Make Me Laugh

Chapter 1

“It’s really not you. It’s me.”

Well, honestly, it is you because you’re boring. Like, really boring. I can’t remember a single time I’ve laughed with you. Only that one time I almost laughed when you accidentally tickled my foot. But other than that, nope, hasn’t happened even once during our short-lived relationship.

I meet his eyes, hoping he can’t read my mind—that wouldn’t be funny.

Justin drags a hand through his perfect hair, looking slightly confused. “What about you?”

I exhale deeply. Of course he would ask that.

Justin Spencer never misses a moment to be meticulous.

Well, here we go. Mentally, I start stretching my hands in front of me, rolling my neck from one side to the other.

“I’m in a place in my life right now where I need to focus on myself—find out more about what I want and what I need.

And I feel I have to take that journey on my own. ”

Journey? Wow, I’m such a cliché. But it is the best way to end a relationship.

It’s not very hurtful, and it’s kind of impossible to argue against, because who knows what someone means with that kind of journey?

Even I don’t really know what I mean. But I know it’s exactly what I would want someone to tell me if I were being dumped—it’s not you, it’s me.

Because in this case, it is me! I’m not satisfied with this relationship, with his lack of humor.

We’ve had our fun. Or actually, we haven’t because Justin Spencer really isn’t funny.

I can see how he considers my words, weighing them, contemplating whether he should dig deeper into this and find out every detail. He is, after all, the spokesperson for meticulousness.

But to my very big surprise, he finally sighs, looking defeated. Almost tired. “So, this is it then?”

I sigh too, but internally and in relief.

He won’t make a big deal out of this, won’t dig any further.

He accepts getting dumped, and even that is a little bit boring.

“Yeah, I guess it is.” I do my best not to show him how pleased I feel, glad this went as smoothly as it did.

This means I’ll be out on my jog much earlier than I planned and it also means I’ll be able to squeeze in some work tonight.

I was expecting it to take at least an hour and go something like this:

8:00 p.m. Break up

8:05 p.m. Questions

8:20 p.m. Some arguing

8:40 p.m. The act of an offended ex-boyfriend. Maybe—and most likely—some accusations about what a terrible girlfriend I’ve been

8:50 p.m. Acceptance

8:58 p.m. Walking to the door

9:00 p.m. Goodbye

That’s what it usually looks like, at least with the others. But not this time, apparently.

Justin studies me quietly for a couple of seconds before turning and walking to the door, forty-seven minutes earlier than expected. I follow him quietly.

“It was nice knowing you, June. Good luck with your . . . journey. I hope you find what it is you’re looking for.” He doesn’t sound like he means it, but I guess that would be asking for too much.

“Thank you. You, too.” He’s already halfway out the door. “Uh, you don’t want a hug or anything?” I ask when I realize he’s just about to go without a proper goodbye.

Justin turns, one eyebrow lifted now. “You just broke up with me, June. You think I want to hug it out with you right now?”

“Um, I guess not?”

“Take care.”

“You, too.” My small wave is seen only by the back of his exclusive light-blue linen shirt.

And then he’s gone. Only a little whiff of his expensive cologne is left, still lingering in the small space of my apartment—rich leather and cedar.

I won’t miss him, nor his cologne, and for a second, I can’t help but wonder if that makes me weird.

Justin Spencer is many women’s dream guy.

He’s the epitome of a successful man living in New York City—great job, fancy apartment, expensive sports car, and a very symmetrical face.

We met at a business dinner that his company was throwing and hit it off kind of immediately.

He was charming in that stoic kind of way, and he had a smile that I felt right into my bones.

Since then, we’ve had three months of dinners at dreamy restaurants and good sex—not mind-blowingly good, but good.

We’ve had a great time, really, but eventually I got bored.

There are only so many tasty dinners and good-but-not-mind-blowingly good sex a woman can take.

Something’s been missing. Something sparky.

Something fun. And in the end, it felt like he just took my time.

Time I could use on something more important. Like work.

I take a deep breath and snap myself back. It’s time for that run and I need that run.

Central Park was the first place I truly felt at home when I moved to New York. It’s a little haven in this wonderful chaos that is this city. I come here for three main reasons: to run, to think, and to watch the seasons change.

Now, because it’s the beginning of summer, the park is lush, green, and full of happy picnickers.

I pass a couple of dog-walkers and pick up my pace.

The Black Eyed Peas are cheering me on to pump it harder, so that’s exactly what I do.

My lungs are burning, and my legs are starting to go numb, but I keep pushing forward.

I always do. I love this feeling. Or I hate it.

It’s a love-hate kinda thing. I love how it clears my mind and how it makes me concentrate on nothing else but my body for a moment.

It’s a warm evening and one of those days when it’s too hot to be in a big city. Or too hot and humid to have a slick ponytail. I can feel my hair frizzing up, and that makes me pick up the pace even more.

I’m literally drenched when I reach the door to my building. Like, soaking wet and just when I push open the door, my phone starts ringing. I frown when I see Clara’s name and hurry to hit the green button. “Clara, what’s up? Are you okay?”

“Okay? Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?”

I look at the time. “Isn’t it like the middle of the night in Sweden?”

“Yeah, probably.”

I smile and lean against the stair railing for a moment. “And why are you up?”

“I was watching this documentary about a special species of frogs in the . Did you know some frogs can change their gender when they feel like it?”

My smile grows. “No, I didn’t.”

“Can you imagine how practical? Like, you wake up one day and feel like ‘hey, I should be a man today and negotiate my salary, because I need a raise,’ and when you get that pay raise, you can go back to being a woman and enjoy life again.”

I laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. Sign me up if you ever find a way to do that. I’d like a raise.”

“Sure. And in the meantime, we can just fight the patriarchy.”

“Always.”

“Wait, I didn’t call you in the middle of sex, did I?”

“Why, you think I’d answer if you were?”

“Um, yeah?”

I cackle. “Yeah, you’re right. I would, if it were you calling.”

“Thank you.”

“May I ask why you’d think that?”

“You’re panting.”

“I just finished a run.”

“Boring. You know, sometimes I hope I’m calling you in the middle of sex. You’re worth it.”

“I’m not a nun, you know. I am having sex.”

“But are you having good sex? Like oh-my-god-I-don’t-think-I’m-human-anymore good?”

“Y—”

“I knew it. Justin’s that bad, huh?”

“No. But actually, we’re not together anymore. We broke up. Today.”

“What? Why? Wait, you dumped him, right?”

“Yeah.” I start climbing the stairs, feeling the sweat start dripping on my back again.

“Because he was bad in bed?”

“No!”

“Why then?”

I brush out a breath. “I don’t know. He was kind of boring.”

“You think everyone’s boring.”

“No, I don’t,” I argue.

“Yeah, you do.”

“I don’t think you’re boring.”

“Because I’m not.”

I laugh at this. She’s right. She’s not boring at all. Rather the opposite. “No, you’re not boring.” I keep climbing the stairs, not feeling my legs anymore. “How’s Sweden?”

“Well, you know.”

“No, I don’t.”

Because I’ve never visited her. A burning sensation of guilt hits my stomach. It’s a familiar feeling.

“Rainy. Kind of gray. But beautiful, insanely beautiful actually. And we’ve got the best season ahead of us. Swedish summer is something else. It’s so beautiful my eyes kind of hurt. You know what kind of beautiful I mean, right?”

I smile. “Yeah, I know.” I immediately think of the sunsets over Moosehead Lake from our grandparents’ cottage in Greenville, Maine, where we spent many summers as kids. “Have you talked to Mom lately?” I ask when I can’t stand my own guilt anymore.

“Yeah, yesterday. She was on her way to some private golf lesson.”

I chuckle. “Her golfing is the weirdest thing ever. That’s like the last thing I thought she would do.”

“Me too, but she seems to enjoy it. Last week she told me she thinks it’s so satisfying to pretend the ball is someone’s head—someone she doesn’t like.”

“Oh my god, the possibilities of heads are endless,” I pant when I finally reach my floor.

“I know.”

I shuffle into the apartment and kick off my shoes.

“When are you coming to visit me?” Clara asks as I start stretching on the floor.

Ouch. “I don’t know. I wish I could come soon.”

“That’s what you told me last summer, too.” I know she’s messing with me, but my guilty conscience is merciless. It burns like fire now.

“I really wish I could come, Clara. I want to come, but I’m too busy at work at the moment.

” It’s true, I’ve been wanting to visit her ever since she moved there three years ago.

I still can’t believe my little sister is living on the Swedish west coast now, fulfilling her dream as an oyster harvester.

There hasn’t been the best timing with work lately, especially not since my promotion two years ago.

“At the moment? Juju, you’ve been busy with work for the last seven years. Will you even have any vacation this summer?”

“This is our most hectic season,” I say, avoiding her question.

“That’s what you said in December, too. I’m worried about you. You work all the time.”

“That’s not true.”

“Okay, what are you doing tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are your plans for tonight?”

“First, I’m going to eat something and then I’ll watch a movie,” I lie.

I don’t want to tell her a night of work is waiting for me.

I have to finalize the order placement for next year’s swimwear.

It’s more important than ever that we stick to our budget, and I don’t trust my buyers when it comes to that.

It’s my head that will roll if we exceed it.

“Liar,” she says. Why do siblings know you so well? Especially little sisters living in Sweden.

“I’m not lying,” I lie. “I’m going to watch a movie and then go to bed early.”

She sighs. “Yeah, yeah.”

I know she doesn’t believe me. I soften a little. I know she’s looking out for me, even though she doesn’t have to.

“I’m living my dream, Clara. Just as you are,” I assure her while stretching my neck.

“Is this really your dream? Working all the time? Never doing anything fun?”

“Yeah. I wanted to come to New York and have a career as a fashion buyer, and I did. I’m the head of buying at Adler Bowman, the city’s number one luxury department store.”

“I know. And that’s amazing—you know I think that.”

“And I’m not working all the time.”

She ignores that statement. “But where did all your dreams go along the way, Juju? Remember everything you dreamed of?”

“I’m only twenty-nine, Clara. I’ve got plenty of time to pursue all my dreams. But one of my biggest was to have a career in the fashion industry in New York.”

Clara sighs again. “Just come visit me, will you? I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. And I will. I promise.”

“Good.”

“And one last thing. I am doing fun things, just so you know.”

“Of course you are,” she replies, unconvinced.

I roll my eyes. “Okay, I have to eat something, and you have to sleep.”

“Yeah, I should. My alarm goes off in four hours.”

“Living the dream . . .”

She snorts a laugh, and then we hang up.

I grab tonight’s dinner from the fridge—yoghurt, berries, and two boiled eggs. Clara would die of inspiration if she saw me now—before I throw myself on the couch with my laptop. But just when I’m about to start, my phone buzzes from a text.

Clara: I just want you to be happy.

I smile to myself, feeling my heart swelling a bit.

Me: I know . And I am happy.

Clara: Good.

Me: Good night, Clara.

Clara: Good night, Juju.

It’s 12:30 a.m. when I’m finally done. I rub my eyes and try to stifle a yawn.

While I brush my teeth, I think about my conversation with Clara.

Something she said has been itching at me all night.

I am living my dream life. Obviously, I am.

I live in New York City and work with the one thing I’ve always dreamed of working with.

I’m a fashion buyer. I predict what women in New York will want to wear, how cool is that?

I had other dreams, too, and I smile to myself when I think about what eighteen-year-old June dreamed about.

It was silly things. Childish. Like, getting drunk in Barcelona, learning how to surf, living in a hut on the beach in Thailand, growing my own roses, owning my own clothing store, and learning how to cook with a real Italian nonna.

Eighteen-year-old June would be so impressed if she knew what I did today—living the New York City dream life.