This Is What Happy Looks Like

by Jennifer E. Smith

  On their way back to the set this morning, Olivia had fallen into step beside him. Graham knew that she already had her next two pictures lined up: a Disney movie about a modern-day princess and a comedy about two college roommates. And while he might be skeptical about her choices, he envied her in some ways. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she knew exactly where she was going. It was more than he could say for himself.

  “What are you doing for the Fourth?” she asked, adjusting her sunglasses as they walked toward the cluster of cameras, each of them perched on a dolly, ready to chase them down the street later this morning.

  There’d been a mutiny among the cast and crew when Mick had suggested working through the holiday. There were only three days of shooting left—even less for Graham, who was slated to be finished after the second morning—and the director had wanted to push straight through and get back to the studio in L.A. But after a month of working nearly every single day, everyone was in desperate need of a break, and so he’d finally relented. They’d have the holiday off before returning to finish up, and everyone now seemed to be making plans. Graham had overheard some of the crew talking about going drinking out on a rented boat, while others would be joining in the town’s celebration.

  “I’m thinking of flying down to Manhattan for the day,” Olivia said without waiting for his response. “I’m starting to forget what civilization feels like.”

  “That’ll be fun,” he offered, and she gave him a sideways glance.

  “Want to come?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “To New York?”

  “To Manhattan,” she said, as if they were two different things entirely. “You have to admit it would be nice to get out of here.”

  To his surprise, the idea was not entirely unappealing, especially after so many days alone, and he wondered if she really meant it. He searched her face, trying to decide whether this was a real invite and whether she was genuinely hopeful that he might come. Was it possible that she actually liked him, that it wasn’t all about the publicity?

  But before he could respond, Olivia smiled. “It’s not L.A., of course, but I’m sure we wouldn’t be completely under the radar,” she said, slowing as they approached her trailer. “You don’t have plans yet, do you?”

  Graham thought again of the Fourth of July weekend he’d imagined: a parade and fireworks, sparklers and symphonies, a small-town celebration, and the chance to spend some time with his parents. He’d never responded to his mom’s e-mail, and there’d been no more word from them until she called last week to say hello. For ten minutes, they’d talked about the weather in California and what she was reading for her book club. When she asked about the movie, Graham steered the subject away as he always did when his parents brought it up, acutely aware that they were only being polite. But when she mentioned their neighbor’s Fourth of July barbeque, Graham went silent altogether.

  “Honey?” his mom said, her voice thin across the line.

  “Sounds like fun,” he’d said shortly, and she sighed.

  “I’m sorry we’re not coming,” she said after a moment. “You know how your father is about traveling, and—”

  “It’s fine, Mom.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “It turns out I’ve got to work anyway,” he lied, knowing he’d probably be doing the same thing he did every other day here: taking long walks around town, looking out for the fishing boats coming into the harbor, watching movies and sketching pictures and checking in with the guy who was taking care of Wilbur, which he’d done so many times that he’d started getting only the very most sarcastic updates in return (“Pig at large” or “The pig has left the building”).

  When he’d first arrived here, he’d been so excited to get out of L.A., and he couldn’t imagine four weeks would possibly be enough time. But now he realized that the promise of the place had been wholly and inextricably tied to Ellie, and with her absent from the equation, he was suddenly ready to go home.

  But they still had a few more days to go, and today, he realized he couldn’t face another meal with Harry in his trailer.

  “I can’t,” he told Olivia, who was still waiting for his answer about New York. “But what are you doing for lunch?”

  While they ate—or while Graham ate; Olivia just picked at the pile of turkey and lettuce with a fork—he did his best to keep up the conversation, but it wasn’t easy. Olivia kept looking around as if they were at a club in Hollywood and someone fabulous might walk through the door at any moment. He attempted to ask what he liked to think of as real questions—where she grew up and what her parents were like, as opposed to standard industry fodder like what her next project was and how she got her start in the business—but he was conscious of the people sitting around them, the tables pressed too close for it to be comfortable to talk about anything meaningful. Besides, Olivia was only halfway there anyhow, dividing her time between Graham and her phone.

  In fairness, he wasn’t entirely present either; he was still too rattled to concentrate after seeing Ellie.

  They signed a few autographs on the way out, and Graham left a tip in the jar. Outside, the cameras had finally caught on, and as usual, Graham slid on his sunglasses, lowered his head, and began to walk quickly back toward the set. But Olivia snaked her arm through his, forcing him to slow down, and he realized she was enjoying this. He wondered if she was taking advantage of the fact that they were together, or if she really didn’t mind the attention. He strolled for as long as he could, his teeth gritted, before whispering, “We need to get back.”

  “It’s not like they can start without us,” she said under her breath. “That’s the advantage of being the stars.”

  “Are you two together now?” one of the photographers asked with a wink, and Olivia raised her eyebrows and flashed him a cryptic smile.

  The short walk felt endless. As they neared the end of the street, Graham was surprisingly relieved to see Harry, and he disentangled his arm from Olivia’s as the older man approached, beaming at the sight of them together.

  “Come on,” he said, shepherding them back behind the metal barriers that separated the set from the rest of the street, leaving the snapping of the cameras behind. As they walked over to the trailers, he turned to them with a grin. “Have a good lunch?”

  “It was practically gourmet,” Olivia said, rolling her eyes.

  “I thought it was good,” said Graham, not sure why he was feeling defensive about the place.

  “I’m sure you did,” she said, then turned to Harry. “By the time I got there, he was practically eating off the floor.”

  “Someone knocked over a display of candy,” Graham explained. “I was just helping them clean up.”

  “Probably didn’t hurt that she was hot,” Olivia said idly, then laughed. “I never realized you had a thing for gingers.”

  Graham’s jaw was tight, and when he glanced over at Harry, he was surprised to see a dark look on his face. But it wasn’t directed at Olivia. It was directed at him.

  “I better go,” he said abruptly, and Olivia glanced up from her phone. “Thanks for lunch.”

  Harry followed him wordlessly to the trailer, a vein jumping near his temple. Inside, he let the door slam shut behind him, then folded his arms across his chest. “The same redhead?”

  “What’s the big deal?” Graham asked, pulling out a chair. “I thought you’d be happy about my big date with Olivia. Trust me, she made sure there were plenty of pictures.”

  “Look,” Harry said, grabbing his briefcase from the couch and rifling through it. “You know I just want you to be happy—”

  Graham snorted.

  “But you can’t be getting mixed up with that girl.”

  “With Olivia?” he asked, playing dumb, and Harry threw him a look.

  “With Ellie O’Neill.”

  A jolt of surprise went through Graham at the sound of her name. “How do you know—”

  “I did a little resear
ch,” he said, then held up both hands in defense. “It’s my job, okay?” He pulled a thick brown envelope from the suitcase. “I wasn’t going to bother you with this, since we’re only here a few more days anyway. But I can see you’re still hung up on her—”

  “I’m not,” Graham said, much too quickly.

  “—and clearly you’re not over whatever this thing was between you—”

  “It wasn’t—”

  “—but I wanted to make sure you at least had all the information,” Harry said, holding out the envelope, which Graham made no move to take. “It’s just not a good time to be getting involved with anything that might prove to be… messy. Not right now.”

  “This is none of your business,” Graham said, glaring at him.

  “It wouldn’t look good for you,” Harry said, as if he hadn’t heard him. “The papers would be all over it. This could be the kind of hit to your image that we really can’t afford.”

  The envelope was still dangling there in his outstretched hand. When he realized Graham wasn’t going to take it, he finally let it drop on the table with a thud, then stood up.

  “Trust me, it’s for your own good,” he said before crossing the trailer. A wedge of sunlight fell on the carpet when he opened the door, and then it was gone again, and Graham was alone.

  He stared at the envelope, torn between ripping it open and throwing it away. He couldn’t imagine what Harry had discovered, had no idea what made him search in the first place. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  He found himself thinking back to his very first e-mail exchange with Ellie, the easy swapping of words, all those messages between them that had been about nothing, when it came right down to it, but that had still managed to feel like something. Like everything.

  Until today, it had been weeks since they’d seen each other. And though Graham missed her, though he’d like nothing more than to knock on her door and take her in his arms again, it was more than that too. He was surprised to find how much he missed writing to her. For so many months, she’d been the person on the other end of all his musings, and now she was gone and his thoughts were left buzzing around inside his head like frantic fireflies in a jar. He hadn’t realized how much it could mean, having someone to talk to like that; he hadn’t realized that it could be a kind of lifeline, and that without it, there would be nobody to save you if you started to drown.

  Graham touched the corner of the packet, sliding it closer. He suddenly understood how desperate he was for whatever was inside it, whatever scrap of knowledge about Ellie O’Neill was available to him, no matter what it was, or what it might mean.

  The envelope stared back at him, enigmatic and official.

  It looked like a secret.

  It was probably a mistake.

  But after a moment, he reached out and took it anyway.

  From: EONeill22@hotmail.com

  Sent: Wednesday, July 3, 2013 1:21 PM

  To: thisisquinn@gmail.com

  Subject: white flag

  Any chance we can call a truce? I know you’re still upset with me, but I could really use a friend right now. (And not just any friend…)

  It was too hot to do much of anything. Once they’d finished rearranging the window displays, Ellie pulled a stool over near the fan and sat there with her face pointed at the blades, but it did little more than move the warm air around the shop. The only customers who were brave enough to venture inside all day had left before making it too far past the doorway, the stuffiness of the place proving even less tolerable than the sun-baked streets outside.

  Finally, around two o’clock, Mom stood up. “I feel like I’m sitting inside a furnace,” she said. “Let’s close up and get out of here.”

  Ellie spoke into the fan, her words vibrating. “Where should we go?”

  But she already knew the answer. They would go where they always went.

  Half an hour later, they were on their way to the beach. Not the one in town where all the tourists went to sun themselves on the rocks like seals, or the kiddie beach with the lifeguards and the roped-off swimming areas, or even the sandy one by the fishing pier.

  They went to the cove.

  After hanging a sign on the door of the shop—FULLY COOKED; BACK TOMORROW—they’d stopped home to change into swimsuits, grab some towels, and pick up the dog, and now they were headed to the little spit of water not far from their house, a beach so private they’d come to think of it as their own. Ever since Ellie was little, this is where they’d escaped together, bringing sunblock and towels in the summer or cider and blankets in the winter. They’d spent countless afternoons wading in the surf, collecting rocks, and spying on the birds. It was their place, and until she’d met Graham here a couple of weeks ago, Ellie had never before invited anyone else. Not even Quinn.

  Now, as they made their way down toward the water, she found herself scanning the layer of stones that cobbled the beach, wondering if it was possible to find more than one heart in a place like this. Mom was laying out the towels in their usual spot, and Bagel had gone crashing into the water, bold and brave and full of bravado, only to be chased right back out again by the most pathetic of waves.

  Ellie kicked off her flip-flops and waded in, shivering happily at the chill of the water, which lapped around her knees. Her feet were frozen and her shoulders were warm, and she tipped her head back and closed her eyes, the events of the morning melting right off her.

  “Three whole weeks,” Mom said as she joined her. “I’m going to miss this.”

  Ellie didn’t need to ask what she meant. In her whole life, she’d never been away for longer than a few days, and Mom still assumed she’d be leaving soon for the poetry course on a scholarship that didn’t exist. But it wasn’t just that. This was her way of preparing herself for something much bigger. When she drove down to Boston and dropped Ellie off in that empty dorm room, it would be a preview of the next summer, when she would go off to college for real. This trip, this August: it was like the beginning of the end. It marked the start of their last year together.

  And so she knew what it meant when Mom said three whole weeks, and she knew she should reach out across the surf and take her salty hand and say I know or I’ll miss this too. But some small and hardened piece of her heart kept her staring straight ahead at the invisible seam where the water met the sky.

  “Three weeks isn’t that long,” she said finally, her words crisp and unforgiving.

  Mom nodded, her eyes far away. She couldn’t have known what Ellie was really thinking: that three weeks was everything, and that she might not get that chance. She’d saved up $624.08 so far, and if she kept working at this pace, she’d have just under a thousand by August. But it wasn’t nearly enough, and the thought of saying no—of giving up this opportunity, or possibly even worse, asking for help—twisted at something inside her, made her feel miserable and hopeless and mean.

  On the shore, Bagel was dashing back and forth, distraught at being left behind. When Ellie whistled, he plunged into the water with a little whine, keeping his nose high as he paddled toward them.

  “Listen,” Mom said. “I know—”

  But Ellie didn’t want to hear it; she took a deep lungful of air, then dove into the water, the slap of cold making her whole body vibrate, right down to her teeth. Through slitted eyes, she could see Bagel’s churning paws as he circled her in alarm, and she used her arms to push away the water, propelling herself forward several strokes before bursting back through to the surface.

  To her surprise, Mom was at her side, shaking water out of her ear. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” she said, and Ellie used one hand to wipe her eyes. The ground beneath them had sloped sharply away, and both of them were treading water, their feet busy beneath the surface.

  “I wasn’t trying to,” she said, leaning back so that she was floating, the waves loud in her ears, the taste of salt on her lips.

  “I know you’re still mad at me about Graham,” M
om said, and Ellie looked over at her. There were beads of water on her eyelashes, and her face looked very pale against the water. “You’ve been so quiet the last couple of weeks, and I know you must be upset, so I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

  A wave lifted them gently, then lowered them again, and a few seagulls wheeled overhead. The sun off the water was uncomfortably bright, and Ellie squinted against the glare, unsure what to say. It was true that she was upset about Graham. She thought she’d been managing just fine from a distance. But seeing him today, being near him—it was like the pull of a magnet, powerful and inevitable. Even now, treading water under the high globe of the sun, she felt her equilibrium had disappeared. She’d walked out of the deli hours ago, but some essential part of her—something too important to lose—had been left behind.

  “It’s okay,” Ellie told her eventually, her voice very small. “It’s not your fault.”

  Mom let out a breath. Her arms were moving fast beneath the water, ghostly and pale. “He’ll be gone soon anyway,” she said. “It’ll get easier.”

  Ellie opened her mouth to answer, but found she couldn’t speak. It was meant to make her feel better, she knew, but suddenly all she wanted to do was cry.

  Mom’s words echoed in her head again: Three whole weeks. That was how much time had been wasted. That was how long it had been since she’d kissed Graham.

  Three whole weeks.

  Farther out on the water, an enormous yacht glided by, moving slowly against the blinding blue of the horizon, and Ellie thought of the newspaper clipping about her father, and the fact that he’d be in Kennebunkport this weekend with his family, probably on a yacht not unlike that one. She imagined he’d be staying in some sort of oceanfront mansion, flitting between elegant cocktail parties at night. He’d be spending the days out fishing with his two blue-eyed sons, who looked like catalog models but—given what Ellie had read about them—probably couldn’t get into the Harvard poetry program if they tried.