Chapter 2
Penelope
Tuck rises, rolling up his sleeves over his strong forearms. And I’m hit with a sharp pang of annoyance.
I missed my chance for another jab—because, naturally, his sharply tailored pants and perfectly fitted shirt are custom-made, not the disposable junk he profits from.
Oh well, as my grandma used to say: “It’s all vanity and chasing the wind now.” Who cares if I missed an extra point? I already know my speech struck a chord because Tuck’s got that cunning look in his blue eyes like he’s actually invested in this debate, which otherwise he would have sleepwalked through just to boost his profile.
Now, I get to sit back and enjoy the show.
And what a show it is…Tuck is impeccably handsome—even more so with the ever-so-slightly crinkled shirt and disheveled hair courtesy of my roaming hands in the dressing room.
Plus, a perk of the expensive cut of his pants is how well they define his ass, of which I have an unobstructed view. And after our wild reunion backstage, I’m riding high on blissful endorphins, even if it cost me a broken nail and an almost very embarrassing wardrobe malfunction.
Tuck takes his time, narrowing in on the audience before directing a humorous look my way.
“Thank you, Penelope.” He dips his head with a charismatic grin. “Always a privilege to follow in your wake—even if it’s as full of crap as the Hudson River.”
The warm response to his quip and generous ability not to be more offended by my remarks work in his favor. Yet, I don’t feel in the least sorry about dissing his business model.
Tuck’s a skilled debater since high school—I’ve just given him something to get his teeth into. Besides, it really does cut deep that he deals in fast fashion when he could be doing so much more to address the industry’s vile impacts.
That topic is a constant wedge between us, along with everything else he stands for that I’m opposed to. Like his politics (mainly his inability to comprehend the issues with laissez-faire capitalism). And his poor choice of football team—I’m sure he roots for the Jets just to rile me! Then there’s the fact he sees nothing wrong with toasting a bagel (sacrilege!), his ridiculous habit of taking outdoor swims—in winter , his hyper-organized approach to everything …
And, the way he knows me much too well.
I guess that’s a given since he’s my oldest friend. Well, not really a friend .
Frenemy is probably more apt.
We’ve been passionate rivals since I moved in next door to him at eight years old. When Tuck’s perfectly normal family—high school teacher parents, manicured lawn, Sunday roasts, and summer barbeques—provided a constant and vivid contrast to my dysfunctional childhood.
As we matured to adulthood, that rivalry morphed into what we have today: frenemies with occasional benefits .
But that’s as far as it goes. Even though our strange relationship somehow sustains itself, while our actual love lives each seems to combust with a morbid regularity.
What we have, however the hell it can be defined, is a weird and warped connection that can never be more or less than what it is.
So what if our bodies fit together like a yin and yang symbol? That his hands on my skin, his breath on my neck, his whispered voice in my ear send me to places beyond the earthly plane? That he fucks me with an intensity that relieves the pain of every ugly truth buried inside my soul?
And so what if he’s finally ditched that honey-blonde pain-in-my-ass girlfriend who passes off her coke habit as “part of clubbing culture” instead of the pathetic excuse it is to escape her shallow lifestyle? She was never right for him.
Neither was Cathy-Columbus, the self-proclaimed travel expert who has been everywhere and done everything— just ask her. Or Flaky Fifi. Or Elena, duller than beige curtains. Or that sly, double-D backstabber who tried to sabotage our friendship in college.
This passionate, illicit secret we share—hidden even from our closest friends—never seems to fade. If anything, the secrecy keeps it alive, untouched by the mess of real life. By all the ways we don’t align. It never seems to matter that the world around us keeps shifting, or that we’re driven by different goals, wired in different ways. Somehow, against all logic, our strange, electric connection endures.
A round of applause—w hat did he just say ?
“…leveraging economies of scale isn’t some Lex Luthor villainy; it’s Business 101.” Tuck addresses my earlier point with a fair amount of venom.
“And outsourcing overseas?” He questions. “That’s how my company achieves cost efficiencies that—guess what? Let us pay every single employee fairly, no matter their location. Can the Made in the USA crowd say the same? Tell me, what do American workers sewing every bead onto Met Gala gowns or couture showpieces actually earn for those hundreds of hours? Because I’m dying to know if that paycheck screams fair wages—or exploitation in fancier packaging.”
I suppress a little smile as he gets more animated.
“You set the trends, then blame someone else for catering to the demand you created!” he spreads open his hands. “This is America—everyone deserves to feel like a million bucks in clothes that reflect who they are.”
Typical Preacher Tuck. Now he’s calling out half the room for their false virtue.
Seriously, he thinks he’s so different from his school-teacher parents, but give him a debate topic and everyone listens up like a class trying to avoid detention.
And he doesn’t stop there.
Next, he rails against the industry leaders who hoard intellectual property for profit instead of sharing open-source data that could revolutionize eco-materials and practices.
Then comes another well-aimed blow.
“The seamstresses, tailors, beaders, weavers, and pattern-makers who bring your exclusive designs to life—can they afford a single piece of the clothing they produce?” he demands. “Without economical fashion options, where exactly do your employees get to shop?”
The room shifts uneasily, but Tuck still isn’t done. He gestures toward the event sponsor’s banner—one of the biggest soda companies in the world.
“And let’s not forget the generous supporter of this entire event,” he says, oozing sarcasm. “The world’s top plastic polluter. Now that’s what I call hypocrisy.”
Mic drop.
The audience is still hanging on the threads of Tuck’s speech when the double doors at the back of the room crash open. I assume it’s some noisy latecomers with spectacularly bad timing. Until I hear the chants.
“Killer fashion! Fashion Kills!”
A dozen or more protesters surge in, holding signs proclaiming: “Eco NOT Ego”, “No Fashion on a Dead Planet”, and “Fashion Shouldn’t Cost the Earth!” while wheeling in what looks like an oversized laundry bin.
Gasps and shrieks ripple through the audience. Faces blanch and heads swivel, horrified.
Meanwhile, Tuck seems relatively unbothered, leaning casually against the podium like he’s watching a street performance on a lazy afternoon.
At the center of the drama, the leader of the group—a young woman in combat boots and a bright green jumpsuit—steps forward, fury radiating from her voice. “This is the true cost of fashion!” she bellows.
Then the bin is ripped open. Tattered garments streaked blood-red, fabric scraps, and shredded textiles go flying, raining down on the audience like grotesque confetti. Placards unfurl, plastered with haunting images of sweatshop workers drenched with exhaustion. The prestigious, coiffed guests collectively recoil, clutching pearls, programs, and luxury handbags.
And then it happens—a cloud of red and black powder bursts into the air, exploding across the room. The colored dust settles onto tailored suits and designer gowns, eliciting more panicked shrieks.
“Let’s go, Pen.” Tuck swiftly grabs my hand and tugs me toward the wings.
Ingrid is already way ahead of us as I stumble after Tuck, half-distracted by what’s unfolding behind us. Security is chasing the protesters, and the audience surges toward the exits in panic.
“Well, that’s disappointing,” I say as we get clear of the turmoil. “I had a great rebuttal planned where I compare the carbon emissions of your suit to forest fires in the Amazon.”
Tuck smirks as he ponders my clothing. “Yeah, well, not everyone’s talented enough to remaster novelty toys and food scraps into an entire outfit.”
Just as I’m musing how Tuck’s fine physique might look in one of the upcycled open-weave shirts from my latest collection, a security guard ushers us into the dressing room.
“It’s best if you stay put until we give the all-clear,” he says firmly.
“It’s all so gruesome.” I sigh as we get settled, and I scroll through live streams of the protesters’ invasion. “Did you feel the vibe out there? Scary.”
Tuck shrugs. “The organizers will probably love the extra publicity. Then they’ll claim it was always their intention to spotlight the ethical challenges of the industry.”
“Well, as long as no one gets hurt.” I frown at the distorted images on my feed. “That’s a lot of spiked stilettos and sharp-limbed bodies clamoring for the doors.”
I put down my phone and reach for a bottle of water. “How did those protesters even get inside?” I wonder. “It’s really bizarre…just like my whole week, really.”
“How’s that?” Tuck queries.
“Just…lots of strange incidents and weird energy.”
Tuck puffs a burst of air. “ This week ? Pen, you’re a magnet for weird energy. Weird is like oxygen for you.”
“I’m serious!” I shove his broad shoulder. “Just yesterday, I got stuck in traffic because of a bee swarm attached to a traffic light. They had to call in actual beekeepers to clear it! Then, the wiring at my studio went haywire and shorted out half the block. And to top it off, I ran into Ben at the fucking convenience store, buying Cup Noodles! So random. I’m telling you, something’s up; things are way out of alignment for me.”
“ Ben ?” Tuck’s head jerks at the mention of my ex-boyfriend. “Damn, Penelope, you just slip that in after the bees and electrical problem? After he basically stalked you when you ended it?”
“Yes, that Ben—the one I heard you threatened to castrate?” I tilt my head accusingly.
Tuck twitches with annoyance. “He needed an extra incentive to stay away from you.”
“Huh? Is this what we’re doing?” I ask, contrite. “Am I now supposed to warn Stella not to cross your path again, or I’ll liberate that poor miniature pooch she stuffs in her purse? Or dump her Daddy’s palm oil into the fuel tank of her precious Porsche?”
Tuck takes a breath and consults the ceiling—about as close to an eye roll as he gets.
“Well, it’s the same thing,” I argue. “Ben’s totally harmless! He was just messed up on all those protein boosters and steroids. He’s all about music gigs now—back reliving his twenties. Binge weekends with his DJ friends. Kind of tragic, but he’s into it.”
“Do not tell me you’re hooking up again.” Tuck clenches his jaw.
“Ugh, are you kidding? I’ve lived those days.” I laugh. “With you, Brady, and Mason. When we were all newcomers to the city. Totally green country kids hitting the big smoke.
“ Remember squeezing into that shared apartment?” I grin. “Getting wrecked for nights on end, then spending two days in hazy, hungover limbo with weed, bad bodega sandwiches, and intense Uno marathons?”
“Back when all we had to worry about was holding down a day job or submitting the odd assignment?” Tuck muses. “Things change, huh?”
I smile faintly. “I don’t know about that—you’re still the same smart-ass agitator you’ve always been.”
“Pot, kettle, much?” Tuck sniffs. “You love stirring controversy. And I don’t give a shit that you critique me. But you might want to rethink your vendetta on other people. Stick to generalizations, okay? Big business screwing up the planet is fair game, but naming names? That’s how you get sued for slander.”
I fold my arms, leaning against the vanity. “Like dissing the prestigious sponsor of this event, Tuck?” I remind him of his debate point. “Or like Stella’s dad—the palm oil tycoon? Is that what you’re worried about?”
“My point was hardly slander—it’s public knowledge,” Tuck argues. “But Stella’s father? Yes . And he’s just one of several influential people you’ve openly criticized.”
“So, what was the tipping point?” I flip things. “Did Stella finally realize you weren’t ready to spend your life on a yacht chasing a perpetual suntan? That you’re actually a workaholic, holiday-vibes-phobic, control freak?”
“You really want to talk about the relationship I just ended?” he challenges.
“No,” I admit, sullenly.
“Let’s move on.” His deep blue eyes hold mine. “When are we seeing each other next? Don’t say it’s not until Mason and Mia’s wedding.”
“I don’t even know if I’m going,” I reply abruptly. “Why on earth does it have to be in Blue Mountain Lake? Isn’t the bride’s hometown the traditional choice?”
Tuck dips his head. “Because when Mason took Mia there and proposed, she totally fell in love with the place. Just like most people fall in love with where we grew up, Pen. Countless tourists and newcomers. Everyone other than you apparently.”
I tug at the red band on my wrist—a protective talisman against Mal de Ojo , the evil eye, gifted by a friend from Oaxaca. Except the bad vibes I need it to fend off are homegrown—no ancient curses required when I’m fully capable of manufacturing my own daily dose of self-sabotage.
It’s the same tired playlist of childhood insecurities, looping in my brain like a jingle from some insidious TV ad. Just when life starts feeling good, it chimes in with its usual refrain: You don’t deserve this. Don’t get too comfortable. It’ll all fall apart anyway.
“You have to go to the wedding,” Tuck insists. “I’m the best man—and you’re designing the wedding dress! Plus, it’s our gang, all together again: you, me, Brady, and Mason! How long since that’s happened? Don’t you wanna relive all the good times?”
“Moving to the city together was the good times , Tuck—getting the fuck away from Blue Mountain Lake. Because that place? Oh yeah, such fond memories,” I reply sarcastically.
“C’mon, Pen. It wasn’t all bad.”
“Tuck, you can’t speak to my experience. I’m not interested in revisiting all our hometown nostalgic crap, okay? This wedding-reunion-nightmare gives me heart palpitations at just the thought. Not everyone wants to relive their childhood trauma, you know.”
Before he can respond, my phone lights up. And that strange ripple effect I’ve sensed all week intensifies.
“Tuck…why the hell is your mother calling me?”
“Huh?” He leans forward, his casual demeanor shifting to alertness. “My mom? Calling you ?”
“Yes! Your mother is calling me!” I hold up the phone, dread prickling at my skin as if simply saying “Blue Mountain Lake” has pierced some invisible force field.
“Then answer it,” he urges, his voice tense.
I hit speaker and stare at him, confused. “Susan?”
“Penelope.” The shake in Susan’s voice unsettles my stomach. “I’m so sorry…you need to come home right away—”
“ Home ?” I swallow against the bile in my throat and lock onto the concerned look in Tuck’s eyes. “Why, what’s happened?”
“Penelope, it’s your mother.” Susan’s words fracture into sobs. “She’s…dead.”