Funny Story

Peter didn’t hate Miles. He just didn’t think Miles was good enough for Petra, because Miles is a stoner without a college degree. Petra is also a stoner without a college degree, but I guess it’s different when you’re a perfect ten with a picturesque family and well-padded bank account. Then you’re not a stoner; you’re a free spirit.

There was no point clinging to something that wasn’t really yours

“And I’m also sending you pepper spray.”
“I still have the can you got me in college,” I say. “Unless it expires.”
“Probably just gets better with age,”

Miles is the other kind. The kind that’s disarming enough that you don’t feel nervous talking to him, or like you need to show your best angle, until—wham! Suddenly, he’s smiling at you with his messy hair and impish smirk, and you realize his hotness has been boiling around you so slowly you missed it.

“You think I’m some kind of con artist?”
“I think you’re a very charming guy,” I say. “As far as insults go,” he says, pausing halfway up the stairs, “that’s a new one for me.”

I love talking to people I already know, but when I meet someone new, half the time my mind goes blank, and the other half of the time, I make a joke that absolutely no one realizes is a joke, or I ask something way too personal.”

Because they’re both addicted to being universally loved. And they’re good at it. Good enough that they don’t realize you don’t get to be loved by people whose hearts you completely fucking destroy.

“Smug little prick.”
“He’s six four,” I say. “Smug giant douche,”

“Are we evil or just immature?”

“I’ve got stuff to do, but if you hear from your ex, tell him I said . . .” He holds up his middle finger. “If you hear from yours, tell her thanks for the new boyfriend.”

“Do you see ghosts or something?”
“Or something,” I say.

I don’t know how to talk along the surface of things, but I also don’t want to unearth the ugly stuff, over and over again, for people who are just passing through my life. It’s depleting. Like every time I dole out a kernel of my history to someone who’s not going to become a fixture in my life, a piece of me gets carried away, somewhere I can never get it back.

You can’t untell someone your secrets. You can’t unsay those delicate truths once you learn you can’t trust the person you handed them to.

“Well, if having my heart shattered in the single most humiliating way imaginable can be of service to someone, I’ll take it.”

“I’m not sure I’m in the mood to be unstoppable, anyway.”

“Daphne.”
“Such an air of disappointment. Every time you say my name.”

“Getting mad never fixes anything,”

“I’m not moping. I just like sad music.”

“Things go smoother if you don’t let people get a rise out of you,” he says. “If you give them control over how you feel, they’ll always use it.”

If you don’t give other people responsibility for your feelings, you can have a decent relationship with most of them.”

“Daphne,” he tuts. “Daphne, Daphne, Daphne.”
“Let me guess: I’m a clueless fool,” I say. He starts the car. “No, just a sweet, naive, beautiful little innocent, raised in captivity by a man who loves wheatgrass.”

I’m not sure what parts of me are him and which parts are genuinely my own. And I want to know. I want to know myself, to test my edges and see where I stop and the rest of the world begins.

“Wait—are you thinking about leaving?”
“More like dreaming about it.”

“I don’t want you to move away. I like you.”
“You like everyone,” I remind him. “I’m highly replaceable.”

“Miles,” I say. “Hm?” I—and the weed—tell him, “I think you might be the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

“It’s a library, Daphne. If you can’t be a human here, where can you?”

“I guess all you need to know is how blank my mind just went. That’s how sure I am about ‘who I am’ these days.”

“What do you like about it,” he says. “Everything,” I say. His mouth curls. “Fascinating.”
“I like that it feels like I can live as many lives as I want,” I say. “What’s wrong with this one?”

In the best of times, it’s inadvisable to start lusting after your roommate, and we are nowhere near the best of times.

“Anything you need a helmet to do,” I say, “you probably simply shouldn’t do.” He steps closer, the breeze ruffling his hair, and pulls the helmet down over my head. “Or maybe,” he says, eyes crinkled against the sun, “everything worth doing comes with some risk.”

I feel like someone else, someone who does this all the time.

I’m not exactly myself right now. I don’t normally do things like this. But the Daphne I’ve always been, the practical and intentional one, hasn’t exactly set me up for success. For a few minutes, I’d just wanted to give fun, casual Daphne a turn at the wheel.

I was never the one just having fun. I was the one anticipating consequences.

What exquisite timing for my identity crisis: he wants to do the smart thing, and I want to have reckless sex with him.

I just wish we could “not mess this up” in bed together.

“It’s weird because I haven’t kissed anyone but Peter in, like, five years, and I didn’t think when I finally did, it would be my ex-fiancé’s new fiancée’s ex-boyfriend.”

I think a lot of my friends thought I was a selfish idiot, giving up a pretty good thing just for the hope of a really good thing. But how can I teach my kid not to settle if I’m not willing to fight for the life I want?

I’ve been trying to make myself un-leave-able. But it hasn’t worked.

“I mean,” I say, more fervently, “you’re probably the only person I’ve ever met who’s genuinely curious about everyone he meets. And makes them feel interesting and welcome, and like—like they should be confident in what they do. You make them feel like growing corn or making cherry salsa or recommending books is a superpower.”

“I just think,” I say to Miles, “you like people almost as much as they like you. And it makes being around you feel like—like standing in sunlight.”

It does feel like a rebirth. People can change, I think. I’m changing.

It strikes me that Miles is right, that the key to being able to talk to anyone might just be curiosity.

But after a while, someone either finally sees you or they don’t, and either way it fucking sucks. Because if they see you, and it’s not what they signed up for, then they’re out of there. And if they never see you . . . it’s worse. Because you’re just alone.

“Want to sleep over?” he teases, brushing his nose against mine. “Am I invited?” I ask. “Open invitation,” he says. “Anytime you want.”

Like there’s no boundary between us, like he’s in my mind and heart and soul, and I want to keep him there even as I know this moment can’t last.

I feel like Belle in the beginning of Beauty and the Beast, walking around with a shit-eating grin, greeting everyone like it’s the first day of the rest of my life.

“We can get our life back,” he whispers. “It’s not too late.” I can’t help but laugh a little as I dab my eyes with the table runner. It is too late. The life he’s describing—it isn’t one I want. It’s right in a general sense, and all wrong in the particulars.

I don’t want to be a part of the wrong we. I’d rather be on my own, even if it hurts right now. Someday I’ll be okay, someday.

I want to push as hard as possible against all the bruises in my heart, until it changes me. Until I learn to stop fucking everything up.

All those moments throughout the days, weeks, months that don’t get marked on calendars with hand-drawn stars or little stickers. Those are the moments that make a life. Not grand gestures, but mundane details that, over time, accumulate until you have a home, instead of a house. The things that matter. The things I can’t stop longing for.