Page 77 of The Happiness Blueprint
“I don’t think Mum agrees.”
“Has she been texting you every day? Because that’s what she does when she’s worried about someone. She’s texting me. Not you. Because she knows you’re okay.”
Well, no, she hasn’t texted me very often at all, I realize.
“I always feel like I’m the immature one, still finding my way while Saga’s got it all figured out.”
I was waiting tables when she was writing her dissertation. My only academic achievement or mark on the world being that I wrote the names for the bar’s cocktail list, the Sour Sister Sass being my favorite.
“That’s not true. You were always so mature. I kept waiting for you to have a moment of fun and figuring yourself out. Your whole childhood you took care of your health, inspiring us all with your strength and determination. You injected yourself at age six, for goodness’ sake! If anything, we were relieved to see you not being too serious, enjoying life a bit and not diving into commitments too soon.”
I had never thought about it this way. I blink a few times to stop my eyes from producing tears.
“I’ve loved it here, actually.” It’s true, I realize as I say it. It wasn’t only to do with Alex but running my dad’s company gave me a purpose. It had been so long since I’d thought about Mark the Ex or any of the things my old life had to offer. Even seeing my surname on the side of the vans fills me with pride, and not the embarrassment I felt the first week. I was proud to drive that van and proud of what we as a team had achieved.
I’ve finally gone outside for fresh air, and I see the stars for the first time in days. London is too bright, so busy shining its own artificial light on its people that it drowns out the stars. Every capital has replaced the stars in the sky with human ones.
“Do you seeKarlavagnen?”TheBig Dipper.My built-in translation system repeats it in English. Dad has appeared next to me, his cloud of breath traveling north as he tilts his chin up to look.
“I do. We used to call itKlaravagnen.”Klara carriage.
“It was your carriage. A princess carriage, as you pointed out. You would have painted it pink in the sky if you could.” I smile. I had a good childhood: you don’t have your own carriage of stars in the sky if you don’t.
“Are you happy, Klara? I mean, Alex aside,” Dad asks. I think about his question. I am not as happy as I thought I’d be, looking at age twenty-six as some faraway land as I did as a teenager. It was meant to be lined with success, romantic gestures, a house that would haveElleinterior journalists queuing up outside it. I am not that type of happy. But I’m happy when I solve a challenging project, I’m happy when Dad and I eat together, and I was happy when my calendar pinged with an entry from Alex. It’s a scale, happiness, and I’ve realized lately that the goal is to hover along the middle between euphoria and intense sadness. If I could only find that middle spot and stay there. I say this to Dad.
“I’ve been happier than I thought I’d be.”
“It’s not an easy place or age to be in, your midtwenties. You’re told that the world is your oyster, you’ve been fed it since youth, but then you arrive to find the shell shut and the oyster out of reach. It was different when I was your age. I was already married, owned a house and had a child. It was possible for a simple person to buy a house back then and to feed a family. We didn’t have to spend our twenties just saving toward a deposit.”
“I’ve somehow arrived at the middle of them, without permanent work or a relationship. I don’t even have a degree.” I doubt I’ll ever get one. That dream seems further away than ever.
“You don’t need a degree to run a company. I don’t have one, didn’t even finish secondary school. Your mum has a degree, and what has she done with it? She sells vitamins off a pyramid scheme,” Dad says. I laugh.
“We do get free vitamins.”
“They have an aftertaste of seaweed.”
“It’s called spirulina,” I say by way of correction.
“Diluted in water, it works wonders on the flowers.”
“She would go crazy if you told her that’s what you use them for. They are meant to cure your cancer.”
“I’m getting there without them. But let her think her pills have helped.”
“A shooting star!” I point it out with childlike enthusiasm, almost looking over my shoulder to check if Saga has seen it before me. But of course, she’s busy somewhere else doing God knows what.
“Make a wish, quick,” Dad urges me.
And so I do.
The next morning, I wake up to a message from Saga and what is apparently an urgent matter.
Saga: There’s a spider in the bathroom. Has made its way underneath the door to what I assume to be the outside of the door.
Saga: Please hurry because I’m going to cry.
Saga: Klaraaaa?
