People We Meet on Vacation by Emily Henry (best story books to read .TXT) 📕

I have something else to study intensely. A balding docent with paper-thin skin gives me the evil eye.

He probably thinks I’m casing the joint. For all the time I’ve spent in here, I might as well have been. Two birds, one stone, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Finally, I accept that I’ve worn out my welcome, and I head to Palm Canyon Drive, where there’s supposed to be some amazing antiques shopping.

And there is. Galleries and showrooms and antiques stores all lined up in a neat row, sprinkled with bright pops of midcentury modernist colors—robin’s-egg blues, brilliant oranges, and sour greens, vibrant mustardy yellow lamps that look almost illustrated and Sputnik-patterned couches and elaborate metal light fixtures with spokes sticking out in every direction.

It’s like I’m on vacation in the 1960s’ image of the future.

It’s enough to hold my interest for all of twenty minutes.

Then I finally bite the bullet and call Rachel.

“Helloooooooo,” she cries on the second ring.

“Are you drunk?” I ask, surprised.

“No?” she says. “Are you?”

“I wish.”

“Uh-oh,” she says. “I thought you weren’t texting me back because you were having an amazing time!”

“I’m not texting you back because we’re staying in a four-foot shoebox that’s a trillion degrees and I have neither the space nor mental fortitude to send you a detailed message about how bad it’s going.”

“Oh, darling,” Rachel sighs. “Do you want to come home?”

“I can’t,” I say. “There’s a wedding at the end of this, remember?”

“You could,” she says. “I could have an ‘emergency.’”

“No, that’s okay,” I say. I don’t want to go home—I just want things to go better.

“Bet you’re wishing you were in Santorini right now,” she says.

“Mostly I just wish Alex weren’t laid up back in the room with a back spasm.”

“What?” Rachel says. “Young, fit, rockin’-bod Alex?”

“The very same. And he won’t let me do anything to help him, really. He kicked me out and I went to the art museum, like, four times already today.”

“Four . . . times?” she says.

“I mean,” I say, “I didn’t, like, leave and come back. I just feel like I took four full-length seventh-grade field trips in a row. Ask me anything about Edward Ruscha.”

“Oh!” Rachel says. “What was his pseudonym when he was working at Artforum magazine in layout?”

“Okay, don’t ask me anything,” I say. “Turns out I did not actually read the pamphlet I was staring at that whole time.”

“Eddie Russia,” Art School Rachel blurts out. “Don’t at all remember why. I mean, obviously it just sounds like his name, but why not use your real name in that case, you know?”

“Totally,” I agree, starting back to the car. There’s sweat gathering at my armpits and in the backs of my knees, and I feel like I’m getting a sunburn even standing under the awning of this coffee shop. “Should I start writing under the name Pop Right, without the W?”

“Or become a DJ in the nineties,” Rachel says flatly. “DJ Pop-Right.”

“Anyway,” I say. “How are you? How’s New York? How are the pooches?”

“Good,” she says, “hot, and okay. Otis had a minor surgery this morning. Tumor removal—benign, thank God. I’m on my way to pick him up now.”

“Give him kisses for me.”

“Obviously,” she says. “I’m almost to the vet, so I should go, but let me know if you need me to get injured or whatever so you can come home early.”

I sigh. “Thanks. And you let me know if you need any expensive mod furniture.”

“Um. Sure.”

We hang up, and I check the time. I’ve successfully made it to four thirty p.m. I think that means it’s appropriately late to pick up sandwiches and head back to the Desert Rose.

When I get inside, the balcony door is shut against the heat of the day, but the apartment is still nastily hot. Alex has put a gray T-shirt back on and is sitting up where I left him with his book open and two more sitting on the mattress beside him.

“Hey,” he says. “Have a good time?”

“Yep,” I lie. I tip my chin toward the door. “You’ve been up and walking around.”

His mouth twists into a guilty frown. “Just a little bit. I had to pee anyway, and take another pill.”

I climb onto the bed and set the bag of sandwiches between us, pulling my legs underneath me. “How do you feel?”

“A lot better,” he says. “I mean, I’m still trapped here, but it hurts less.”

“Good. I brought you a sandwich.” I tip the plastic bag upside down and the paper-wrapped sandwich slides out of it.

He takes his and slightly smiles as he unwraps it. “A Reuben?”

“I know it’s not the same thing as stealing it from Delallo,” I say. “But if you want, I’ll put it in the fridge and go to the bathroom long enough for you to hobble over and take it.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “In my heart, it’s stolen from Delallo, and some would say that’s what really matters.”

“We’re learning so many important lessons on this trip,” I say. “P.S., I left Nikolai a voicemail on my way home about the air situation. Pretty sure he’s screening my calls.”

“Oh!” Alex says, brightening. “I forgot to tell you! I got it down to seventy-eight.”

“Seriously?” I spring off the bed and go check. “That’s amazing, Alex!”

He laughs. “This is a pathetic thing to celebrate.”

“The theme of this trip is Taking What We Can Get,” I say as I sit back down beside him.

“I thought it was Aspire,” Alex says.

“Aspire to reach seventy-five degrees.”

“Aspire to fit inside the swimming pool at some point.”

“Aspire to get away with the murder of Nikolai.”

“Aspire to get out of bed.”

“You poooooor thing,” I moan. “Trapped in bed with a book—your personal hell!—while I rub menthol on your back and hand deliver you your ideal breakfast and lunch.”

Alex makes the puppy face.

“Unfair!” I say. “You know I can’t use self-defense against you right now!”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll stop until you’re comfortable causing me bodily harm again.”

“When did this start happening?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I guess a