I'm So Happy for You Read Online Free PDF Page B

panic climbed the length of her chest, clamping down on her
     lungs and threatening to close her throat. It was a physiological reaction she still associated with certain traumatic childhood
     incidents—getting locked in her great-aunt’s bathroom in Wilmington, Delaware, with the wallpaper featuring Victorian corset
     advertisements, getting separated from her mother at a carnival in the Adirondacks near Lake George. She could still remember
     how the tinny tunes emanating from the arcade game booths seemed to mock her abject terror, how the circling lights of the
     Ferris wheel mimicked her spinning head. “Daphne, it’s me—Wendy,” she called out, her face leaning into the crack between
     the door and the wall. Still, there was no response. “Daphne!” she called again, louder this time. “Please!”
    Suddenly there was movement. Rustling. Footsteps. The clinking of a chain. The door cracked open, revealing a bare leg and
     a flushed cheek, followed by Daphne’s short silk bathrobe with the Japanese leaf pattern. “Daphne!” Wendy cried again, this
     time with relief. She felt her breath returning to her, the world coming back into focus. (It was one thing to love stories
     and scandals—another to wish to be among their leading characters.)
    “Wendy.” Daphne spoke in a squeak. “What are you doing here?” Her cornflower blue eyes were popping and blinking. Her upper
     lashes were dotted with what appeared to be clumps of yesterday’s mascara. A single silken head hair had become affixed to
     her cheek, its tip flirting with the corner of her mouth. Wendy also couldn’t help but notice that even in disarray, Daphne
     looked beautiful—like some kind of French film star, with her pillowy lips, her gazelle’s neck, her almost marmoreal skin.
     (She had only one visible flaw: a barely perceptible scar that started at the left corner of her mouth and zigzagged down
     the side of her chin like a tributary to a great lake, the remnant of a childhood accident involving a diving board. Maybe
     Wendy was the only one who’d ever noticed.)
    “I was—I was worried about you,” Wendy stammered. “I mean, is everything okay?” She couldn’t tell if Daphne was happy to see
     her or not. And the not knowing unnerved her. She felt as if she’d missed some essential plot point, had accidentally skipped
     ahead to chapter seven without first understanding chapter six.
    “You’re sweet to check on me,” Daphne answered with a shy smile. But her eyes fell to the floor as she spoke. And she still
     hadn’t opened the door to its full capacity. That was when Wendy caught sight of him: a half-dressed man with a tangled mat
     of salt-and-pepper chest hair, taking a seat on Daphne’s sofa. He had a television remote in one hand and a glass of something
     cold in the other. “I’m just having a little talk with Mitch,” Daphne mumbled at the carpet, her shoulders hunched around
     her breasts, as the petals of a tulip close in around the stamen during bad weather.
    Anger instantly displaced anxiety in Wendy’s mind. She was furious at Daphne for making her worry for no reason. She was furious
     at herself, too, for being such a fool: she should have known that Daphne would be back with the guy the next night. Wendy
     supposed she ought to be relieved as well to find that Daphne was okay, insofar as having Mitch back in her bed was Daphne’s
     version of okay. Only, how could Wendy feel relieved when she felt so stupid? So duped? So unwelcome? So convinced that the
     man was ruining Daphne’s life? “Sorry—I didn’t mean to disturb you guys.” Wendy unleashed a bitter laugh as she began to back
     away from the door, her right palm raised.
    “No—I’m sorry,” said Daphne. “I shouldn’t have called you last night when I was upset. It was selfish—”
    “Everything okay out there?” It was Mitchell Kroker Reporting Live from the Sofa.
    “Everything’s fine,” Daphne called back to him,