Adam Silvera - More Happy Than Not

Everything begins zooming away, space and time undoing its present to us, my present to Genevieve, and it throws us out of the cosmos. This trip changes everything for me. Or maybe doesn’t change anything, only makes clear of what I can find here on Earth, my home. Space is pretty damn unreachable for most of us. I turn to Genevieve, to the girl I brought to the stars and back, who waits for me through times dark as space. I hold her hand and say, “I think I sort of, maybe kind of… I think I love you.”

My heart is pounding. I’m so dumb. Genevieve is out of my league, out of this universe. I wait for a reaction, for her to laugh at me, but she smiles and blows all my doubts away — until her smile falters for a second. I could’ve missed it if I blinked or rolled my eyes back in relief.

“You don’t have to say that,” Genevieve says. I check her hands to see if the ax she just slammed into my chest is as big as I think it is. “I don’t know if that’s what you think I want to hear.”

“I’ll be real. I didn’t think kids our age could do this, you know, but you’re more than my best friend and definitely more than some girl I like sleeping with. I’m not waiting for you to say it back — in fact, never say it. I’ll be okay. I just had to tell you.”

I kiss my girlfriend on her forehead, untangle our hands and legs, and get up. It’s hard, seeing as there’s this crushing weight in my chest that makes me feel like that time I tumbled under the waves at Orchard Beach. I follow the orange cord to the ledge and look down at the street: two guys are either shaking hands or swapping money for weed, a young mother is struggling to pop open a baby stroller and a couple of girls are laughing at her. This world is full of ugliness like drugs and hate and girlfriends who don’t love you. I look over at my building a couple blocks down. I could really go for being home now.

Genevieve grips my shoulder and hugs me from behind. In her hand is a folded piece of paper. She shakes it until I take it from her.

“Look at it,” she says, slightly muffled. This is a goodbye hug that comes with a goodbye letter with goodbye words. I unfold the wrinkled sheet and it’s an illustration of a boy and a girl in the sky with a backdrop of many, many stars. The boy is tall and when I examine it more closely, the girl is punching him in the arm — it’s a constellation of us.

Genevieve turns me to her and looks me in the eyes and I almost want to turn away. “I drew that after our first date and have carried it around a lot wondering when I could share this with you. All we did was walk around and it was easy, like we were hanging out for the hundredth time.”

Then I realize our first clumsy kiss was the inspiration. “I laughed after we kissed and you didn’t get offended or anything. You smiled and punched me in the arm.”

“I should’ve punched you in the face. I guess I like hurting the boy I love.”

I don’t move. I told her to never say it but I’m damn glad she did. We’re locked in some strange staring contest and our mouths are curving.

This is still an ugly world. But at least it’s one where your girlfriend loves you back.

It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours and I miss Genevieve. I would sell our firstborn child — a little guy I think we’ll name something ironic, like Faust — just to have her back to punch me.

I didn’t even change clothes when I woke up because the shirt had her fist print, not that I would ever tell my friends. I tried distracting myself with some Sun Warden sketches. Funny how I was so big a distraction to Genevieve that she had to fly to New Orleans just so she could get some work done.

I never do anything right.

These are bad thoughts for me to be thinking. That shitty therapist Dr. Slattery told me to speak to someone — friends, a stranger on the subway, anyone — whenever I find myself in an unhappy and lonely place: obvious advice and not worth the bank we spent on him. I go outside and search for Brendan since there’s no one home for me to talk to. Not that I’d be chitchatting with my mom and Eric anyway. I try calling Brendan; he doesn’t pick up his phone.

Outside, Skinny-Dave is playing handball. He lets me join him, which is great because it keeps me busy enough to suffer through his small talk about “procrastination masturbation,” where you save a porn link for later because you can’t be bothered with the cleanup at that moment. But it’s not long before he stops playing so he can check on his laundry, leaving me alone with a handball I “better not fucking lose” or he’ll castrate me and my future sons. (Sorry, Faust.)

Twenty days.

I only have to survive twenty more days without her.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Aaron.”

“I know, Stretch. What’s up?”

“Nothing, which is a problem. I should be doing something instead of sitting here and only missing Genevieve. You free to hang out?”

“I’m sort of in the middle of something right now. You doing anything tomorrow morning?”

“Nope. Unless whatever you’re about to suggest is stupid, in which case, yeah, I have plans to save the world or something.”

“Well, if you’re done saving the world before noon we could go see a movie.”

“I guess the city can take care of itself for a couple hours. So what are you up to right now?”

“Nothing,” he says.

He sounds kind of ashamed and dodgy, sort of like the way someone (not Skinny-Dave) gets really uncomfortable when you ask them if they watch porn or not, even if the answer is obvious. But I let it go and instead get him to talk to me about stupid things, like what superpower he would like to have — invincibility, which Skinny-Dave always confuses for invisibility.

It’s better than handball, at least.

Thomas looks tired as hell when I meet him on the corner of his block the next morning.

It’s a little after 11:00. Not sure if he got any sleep or if he’ll be able to stay awake for the entire movie.

“Are you cloning yourself?”

“What?” Thomas groggily asks.

“I’m trying to figure out what you’re obsessively working on.”

“I don’t think anyone wants two clueless Thomases walking around.” We take a shortcut through some shady projects to get to the theater as fast as possible. “I don’t want to tell you or you’ll think I’m some lost puppy.”

“Nah, you’re more like a work in progress. We all are,” I say. I hold my hands up in surrender. “But I’ll drop it.”

“You’re supposed to try and force me to spill the beans.”

“Okay. Spill the beans.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

So we don’t.

Again.

Instead, he goes on about how he loves summertime mornings because of the eight-dollar ticket charge for a movie, which usually doesn’t even matter since he knows how to get in for free because he worked there for two weekends last summer before — you guessed it — quitting.

“But you want to be a director. Isn’t working at the movies a good first step?”

“I thought it would be, but you don’t get a vision for any projects working behind the concession stands. You’re constantly burning yourself from popcorn oil, and your classmates bully you at the box office when you don’t let them into R-rated movies. Ripping off tickets won’t turn me into a director.”