Happy All the Time Read Online Free

Vincent.
    â€œI don’t care,” said Guido. “No one is problem free.”
    â€œYou certainly do look wonderful together. But you say she’s unnecessarily complicated.”
    â€œShe is, but I don’t care.”
    â€œYou seem to be saying ‘I don’t care’ an awful lot.”
    â€œI don’t care,” said Guido. “I have never been so sure of anything in my life. It doesn’t matter what she’s like.”
    â€œFreud says that in big issues, like who to marry, it’s only a question of what you feel.”
    â€œWhere does Freud say that?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Vincent. “Daphne Meranty quoted it to me.”
    â€œWhich one is Daphne?”
    â€œShe’s the one from Bangor. Her father is a minister. He’s very interested in Freud. He makes all his children read Freud and he makes his congregation read him too.”
    â€œIs she the one with the Airedales?”
    â€œThat was Ellie Withers, and it was wire-haired terriers.”
    â€œYou’re not going to marry Daphne Meranty, are you?” Guido said.
    â€œOh, no,” said Vincent. “She’s engaged. I was her last fling. That’s how the subject came up, you see. Well, good luck. With Holly, I mean.”
    â€œIs that all you have to say?” Guido said.
    â€œWell, if you say that you’re more certain of this than anything else in your life, what else is there to say?”
    Guido sat gazing at his best friend and third cousin. There was the slightest resemblance between them—in the way their thick hair fell and a little around the cheekbones. Vincent was ruddy and freckled. In sunlight, his hair was reddish. His light eyes were flecked with green. His clothes could never stay entirely on his body. He hated cuffs and so his sleeves were always rolled up. His long torso caused his shirttail to untuck. When one button of his shirt unbuttoned, two generally followed. Where Guido was elegant, lithe, and sensual, Vincent was casual, springy, and game.
    Guido found it curious that Vincent—who spent his life as a scientist analyzing—simply lived, while Guido, who simply lived, spent his life analyzing. Vincent was sitting in front of his fake fireplace, tying flies under a high-intensity lamp.
    â€œWell, say something,” said Guido.
    â€œOh, for God’s sake,” said Vincent. “If you think it would be fun to marry Holly, marry her. I know it’s all very serious but one of us ought to get serious. I guess I’ll be the best man and have to throw you a party or something, huh? Your problem is you think too much. You agonize over everything. I never think about myself at all, which is clearly the better way. And now you have an issue that can’t be thought about. Just marry her. Have you asked her?”
    â€œNo,” said Guido.
    â€œWell, get cracking, for God’s sake. How can I be your best man if you haven’t proposed? Your problem, Guido, is that you are a man of thought, not a man of action. Go ask her. I’m sure she’ll say yes. Why haven’t you, for God’s sake?”
    â€œTerror,” said Guido.
    A week later, Guido sat in Holly’s living room watching her stand on tiptoe to water her plants. She watered them twice a week—the same days every week. She disappeared into the bedroom with her watering can. Guido held her image with him: her swan-like neck, that wedge of dark hair, the arch of her feet as she balanced on tiptoe.
    â€œGuido,” she called. “Come here.”
    He stood at the bedroom door.
    â€œThere’s a little blue box in the squirrel-foot fern. Did you put it there?”
    â€œYes,” said Guido.
    â€œWhy did you?”
    â€œAs a romantic gesture,” Guido said.
    â€œIs it a ring?”
    â€œYes,” said Guido.
    â€œI see,” said Holly. “In that case, I think we ought to have a talk.” Guido’s