what a perfect match it was for her, and Amanda immediately wrote back teasing that she should actually be in Cougar. Charlotte replied with an eye roll emoji.

  She finds herself at the end of another hall less than ten minutes later, and then, wobbling a little, she walks back to the central hall, and realizes that, of course, she needs to take the elevator up two floors.

  She steps in, and there is Leo, the assistant-bellboy-whatever, leaning against the wall, looking like a cologne ad.

  “Having a good night?” he asks. She notices his forearms, bare beneath the rolled-up sleeves. How did she miss those before?

  “Yes,” she says. “It was great.” She’s warm suddenly, and takes a deep breath to try to settle herself.

  “Your talk was fantastic.”

  “You heard it?” she says.

  “Oh yeah,” he says. “Perk of the job. I wouldn’t miss any of them. Really, though, yours was great. Pretty bold, saying what you did in front of this crowd.”

  “I don’t know, maybe it was a mistake,” she says. “Wasn’t my smoothest.”

  “You okay?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at her.

  “Yeah, of course,” she says, leaning back against the wall.

  “The altitude can get to people if they’re not used to it,” he says. “Especially if you just had a couple glasses of wine.”

  “That must be it,” she says, smiling sheepishly.

  “Anyway, your talk. Even though I’m part of this,” he says, waving his hand around. “That’s what I love about being here in Montana. You really do feel unplugged, separated from a lot of the real world in a good way. Not, like, a Unabomber way.” He winks at his own joke, and she feels herself flush. He really is so handsome. If she were younger, and single . . .

  The elevator slows, coming to a stop, and he lunges and reaches his arm out to hold the door for her.

  She steps toward the threshold as the doors part, falters a little, and it happens so fast. She falls, her knee skimming the floor just as he grips her arm, scooping her up.

  “Whoa,” he says, steadying her.

  “Oh my God, I—” She takes a step forward, wanting to shake him off, but the hallway ahead is spinning, the ground like a fun-house floor changing under her feet.

  “Let me help you,” he says. “May I help you get to your room?”

  “Okay,” she says, trying to laugh it off. “I think you were right about the altitude. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be.” He reaches, threading his arm around her waist, and holds her hand with his free hand. They walk slowly, and it’s nice, she thinks, her weight leaning into him. She lets her head loll against his shoulder, allowing him to guide her. “Thank you,” she says.

  “Of course,” he murmurs. “Just slow and steady. One step at a time.”

  “Okay,” she says. He’s practically carrying her. Right, left, she thinks. Right, left.

  Back in her room, she closes the door, insisting she’ll be fine. She chains the lock although she knows it’s unnecessary and then she stumbles for the bathroom. The motion sensor light comes on as she enters, startling her, and she lurches for the vanity, grasping for the edges with both hands. Once she catches herself, she turns on the faucet and splashes cold water on her face, and when she looks up at herself in the mirror, and sees her makeup running down her cheeks, her bloodshot eyes, she begins to cry.

  She gets herself into the bedroom and lies on the bed for a few minutes, the room spinning. Her phone buzzes in the distance, and she gets up and walks back to the sitting area, where she’d dropped it on a chair as she came in. It’s Reese.

  How did it go? his text reads.

  And then another from Birdie: How was it, Mom? Me and Dad want to know.

  She holds her phone to her chest. What has she done? What on earth has she done? She goes to the kitchen and pours herself a glass of water, downs it, and then her eyes lock on the open bottle of champagne that she left in the ice bucket several hours ago. She yanks it out, hesitating for just a moment, and empties it into the sink.

  The phone buzzes, Reese again. Call me if you can. I’m up.

  Charlotte walks back to the bedroom and climb
s onto the bed, remembering when she first saw it today, how she looked forward to the way she’d feel when she came back here this evening, filled with relief and pride (she hoped) after a successful night.

  The phone buzzes once more, and she considers whether to take Reese’s invitation, knowing the right answer. She gets up and unzips her dress, stepping out of it, knowing there’s no way she can make it to dinner, and hopes that nobody will notice that the keynote speaker who just insulted most of the room has also decided to skip the evening’s main event. She remembers the robe in the closet and slips it on, then goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth. The phone buzzes yet again but she ignores it. She splashes water on her face, brushes her teeth, ignores her sinking shame. What have I done? What have I done?

  She gets in bed, sits with her back against the headboard, pulling the blanket up tight to her waist. She begins texting Birdie, but is interrupted when Reese calls.

  “I was just about to return your text,” she says.

  “Sorry.” He laughs. “I was going to leave a voicemail, just to say congratulations. Was it everything you thought it would be?”

  “It was,” she says. “It was interesting. I don’t . . . I think I offended them.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “No, I really do.” She feels tears welling up in her eyes but she brushes them away. She takes a deep inhale through her nose. She won’t break down, she tells herself. Not now. Not like this. “I was maybe more than they bargained for,” she says, speaking slowly, extra-careful to enunciate her words.

  “Well, better to be memorable,” he says. “You’ve had a few drinks, I believe.”

  “Well—” she starts, prepared to defend herself. “I—The altitude, I think.”

  He laughs. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’ve been so nervous about this.”

  She traces her finger along the embroidery on the duvet, feeling both soothed by his words and troubled by them, because he shouldn’t be the one saying these things to her. “It’s late there,” she says.

  “Yeah,” he says. “But I never go to bed before midnight. Just not my nature.”

  “I remember that,” she says, thinking of all of the times in college and graduate school when she’d wake up in the middle of the night and find him at his desk, hunched over a book.

  “You okay?” he says.

  “Yeah,” she says, her voice breaking.

  “What is it?” he says. “What’s wrong?”

  She squeezes her eyes shut.

  “Charlotte,” he says, his voice soft. “Come on, tell me.”

  “I just . . .” She shakes her head at herself, thinking of everything that has happened over the past several days. Birdie, seeing Jason and Jamie, the interaction with her boss, tonight . . . “My life hasn’t worked out quite the way I thought it would, Reese. I thought if I . . . I don’t know what happened. I just . . . I miss my peace of mind. I don’t have that anymore. I don’t recognize myself.”

  “I know just what you mean,” he says.

  “You do?”

  “Yup. I know what people think about my marriage. I knew on my wedding day that people thought she was too young, or just after my money. And maybe she was. But it’s like I told you the other day: I thought it would just continue to grow into what it was supposed to be, you know? Like a picture coming into focus? I thought we’d make it work. I wanted it to work.” He pauses. “I wanted it to be the way it was with—” Don’t say it, she thinks, but he does: “With us.”

  “Oh,” she says, her mind racing.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t say—”

  “No.” She stops him. “I think about it, too,” she says, knowing that she shouldn’t. “I think about what it was like, growing up together, being on the water, all of the—”

  “How it was supposed to be,” he says. “Before I—”

  “Reese.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says again. “You don’t need this now. You should get some rest. A good night’s sleep.”

  “Right,” she says. She can’t remember the last time somebody spoke to her like this, the last time somebody encouraged her to rest. She realizes how desperate she is for somebody to comfort her, for somebody to tell her that everything will be okay. “Thank you, Reese.”

  “Good night, Charlotte,” he says. “Get some sleep.”

  “Good night.”

  As soon as they hang up, she dials Jason’s number, telling herself that if there’s one thing she should do tonight, if for no other reason than to assuage her guilt, it’s this. Even though she knows deep down that she would have rather stayed on the phone with Reese than speak to her own husband.

  “What time is it?” he grumbles.

  Shit. It didn’t even occur to her, she’d been so wrapped up in the conversation with Reese that she forgot the time. “I’m so sorry, I forgot the time change.”

  “It’s okay,” he says, his voice muffled from sleep. “How was it?”

  “Good,” she says. “It went really well.” She can hear the thick cotton in her voice, the way she can’t get her words out, and when he doesn’t respond, she’s sure he can, too.

  “Guess who I met?” she says, trying to sound cheery, but it’s hard to keep the words straight. “The . . .” Shit. What’s his name again? The sneaker guy? “Nike,” she says. “The CEO?”

  “Huh,” he says, not as impressed as she’d hoped. But he was sleeping, she tells herself.

  “I miss you,” she says, tears burning in her eyes.

  “We miss you, too.” He hurries out the words; she can tell there’s no feeling behind them. “Listen, it’s late here,” he says. Shame settles over her. She feels heat rise to her cheeks, thinking of the way she must sound. The room spins around her. “Okay,” she says.

  “Be safe, Charlotte,” he says.

  “I miss—”

  He’s hung up before she can finish.

  She thinks of the words he said—be safe—and thinks to herself: Too late.

  Sixteen

  When Charlotte arrives home, she throws her keys on the kitchen counter and walks around the house, trying to ignore the thoughts that have been banging around in her head since she left Montana. She straightens the pile of mail into a neat stack on the table by the front door, puts the cereal bowls in the sink in the dishwasher, and, upstairs, puts the cap back on the toothpaste that Birdie left on her bathroom counter. When she enters her bedroom, she sees that Jason has left the bed unmade, the sheets tangled in a pile at the end of the mattress, his National Geographic magazine left open, facedown, on his nightstand.

  She sits for a moment, then changes into shorts and an old T-shirt from years ago, when she and Birdie ran a 5K at her elementary school together—and finds the Advil, taking three to combat the splitting headache she woke up with after a couple of hours of fitful sleep in the beautiful suite that was supposed to be a reward. Jason and Birdie will be arriving home any minute now, and she thinks to herself that maybe they can all go out to dinner, or that she might order takeout from their favorite Lebanese place, something. Anything to erase the past few days. An image of herself stumbling down the hall pops into her head again, and then her fumbling onstage, the way she may have embarrassed herself at the cocktail party, the way she spoke to Reese, all of the images relentless.

  She takes her laptop out to the table on the back porch, and lets her cursor hover over her email inbox, where there are messages from two of her doctoral advisees freaking out over various aspects of their dissertations, a note from Wendy about coming up with a deadline for the next book proposal, and an official schedule from Tabatha for final exams coming up in two weeks.

  She opens her browser and looks at Instagram, where @KGPartyof5’s post now has over six hundred comments. She needs to alert Wendy about this—some of the sentiments expressed are truly vile, and Charlotte tells herself, trying to make herself feel better, that the people who leave the worst of the worst must be venting their own fru
strations. Sticks and stones, she thinks, though the truth is, it does hurt her, being called a fraud and a fake and a phony, and it’s humiliating, the implication about her marriage. No idea where he is, she’d typed, the words pricking at her because she knows they’re true on so many levels. She checks her Google alerts and is relieved to see that nobody from the symposium has posted or written anything online about her talk, though she knows it’s probably only a matter of time. She reminds herself that she is not her image, that none of these people—online, in Montana—know what she is at her core, but that troubles her, too, because she herself is the one who’s most aware that she is not the person she presents to the world. She’s not even close.

  The phone rings, a local number she doesn’t recognize.

  “Ms. McGanley?” the woman asks, a hint of New England in her voice. “I’m calling from the counseling office over at Yorktown High School. I have Birdie here, and I know it’s short notice, but any chance you can come in?”

  Charlotte leaps out of her chair. “Yes, of course,” she says. “I’ll be right over.”

  A million thoughts fly through her head as she races into the school, not just why Birdie might be in the counseling office, but why she’s there after school hours when she’s supposed to be at practice.

  A secretary leads her back to the counseling office, where Birdie sits in a plastic chair at a round table on one side of the room, the woman who is presumably the counselor next to her, and—what is this?—Coach Noah next to the counselor. She wonders if this has something to do with the older girls on the team giving Birdie a hard time.

  Her daughter’s face is splotchy. It’s clear that she’s been crying.