10

10

Newton

There was nothing left to do but hang on for the ride. I overanalyze everything—that's how I roll. I map out my options, I plot my best course, and I follow through as best I can. But pretty much nothing had gone to plan since I'd opened my eyes that morning.

And yet, look where I'd ended up. In a naked clench with a snarky, cerebral, blue-haired guitar player.

Angus shuddered, and before I knew it, a hint of hot bitterness teased the back of my tongue—just as my release surged into him. I came hard, swallowing, clutching at his thighs. Even once I thought I was done, that he'd wrung every last bit of pleasure out of me, a sigh played across the traces of curry spices and wrenched yet another twitch from my replete body.

Was this a permanent condition? A distant part of me thought I should be concerned about the effects of hot pepper on my delicate membranes. But the vast majority of me was too satisfied to care. We lay there for a long moment to bask in the floaty aftermath. Soon, though, the click of the turntable stylus grew too difficult to ignore, and I disentangled myself from Angus to turn it off. As I stood and pulled on my boxers, I turned toward the kitchen.

Poking out from the tangled pile of our clothes was the Happiness. I forgot all about the record.

Bare feet slapping against hardwood, I walked down the short hall. What drew me to the can, I couldn't say. Maybe the unknown. Or maybe the buoyancy I felt from giving in to a spontaneous impulse for a change…and having things turn out so unbelievably well.

I was about to suggest dessert. But when I grabbed the can to offer it up…. Wait. Was it even lighter than before?

The clicking record player stopped, and Angus joined me at the counter, naked, but unexpectedly serious. "What is it?"

I shook the can. It gave off a more forceful slosh than before. "This is definitely lighter. Significantly lighter. It's not leaking. It's sealed tight, so there's no evaporation, either. What's the deal?"

Angus leaned against the countertop, eyeing me. "Only one way to find out. But it's your call, Sir Isaac. Your Happiness."

"Is it, though? Because if you hadn't marked down the price, I couldn't have bought it."

"Everything is caused by something—it's an infinity spiral. Where it all began—you, me, the primordial soup of chaos—is anyone's guess. But, this thing?" Angus dinked the can with his knuckle. "As far as a certain well-seasoned cashier is concerned, you paid for it. That means it's yours."

I turned the can around one more time, hoping I'd see something to help me make sense of it. Maybe a leak, or a logo, or some instructions hidden in the design. But, nope. Nothing. Just a can of indeterminate weight with unknown contents. And a label bearing just one word, Happiness .

I said, "Maybe I'm supposed to give it away."

"If you think it'll make you feel good, by all means, knock your socks off. All kinds of weird things pop up in my alerts for AndHedonia , one of which was a study about what makes people truly happy. There's the stuff that makes you feel good: food, drugs, money, sex. And then there's the stuff that gives you purpose and meaning, like self-realization and altruism. You can probably guess which ‘happy' has all the staying power."

Just because something felt good didn't make it any less meaningful. At least…I hoped not. Because the way Angus's bare thigh was brushing against mine felt very, very good. But the way I felt inside when I thought of getting to know him felt fantastic. And the way I felt when I imagined us really together felt even better.

With a clarity that felt more like momentum, I knew the can had to be opened. I scanned for the can opener before I could second guess myself. "What good is happiness unless you share it? Damn, that sounded worse than a cheesy motivational poster."

"A cliche is hardly a cliche without a grain of truth." Angus's blue eyes twinkled as he beat me to the punch and grabbed the opener from where it had fallen between the cabinet and the fridge. He twirled it deftly on his finger, then handed it over to me.

As I fit the pointy bit onto the can lid and the blade fell into place, I steeled myself—though I wasn't quite sure against what. The probability I'd be disappointed by what was inside? Or the possibility I might not be?

"You don't have to open it," Angus said softly.

I met his gaze. "But I do."

"Then, here." He wrapped a hand around mine—his fingers glittered with dented silver rings and a swirly homemade tattoo wound around his thumb. "We'll do it together."