The Cost of Happiness: A Contemporary Romance (40 page)
They went out to the garden behind the building. There were benches but neither one suggested sitting down. They just kept walking toward Logan Circle. After the rush to get to him, she was content to be walking, her body inches away from his.
Waiting for the light to turn at 18th, Meghan said. “I didn’t see it until today, you have to believe me.”
“See what?”
“That I wouldn’t allow myself to be happy. Or—oh, this is hard to explain. My grandfather was a Calvinist. My mother was bipolar. I got caught in the middle between his belief in self-denial and hers in self-indulgence. She’d make these extravagant gestures and he’d undo them. Looking back, I doubt we were that poor. We could probably have afforded some of the toys that she gave me. But he’d take them all back to the store as though that was the only option.”
She paused, glancing over at Dan as they walked toward the fountain. He met her gaze solemnly, but she could see the love in his eyes. He loved her.
She smiled at him, a slow curve of her lips. Her eyes moistened. Her entire future, right here in Logan Circle.
She faced forward. “Okay, so as a kid, I just assumed I’d been bad and that’s why I couldn’t keep the toys. At some point, I figured out that Mom was nuts, but I didn’t realize until today that my grandfather was also, in his own way, nuts. And, most importantly, that I’ve been nuts.”
They reached the fountain. They walked around the perimeter as though the benches on the far side were nicer. Then they walked past those benches and crossed over to 20th Street, heading for the Free Library.
She waited until they’d crossed Vine Street. “If all you’ve been taught is that you can’t afford to be happy, and then this fantastic guy comes along and makes you happy, what do you do?”
“I don’t know. Be happy?” Dan said.
He was joking, but she treated it as a serious suggestion. “I think what you do is turn down the offer of happiness. Because it makes your Calvinist grandfather happy? Because it proves you’re not crazy like your bipolar mother?” Meghan threw her hands in the air. “Who knows?”
They walked along the Parkway, under the shade of the huge sycamore trees lining the lanes of traffic.
“So is that why you sent me away last week?” Dan reached for her hand but didn’t stop walking.
“I think it was.” She turned to look at him. He seemed more confused than mad. “I can’t say it’ll be easy to change the habit of a lifetime, but I’m willing to try.”
He smiled. “Good.” He squeezed her hand. “I think that’s good.”
Her heart had grown huge, too big to be contained. Her love for him filled her arms and legs, fingers and toes. She felt as though she must be glowing, like a neon sign turned on during the day.
They’d crossed 23rd Street before Meghan finally acknowledged that perhaps they weren’t going to stop anywhere to talk. “Did you just walk out of your office with the intention of not going back?”
Dan chuckled. “I daresay I can go back later and collect any work I need. But for now I believe I must have a touch of the flu and need to go lie down.” He slanted her an amused look.
Sure enough, his apartment building was just up ahead. “I hope you have your keys with you.”
“Of course. And I made a set for you, weeks ago. I’d hoped you’d agree to move in.”
She tipped her head back and laughed. “Good thing, too, because I gave my notice to my landlord.” She looked over at him. “My career, my dignity and self-respect, and now a home. Wow. When you rescue a girl, you do it right. My prince.”
He grinned. “Even better. Your criminal defense attorney. And the man who loves you without reservation.”
“I love you too.” Meghan slipped her hand out of his and curved it around his waist. Their shoulders and hips bumped for a bit, then they found their rhythm.
She was going home with him. And that glow? She recognized it now. It was happiness.
The End
Again, the standard boilerplate:
Many people helped me with this book, but all the mistakes are my own
.
I can’t overstate the extent to which this book wouldn’t exist, let alone be any good, without the following people:
My editor, Deborah Nemeth, who teaches me by example, by suggestion, and by hitting me over the head when I’m particularly dense. I value her like I value my dearest friends and family…but they should know: if the building goes up in flames, I’m rescuing her first.
My critique partner, Zara Keane, who said something so deep and profound that I’ve completely forgotten what it was. I just know it miraculously gave Dan an older brother he really needed.
My MFA mentor, Nancy Holder, and second reader, James Patrick Kelly, for letting Dan and Meghan stand in for a couple of half-baked characters I couldn’t finish in time.
My legal advisor, Henry Blanco White, also known as “Brit Hub 1.0.” If marrying him was smart, staying friends with him after the divorce was downright inspired. And yes, I mined our experience with the matrimonial bar as a plot point. (Waste not want not, as my father used to say.)
Finally and most importantly, Ross (aka Brit Hub 2.1) for reading it countless times, each time improving it immeasurably. If you didn’t find any typos, praise him. (If you did, see Boilerplate, above.) Every time Ross chuckles at something I wrote, an angel gets its wings.
