Happiness for Beginners

 

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For my husband, Gordon, on our twentieth year together. Thanks for being so good at love.

 

Chapter 1

If you want to put me in Hell, plunk me down in the middle of a party where I don't know anyone. If you want to be really thorough, fill the place with drunken college kids. And make sure every other one manages to spill a drink on me. Don't tell me about the party in advance, so I show up in sweatpants and ponytails. While you're at it, put a bubble-gum pink cat carrier under my arm. With a pissed-off mini dachshund inside.

Actually, don't. Because then you'll turn into my brother Duncan. And trust me: You don't want to be Duncan.

Here's what he did this time. He said he'd watch my dog, Pickle, while I was out of town for three weeks. I reminded him that she was a bit of an ankle-biter and not a huge fan of the human race. Or the canine one. Or living creatures in general. Still, Duncan swore he wanted to with such sincerity that even after knowing him for a lifetime, I said okay. He swore to devote himself to her comfort the whole time I was gone. He even teased me that he'd burn a meat-scented candle to help her feel at home.

We agreed I'd drop Pickle off the night before I left, but by the time it was time, Duncan had forgotten the whole plan as if it had never existed. Instead, he'd decided to host a “small gathering of good friends” with his roommate, Jake, bartending. Jake, for his part, had invented a drink called “the Lambada” mixed with homemade moonshine that he swore would get you laid if you even just
sniffed
it.

Suddenly a hundred people were crammed into an apartment the size of a refrigerator. And one of them was me.

The worst part wasn't even that Duncan kept doing this kind of thing. It was that I kept falling for it. And now my emotionally challenged pet had to suffer.

Duncan, as always in these moments, was nowhere to be found.

I pushed my way through to his room, which was empty. Not empty of dirty boxers on the floor, or three-week-old Chinese takeout containers, or posters with girls in bikinis—just empty of Duncan. In the corner, the recliner he'd rescued from the heavy trash was piled taller than me with dirty laundry. A six-month-old tangle of Christmas lights hung from a sad nail, flashing on and off like Vegas.

I picked my way over to the unmade bed, set Pickle's carrier down, and tilted it up to peer in at her face. Her top lip was caught on the teeth. The ears were drooping. The eyes were all betrayal.

“You don't want to live here, do you?” I said.

To my surprise, a voice behind me answered back. “I don't mind.”

It was Jake. Housemate, bartender, and Duncan's best friend since tenth grade. But it took me a second to register, and not just because he was standing in a corner, somewhat out of sight. He looked different—radically different—than the last time I'd seen him. When had that been? I had no idea. Long enough for him to grow like a foot taller, and to fill out in all those good boy places, like shoulders and arms, and to get a vast improvement of a haircut that spiked up in the front. I knew it was him, of course—but he looked so unlike the person I pictured on the rare occasion that I thought of him, I couldn't help but confirm: “Jake?”

He raised a hand. “Hi, Helen.”

“Were you hiding back there?”

“I wasn't hiding,” he said with a frown. “I was in the nook.”

“The nook?”

“Yeah,” he said, turning to gesture behind him. “We turned the closet into a nook. Video games, music. I use it mostly for reading.”

“You and Duncan built a nook?”

“It's awesome. It's like a spaceship in there. Want to see?”

I gave him a look:
really?
I had never liked this kid. Everything that made me crazy about Duncan? Jake made it worse. After Duncan met Jake, he did half the dishes, half the homework, and twice the dope-smoking that he'd done before. I'd hoped they'd lose touch when they went off to college, but, instead, they became housemates. For four years. Now it was the summer after their senior year—though Duncan hadn't quite graduated—and they were still living like idiots.

Apparently, Duncan didn't have time to graduate, but he had time to build a spaceship nook. No, I did not want to see it. Nope.

Jake was staring at me in the way he always stared at me when we were in the same room: mouth slightly open, as if he were not just looking at me, but
beholding
me, somehow. From anyone else, it would have been flattering.

I finally had to say something. “You cut off your ponytail.”

He nodded, remembering. “Yep,” he said. “Yep. Grabbed a big pair of scissors and snipped it right off. Duncan keeps it in a coffee mug on the shelf and calls it our pet.”

There was a pause, while Jake kept nodding.

“Was that for graduation?” I finally asked.

“No,” he said, switching to head-shaking. “That was freshman year.”

That got my attention. “You've had your hair short since freshman year? Haven't I seen you since then?”

“Oh, yeah. A bunch of times.”

I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him. I'd certainly never noticed he'd cut off all that nasty hair and spiked it into a dark Speed Racer look. I guess sometimes you just get an idea of a person in your mind, and that's what you see when you look at him, no matter what.

“It could be the glasses,” he offered.

I frowned.

“The new glasses,” he said, tapping them. “I never wore glasses before this year.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right.” It was becoming quite clear to me—and likely to him, too—that I'd never really looked at him before. He might have insisted he'd always worn a pirate patch, and I couldn't have argued.

“I like them,” I said then.

“They're very Nixon administration,” he said. “Duncan's started calling me Apollo Thirteen.”

So there we had it. Haircut, hipster glasses, and the mysterious addition of all kinds of muscles. Three was a magic number after all. “Well,” I said, looking away. “It's a thousand times better.”

“Thanks.”

Another pause.

“Are you looking for Duncan?” Jake asked then.

“Yes!” I said, and it all came back—how mad I was. “He's supposed to dog-sit for me.”

“That's a dog in there?” He peered in. Pickle growled.

The music outside the bedroom seemed to get louder. “We were supposed to do a drop-off tonight,” I said. “Duncan was not supposed to be hosting
Girls Gone Wild
.”

Jake wrinkled his nose in apology. “He probably forgot.”

“Of course he forgot,” I said. “It's
Duncan
. And that's why I'm leaving. But first I want to thank him profusely for letting me down. Again.”

Jake nodded like he really got it. “He's big on the offering, not so big on the actual doing.”

I shook my head at my own stupidity. “I never should have agreed.”

“It's hard, though,” Jake said. “He really means it when he offers. You just have to train yourself to say no. I've got it on a tattoo:
ALWAYS SAY NO TO DUNCAN
.”

I tilted my head. “Really?”

He smiled like I was adorable. “Not really. I'm kidding.”

I sighed.

“Great ponytails, by the way,” he added.

Pickle started barking then—loudly, over and over. “Do you know where Duncan is?” I asked.

He nodded. “He's in my room. That's why I'm here.”

I shook my head. “Why aren't either of you actually
attending
your own party?”

“Um,” Jake said, turning his eyes up to the ceiling to think. “Well, I'm in the middle of this great book, so I took a bartending break to see what happens next, but I'm pretty sure Duncan might be getting lucky.”

I put my hand over my eyes. “Please tell me you're kidding again.”

“Nope,” he said. “I seem to be sexiled.”

I dropped my hand to look at him.

“That's when you're exiled from your room,” he explained, “because someone else is having sex there.”

“I know what sexiled is,” I said. “They had that word even way back when I was in college.”

Jake nodded approvingly.

“Why is he in
your
room?” I asked.

Jake gestured around like it was obvious. “You can't bring a girl in here.”

I scanned the bikini posters. “But yours is okay?”

He shrugged. “My filth level is lower.”

I sighed again. There were very few things Duncan could be doing that I wouldn't be willing to interrupt right now, but “getting lucky” was one of them. “Can you give him a message for me?” I asked.

“Sure,” Jake said. “Anything.”

“Tell him he's a moron, and he can kiss my ass.”

Jake nodded as he committed it to memory. “Got it.”

“Don't forget,” I said, as I bent down to lift Pickle's carrier.

He crossed his heart. “I won't forget,” he said. “Especially the part about your ass.”

Was he
flirting
with me? He was ten years younger than I was! Uppity behavior like that demanded an icy stare-down. But, in honor of the fact that he'd cut off that greasy ponytail, I let it slide.

I was at the door when he said something that stopped me. “Thanks for the ride, by the way.”

I turned back with my hand still on the knob. “What ride?”

Jake looked flummoxed for a second, then frowned. “The ride?” he said. “Tomorrow?”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm actually going out of town tomorrow, so I can't give you a ride anywhere.” Not that I would have, anyway. Had I ever given him a ride to anything? What was he thinking?

“I know,” he said. “You're going to Wyoming. To go hiking. On a survival course.”

“That's right,” I said, surprised that Duncan had conveyed so many details correctly.

“I'm also going to Wyoming tomorrow. To go hiking—”