Page 89 of The Happiness Blueprint
Pull up my inbox and wait for it to load. She jiggles her leg next to me, and Alice leans over my shoulder to read.
I feel a huge fucking smile appear on my face.
“Guess what I’m doing this week?”
“What, Alex?”
“Getting some birch wood and tools and building you a new desk.”
“A desk is where you sit and work.”
“Exactly. You’ll be working this September—studying, in fact. You passed!” Turn the phone around so she can read the email for herself. “And 8.1 is an awesome score.”
Tears roll down her face and she lets them, declining the tissue Alice hands her.
“These are happy tears,” she clarifies. “Have you seen the state of the world? You’d be crazy to wipe out anything happy.”
ONE YEAR LATER
KLARA
Is it possible to be too happy?
Google Search I’m Feeling Lucky
Love is, Google tells me, an intense, deep affection for another person. Love is a lot like muscle ache: it doesn’t show up on X-rays, but we know it’s there. I am happy to say I, Klara Nilsson, am in love.
There’s a cup of coffee next to my—our—bed, and I can see that someone has plugged in my phone to charge. I know he checks my battery before he falls asleep, always on edge for another data failure and bad hypo like the one in Sweden.
“Morning.” I turn my head in the direction of the greeting.
He’s just stepped out of the shower but hasn’t dried his hair properly, drops of water falling off his head and landing on his shoulders, arms, chest. Trickling all the way down to where a towel sits. I try to think about when I love Alex the most. Fresh from the shower is right up there. But then anytime Alex looks at me like this would be my favorite, when I can tell how happy he is to see me—I make him happy.
I reach for the coffee—the next best part of my morning routine.
“Your dad called,” Alex tells me as he pulls a white T-shirt over his head. “Apparently another newspaper wants to profile the company.Small, predominantly woman-led company rivaling big-city firms in Stockholm.He’s asking if you can join the call via Zoom with him and Hanna.”
“He called already? Remind me what time it is, again?”
“To be fair, Sweden is an hour ahead. His 8:00 a.m. is a totally acceptable time to call.”
“I’ll call him back later.” I’ve quite enjoyed the media appearances that have continued to roll in since last year. I don’t mind talking about something I’m passionate about, and believe it or not, Iampassionate about bathrooms, tiles and joints.
“I’m off to work, then. See you later tonight, Klara.” Alex doesn’t call mebabyorsweetheartor, worse,honeypot(which I overheard on the Tube the other day and resulted in me spending a good fifteen minutes trying to peek into the young lady’s large purse to look for said pot before I realized it was her,shewas the pot of honey).
His finger strokes the inside of my wrist as he sits next to me on the bed for a minute and kisses me. He tastes like minty toothpaste, then leaves for work.
I don’t have classes today, Monday. This typically means that I will meet up with Alex for lunch while he’s on break. Sometimes I miss our lunches in the van, but he is keen on what goes under the vague term ofatmosphere. Previously this entailed loud noise, overwhelming smells and the clink of glasses being put down too violently, but since Alex has entered my life, I can see the beauty. It’s not about what goes on around you, it’s about the small bubble that you create with the people you are with. I am not meant to focus on the group of guys grunting and discussing soccer at the table next to me, or the fact that the lady across the room sits in silence while her husband looks at his phone more than at her. This is just the backdrop that exists to strengthen the bubble I’m in. To surround me and Alex and make us connected. In the noise, we find each other.
I collect my study materials into a neat pile. There is more math than I would have wished for, and I am the second-oldest student in the architecture course, butoh,it is exciting.I send a snapshot of the start of my current project to Nonstop Notifications, and within seconds I have all sorts of encouragements. It turns out my family can be incredibly supportive, that it wasn’t limited to my time at Dad’s. I have been trying hard to make sure they feel supported by me too, Saga in particular—even when it looks like she has it all together, I know she still needs me. She’s working from home two days a week. Fueled with energy and Scandinavian air in her lungs, she made her case to the board and managed to convince them that it was a hybrid work schedule or nothing, that they may risk losing a highly favored professor if they didn’t agree.
I’ve become better at putting my energy where it’s deserved: when meeting a stranger, I don’t feel like Ihaveto smile because, as Alice put it, I have no obligation to smile for anyone but myself. Being officially Autistic helps me with these little things. I’m allowed to have quirks that others don’t, say, the need to walk around the room to score an odd number on my step counter or not smile at people who haven’t earned it. Instead I now think about the people I love when my earrings brush against my cheeks, andthatmakes me smile. The ones whododeserve me. Remembering to send them a message. Or adding a calendar reminder to do it.
I browse our shared calendar as it pings with a reminder. Alex and I still use it to communicate.
•NEW EVENT:Can’t make lunch but meet you fordinner at The Oak.
I have to think about this: we don’t eat out on Mondays. Then I frown and do a double take at the note that’s been added.We may need to celebrate.Confused, I look for more and find something that strikes me as odd.
