Step right into the hilariously messy world of Funny Story by Emily Henry, where love lives next door to awkwardness. Imagine this: Daphne’s ex-fiancé is now dating her childhood friend, Petra. And guess who’s her new roommate? Yep, it’s Petra’s ex, Miles.
Read this exclusive excerpt to experience the comedy and chaos firsthand.
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Everyone around Peter Collins and Petra Comer knew their history: How they’d met in third grade when forced into alphabetical seating, bonding over a shared love of Pokémon. How, soon after, their mothers became friends while chaperoning an aquarium field trip, with their fathers to follow suit.
For the last quarter of a century, the Collinses and the Comers vacationed together. They celebrated birthdays, ate Christmas brunches, decorated their homes with handmade picture frames from which Peter’s and Petra’s faces beamed out beneath some iteration of the phrase BEST FRIENDS FOREVER.
This, Peter told me, made him and the most gorgeous woman I’d ever met more like cousins than friends.
As a librarian, I really should’ve taken a moment to think about Mansfield Park or Wuthering Heights, all those love stories and twisted Gothics wherein two protagonists, raised side by side, reach adulthood and proclaim their undying love for each other.
But I didn’t.
So now here I am, sitting in a tiny apartment, scrolling through Petra’s public social media, seeing every detail of her new courtship with my ex‑fiancé.
From the next room, Jamie O’Neal’s rendition of “All By Myself” plays loudly enough to make the coffee table shiver. My next‑door neighbor, Mr. Dorner, pounds on the wall.
I barely hear it, because I’ve just reached a picture of Peter and Petra, sandwiched between both sets of their parents, on the shore of Lake Michigan, six abnormally attractive people smiling abnormally white smiles over the caption, The best things in life are worth waiting for.
As if on cue, the music ratchets up.
I slam my computer shut and peel myself off the sofa. This apartment was built pre–global warming, when Northern Michiganders had no need for air‑conditioning, but it’s only May first and already the apartment turns into a brick oven around midday.
I cross to the bedroom hallway and knock on Miles’s door. He doesn’t hear me over Jamie. I escalate to pounding.
The music stops.
Footsteps shuffle closer. The door swings open, and a weed fog wafts out.
My roommate’s dark brown eyes are ringed in pink, and he’s in nothing but a pair of boxers and a funky knitted afghan wrapped around his shoulders like a very sad cape. Considering the overall climate of our hotbox apartment, I can only assume this is for modesty’s sake. Seems like overkill for a man who, just last night, forgot I lived with him long enough to take a whole‑ass shower with the door wide open.
His chocolate‑brown hair sticks up in every direction. His matching beard is pure chaos. He clears his throat. “What’s up.”
“Everything okay?” I ask, because while I’m used to a disheveled Miles, I’m less used to hearing him blast the saddest song in the world.
“Yep,” he says. “All good.”
“Could you turn the music down,” I say.
“I’m not listening to music,” he says, dead serious.
“Well, you paused it,” I say, in case he really is simply too high to remember more than three seconds back. “But it’s really loud.”
He scratches one eyebrow with the back of his knuckle, frowning. “I’m watching a movie,” he says. “But I can turn it down. Sorry.”
Without even meaning to, I’m peering over his shoulder to get a better look.
His TV, though, is what catches my eye. Onscreen is the image of a thirty‑year‑old Renée Zellweger, sporting red pajamas and belting a song into a rolled‑up magazine.
“Oh my god, Miles,” I say.
“What!” he cries, a little defensive.
“You’re watching Bridget Jones’s Diary?”
“It’s a good movie,” he says.
“It’s a great movie,” I say, “but this scene is, like, one minute long.”
He sniffs. “So?”
“So why has it been playing for at least”—I check my phone— “the last eight minutes?”
His dark brows knit together. “Did you need something, Daphne?”
“Could you just turn it down?” I say. “All the plates are rattling in the cabinets and Mr. Dorner’s trying to bust down the living room wall.”
Another sniff. “You want to watch?” he offers.
In there?
Too big of a tetanus risk. An ungenerous thought, sure, but I have recently tapped out my supply of generosity. That’s what happens when your life partner leaves you for the nicest, sunniest, prettiest woman in the state of Michigan.
“I’m good,” I tell Miles.
We both just stand there. This is as much as we ever interact. I’m about to break the record. My throat tickles. My eyes burn. I add, “And could you please not smoke inside?”
I would’ve asked sooner, except that, technically, the apartment is his. He did me a huge favor letting me move in.
Then again, it’s not like he had many options. His girlfriend had just moved out.
Into my apartment.
With my fiancé.
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