How to Find Your Happy Place

or, my husband read a romance novel.

I wasn’t surprised when it happened. I’d seen it coming for months.

The seed was planted on an otherwise mundane trip to Target. As I scanned the book display — something I cannot help but do anywhere books are present — my husband seemed particularly transfixed.

“What are these books with the bright covers? I feel like I see them everywhere.”

“Those are Emily Henry novels,” I explained.

“What is an Emily Henry novel?” He said, the way one might inquire after a rare species of bird.

“They’re absurdly popular romance novels, known for their banter-y dialogue.” And, as he’d noted, their short, punchy titles and bold, signature covers.

He nodded, satisfied, and we continued on our way.

*

Several weeks later, we were invited to a dinner party at our friends’ apartment. On their shelves, amid books spanning every conceivable genre, I spied two bright spines of — you guessed it — Emily Henry novels. Perhaps noticing me noticing them, my friend asked, “Have you read anything by Emily Henry?”

The group discussed the books’ runaway popularity, romance as a genre, the things we are most drawn to in fiction, other novels we’d recently read and loved.

A few days later, we were puttering around the apartment when my husband said, apropos of nothing, “Maybe I should read an Emily Henry novel.”

*

He chose Happy Place (“the one with the bright pink cover”).

As advertised, a very bright pink cover.

One of the things I admire about the husband is that he reads widely — across fiction and nonfiction, with a penchant for sci-fi, spy novels, horror, biography, history, and science. (If you’ve been reading for a minute, you may remember his dispatches on the sexy shrimp.) On occasion, he’ll read what would be dubbed “upmarket commercial women’s fiction” per my recommendation.

But this was his first foray into romance, and it promised to be interesting.

*

In case you are unfamiliar, Emily Henry (“EmHen” to fans) is a #1 New York Times bestselling author regarded by some as “the queen of contemporary romance.” She has five bestselling titles to date, with a sixth scheduled for later this year.

While romance is not new, it’s exploded in popularity in recent years, with a wide array of titles commanding bestseller lists, display tables, and even dedicated bookstores.

One of many displays at Strand Bookstore in NYC.

As a genre, it’s dependable for serving up a few things. There are no shortage of tropes — the meet-cute, friends-to-lovers, enemies-to-lovers, friends-to-enemies-to-lovers… — akin to a rom-com. There may be all manner of twists and turns and challenges along the way, and the spiciness level varies, but in most cases, happily ever after (or at least happy-for-now) is all but guaranteed. If the characters didn’t get together, it wouldn’t be a romance.

*

From the moment he starts reading, he has a lot of thoughts.

A few pages in, he remarks, “I sort of get why people like these! The dialogue sounds very unrealistic.” This does not sound like a positive. “It’s like Aaron Sorkin dialogue, where you can’t help but think, okay, we get it, you’re clever. But it’s probably the way everyone wishes their partner/spouse/lover would talk.”

He reads aloud whenever something strikes him as — I ask him for the right adjective here, and he supplies three — ridiculous, silly, absurd. It happens so frequently I might as well be listening to the audiobook.

“Can’t anybody in this book have a soft jaw line?” he laments.

“What is a ‘smoky velvet voice’? Nobody has a smoky velvet voice.”

“Is there a version of this where the characters are all kinda frumpy? Because that I would read.”

“Why is a main character named after a hotel chain?” he asks, upon discovering that Wyn, the protagonist’s love interest, is short for Wyndham.

“Wyndham!” He exclaims, whenever he picks up the book.

“Wyndham, Wyndham,” he mumbles from the next room, like an incantation. Or a spell. Or a curse.

*

On the second day, he puts the book down and glances over at me.

“Do you mean to tell me that I’m going to spend WEEKS on a will-they-won’t-they when I know how it’s going to end?” The question is rhetorical, so I say nothing. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t think I’m going to finish this.”

And yet, he continues.

*

When he is two-thirds of the way through, I find him shaving his beard. He is almost never without a beard. For the entire first year we dated, I didn’t know what his face looked like beneath one. I inquire as to what inspired this.

“All this talk of jawlines, I felt like maybe I should reveal mine.”

“And?” I ask. “How does it feel?”

He frowns. “I mostly feel cold.”

*

On the fourth day, his tune changes.

“I’m getting close to the end, and I have to say, it’s kind of grown on me? A bit.” (Yes, you read that correctly, he flew through the book in a matter of days, and this was during a typical workweek.)

And then, it is done.

This is the part where I tell you that the next few lines contain light spoilers, as much as spoilers exist in a genre that all but guarantees the ending.

“Well? What did you think?”

He ponders this for a moment.

“In the beginning, I hated it. But by the end, I wouldn’t say I hated it. It was fun at times, though I actually found myself rooting against the main characters, because I was hoping they would do something interesting, something unexpected. But then it wouldn’t be a romance novel, would it?”

I ask him how he feels now that it’s over.

“Relieved,” he says, without missing a beat. “And ready to read something else.”

The next book he reads is a horror novel about a murderous blob. (“A gelatinous blob-like entity,” he amends, “that is capable of great violence.”) He races through it in the span of a weekend, a thoroughly startling palate cleanser.

*

Romance is a genre that makes good on its promises — unlike much of life. Some readers find this kind of predictability soothing, cozy, and escapist; others not so much.

While I’m historically not a huge romance reader, whenever I see it (or any book, for that matter) being labeled as silly, formulaic fluff, I feel defensive on its behalf. Who among us hasn’t been written off, underestimated, misunderstood? But these days, romance is having the last laugh.

Did I hunt around a bookstore to get this photo for you? Yes, yes I did.

And then I couldn’t help myself, so here are a few more mass market gems.

I find it heartening as a display of subjectivism — despite what gatekeepers and Goodreads reviews might have us believe, there is no such thing as “good” or “bad” where art is concerned.

“I don’t know that I’m the right audience, but I’m glad I read an Emily Henry novel,” the husband says. “It was a good reminder that there is value in venturing outside your comfort zone and exposing yourself to something new.”

Just as there is value in seeing the beauty in someone’s heart, someone’s art, someone’s offering — even when it’s not your cup of tea.

Honestly, what’s more romantic than that?

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Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As always, this reading is not meant to be predictive, but rather a path to reflection. Read it, ponder it, journal about it, use it however you’d like. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

UV Tarot by Modest Mouse with art by Violet Aveline

Ah, the supreme irony of The Lovers showing up the week I write about romance novels.

But despite how this card is often portrayed (why are tarot readers in movies always pulling either “Death” or “The Lovers” and interpreting them literally?) this week’s message is not about romance. Nor is it necessarily about partnership.

For our purposes, the message is about relating — how we relate to others, to the world at large, and ultimately, to ourselves. Through the right lens, that can be romantic, too.

Our relationships are our mirrors as well as our teachers. This week, the Lovers invite us to inquire after how we love.

We are in relationship with everyone we meet, from our inner circle to tangential acquaintances to strangers glimpsed only in passing. Even in solitude, we are in relationship — with thoughts and memories, impressions and experiences, the stories that inhabit the corners of our minds.

We are also in relationship with the various parts of ourselves — conscious and subconscious, familiar and forgotten, shrouded in shadow and bathed in rose-colored light.

The iconic Smith-Waite deck, with art by Pamela Colman Smith

This week’s message urges us to examine the ingredients we bring to the table.

How do we approach interactions with others? Do we lead with curiosity, playfulness, vulnerability, fear, judgment?

What do we share? What do we protect? Do we allow ourselves enjoyment?

Just as important is the question of how we engage with ourselves.

Are we patient, encouraging, kind? Do we get trapped in a cycle of negative self-talk? Do we approach ourselves as we would a beloved friend?

One of the greatest travesties of the modern age is the idea that love is something we must seek. Something we must find outside of ourselves — or worst of all, something we must earn.

Love-as-commodity would have us believe that it’s a gift bestowed upon the lucky, the missing link to some fabled stage of completion. But we contain multitudes, dualities, wholeness. Exactly as we are.

Love, this card teaches, is already inherent within us — a home we may return to, whenever we wish. Unlike the love we seek externally, it is unconditional. And it is our birthright.

Love is what we are, and love is what we do.

Love as a noun makes for great ad copy. Love as a verb moves the world.