“First a motorcycle and now a tattoo. You’re building quite the reputation.” She hums and closes her eyes. I use the opportunity to push up the short sleeve of her shirt and get an up close look, to take in the hyper-realistic image etched into her skin. “I didn’t know you liked peonies that much.”
She doesn’t open her eyes. “They hold a lot of memories.”
“Vibrant sea grass in a deep blue ocean?” I press.Thatgets her attention. She cracks one eye to look at me.
“Don’t get too excited, I have one planned for Mason, too. I’ll probably have to think of something for Chloe.” Her response is neither a confession nor a denial. It’s a perfect deflection.
“Yeah, wouldn’t want her to feel left out.”
“Sure wouldn’t.” She presses her leg against mine. “It seemed like a stressful night. You okay?”
Stressful is an understatement. “Just tired.”
“I bet.” She presses into me a little harder. “If you could fly…”
I smile. It’s been a while since she asked. “The Maldives. Or maybe Turks and Caicos. Chloe went with her family after graduation and loved it. The pictures were gorgeous. Plus, cocktails on the beach.”
“Yeah, gotta have those.”
I rest my head on her shoulder. Despite it being bony, I’m comfortable, surrounded by the familiarness of being pressed into her side. My eyes begin to feel heavy. I’m fairly certain I could fall asleep just like this.
At least until: “Possible honeymoon destination?”
I’ve had to answer wedding questions all night. What kind of dress do I want? Have we chosen a date? Will kids follow immediately after the wedding? All questions I don’t have the answers to. Ones I haven’t even begun to think about. I’m honestly still wrapping my head around the fact that Brian asked me to marry him in the first place. I hate that it’s all somehow leaked into my quiet space with Alex.
“Not thinking that far ahead. I’d like to make it through grad school first.” Alex nods but doesn’t press. Most times, I wish she would. In this case, I’m glad she doesn’t. “What about you? Where would you go?” Maybe back home? I want to ask.
She picks at a loose thread on the duvet and shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about maybe checking out the Northern Lights. It’s always been on Mason’s list. Thought I might ask if he wanted to go.”
For as long as we’ve played this game, Mason has always had the most interesting responses. Whereas Alex’s are random and sometimes silly, and mine usually sway toward any and all beaches, Mason’s have always been thoughtful. True bucket list type places. I hope he gets to see them all.
“I’m sure that’d make him happy. Especially if he gets to go with you.”
“Hey, Jules?” she says after a stretch of silence. “Areyouhappy?”
And wow, if that isn’t a loaded question. Whatishappiness? Is it just unfiltered elation? A sense of feeling complete and at peace? Is it a mix of all of those combined to create a perfect and singular moment of pure bliss?
If I had to take a guess, I would say happiness is seven years old, swinging as high as your swing set allows, hand in hand with your new best friend. It’s ten years old on the beach, with a cool breeze carrying your best friend’s laughter. It’s eighteen and seeing her smile after a long year apart.
It’s nineteen and for the first time feeling truly beautiful and complete within a dimly lit hotel room.
I’m not sure sustaining that type of joy is possible. Perhaps true happiness happens in bursts. Like an ocean wave. It ebbs and flows. Am I happy? I’m not sure. At twenty-three, I’m mostly just wondering what the hell I’m supposed to be doing with my life.
But I wouldn’t say I’m unhappy, either. I guess I just feel content.
That’s close enough to happiness, right?
“Yeah, I think so,” I finally say, coming to the realization that happiness must come in different forms and frequencies the longer we push through life. Her brows furrow, and I wonder if that was the answer she was expecting. “Are you?”
“Sure.”
“Sure?” She doesn’t bother elaborating, and I’m not sure she’d tell me the truth even if I begged. It makes me wonder where the carefree spirit I grew up with went.
“Do you have a date in mind?” she asks. “For the wedding?”
Of course we’re back to the wedding. “June, maybe? I don’t know, we haven’t talked about it.” Just thinking about planning a wedding with Mrs. Prescott hovering over my shoulder with unsolicited advice makes me want to elope.
“Are you planning on moving to Chicago?”
