Page 1 of The Circle

PROLOGUE

TODAY. MORNING.

I don’t think anyonehas ever accused me of being happy.

I’m forty-two years old and I can’t remember a time, in the past four-plus decades, when someone has come up to me and said, “You look like you’re in a good mood.” Or, “Hello there, mister. What are you smiling about?” Or, “Wow. You don’t seem totally miserable today.”

Forty-two, and it’s possible that I’ve never been observably happy. That’s kind of amazing if it’s true. Then again, it’s kind of amazing that I’ve managed to make it to forty-two in the first place, so I suppose anything is possible.

To be fair, I’m not sure if I’ve ever actually been what someone might call “happy.” And, if I have, I’d likely try to hide it anyway. I’m wary of letting people see my emotions too clearly.

Except anger.

And, as most people know, anger is a bullshit emotion anyway. It’s more of a suit of armor than it is an honest feeling. It gets called on to stand as protection when the real emotions get too heavy to deal with. At least that’s how it is for me. Or was. Has been. Whatever. It’s ingrained and that shit is a hard habit to break.

I’m not saying it’s never happened—that someone hasn’t caught me being, maybe unexpectedly, happy—I’m just saying I can’t remember it if it has.

But memories are unreliable. Memories stumble through the fog of history and get twisted and obscured on their way. Details are forgotten, pieces are filtered out, other pieces are promoted, and past, present, and future all become a tumbling jumble of thoughts and ideas that may or may not reflect anything close to the truth. At the end of the day, what you wind up with is just some combination of fiction and reality all mashed up together and formed into what can only be called your truth.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve come to believe that there is no such thing as objective or universal truth. There is only individual reality that exists for each person inside their own mind and what we think of as “truth” is just some shit most of us agree on. And since most of us are assholes anyway, who really cares?

Whatever. I dunno. I’m no philosopher.

In fact, if I were ever to tell anyone that this is the kind of thing I spend my time thinking about, they’d likely call me a sociopath. But that would only be because they’ve never known any actual sociopaths. I spent a good portion of my life in the company of one, so I know better. I’m not a crazy person. No more than anyone else. I’m just honest with myself about the fact that I can’t be certain about anything. I can’t possibly be sure I know the things I think I know. I’ve seen too much.

Which is very probably why no one has ever suggested that I’m happy.

But, as it turns out, I can be happy. I don’t know if it’s what other people would consider being happy. But, for me, happiness is right now. Sitting here on the beach, at the very start of this important day, watching her walk along the edge of the water in a yellow dress that reminds me of years ago. And even though I know it’s not years ago, and we can never get the past back, and everything changes with every breath we take and all that, sitting here now brings back memories that, whether real or imaginary, cause me to feel… happy. And content. And at peace.

I still don’t imagine someone walking by would look at me and think, That looks like a happy guy, but I don’t need anyone else’s recognition to know it’s real. And, when all is said and done, I wanna believe that’s what true happiness is: Being okay with where you’re at and not giving a fuck what anyone else thinks about it.

She’s so pretty. Beautiful. Like a poem. Or a painting. Or music.

How did we get here? I’m incredibly grateful that this is where we are—that after everything, this is where we’ve landed. But how did we get here?

I ball up my toes and feel the clean, white sand squeeze between them, and I try to remember. We have different recollections, I know. We’ve never talked about it much because living in the past is something we’ve attempted to avoid. Some of the memories are too painful. But it’s time to finally get clear about them. Or as clear as we’re able. Today is the day the story gets told.

So now, watching her walk, pretty yellow sundress blowing in the cool sea breeze, I close my eyes, turn my face upward, and try to remember…