Chapter 3
Tuck
I take the phone from Penelope as she folds weakly onto a chair.
“I’ll take care of her,” I assure Mom, who practically wails with relief as she hears my voice.
Of course I will.
I’ll be here to hold her and comfort her through the brutal pain of loss. To support her all the way.
Except…it seems like she doesn’t need any such interventions.
“I’m fine.” She pushes me away to gather her things. “I’ve got to get to the studio.”
“Pen, your mother just died! You need to make plans.”
She stares at me blankly.
“You have to go back—take care of the funeral, organize the house…settle her estate.”
Pen shakes her head. “I’ve got people waiting for me, a whole collection to finish—and the wedding dress, remember? Mason’s not marrying just anybody . It’s Mia Madson , the Hollywood movie star! Her wedding dress— my design —has to be beyond amazing. I can’t just take off to Blue Mountain Lake.”
I reach for her hands. “Listen to me—you have no choice. You’re her only child. Whatever you feel for your mother, you have to go back and take care of this. Call your assistant, get a flight booked, and start packing.”
“Don’t get all bossy!” she snaps. “I need time to think, to get my studio in order.” She presses her lips together, finishing in a small voice. “Then I’ll go.”
The security guy returns to escort us from the building, Pen tapping at her phone as we follow him out. I gently guide her course, avoiding obstacles, until we reach the parking lot.
She finally lifts her head.
“Wednesday,” she says heavily. “There’s a midday flight I can take. Happy ?”
“Of course, I’m not happy about what’s happened. But you’re doing the right thing, Pen,” I respond. “Can you share the flight details with my mom? Let her know exactly when you’ll arrive?”
“Sure thing. Maybe she can organize a get-together for me and all my Blue Mountain Lake friends?” she suggests sarcastically as she gets in her car. “Later, Gator.”
I watch her drive away, frustrated at her attitude—or maybe at myself for being unable to pierce through it. Could this be the denial part of grief everyone talks about? The inability to process such a momentous loss?
Not that I should expect Penelope to follow any standard emotional script. She’s always been this way. She’s as deceivingly fragile as spider silk with the same built-in strength of steel, making her stubbornly impenetrable.
Stella, on the other hand, has no such emotional gray areas. When I get back to the penthouse, she appears, red-eyed and emotional. And uncharacteristically dressed in head-to-toe black.
Her blonde hair, usually a glossy showpiece, is scraped into a messy ponytail, stray strands framing her face like static.
I drop my keys and phone onto the console table, the sharp clatter echoing in the awkward silence.
“Why are you here?” My voice is flat, exhausted.
She holds up a handful of vials like a defense attorney presenting Exhibit A.
“I forgot my retinol and vitamins.”
“Then check thoroughly for all your stuff this time—because this is it, Stella. After today, the doorman won’t give you access. You decided it’s over. Which usually means not showing up at your ex’s place uninvited. Clear?”
That sets her off. “There you go again, Tuck. Blaming me! Like you’re some innocent bystander to our relationship. You’re the one who can’t commit, who can’t prioritize me in your life!”
“I’m not doing this,” I warn, brushing past her toward the living room.
It’s not that I’m heartless. I’ve just learned that dragging your way through a breakup does no one any favors. It needs to be a sharp, clean cut. As steady-handed as a surgeon. Rehashing your mistakes just turns it into a ragged hack job that leaves you repeatedly bleeding out.
“Don’t walk away from me!” her voice trails me as I make a sweep of the apartment for anything she might claim as hers.
“You wanna know why I’m done?” she continues. “Because you never consider my needs. Ignoring me half the time. Then Penelope waltzes in, whenever, and you drop everything! Make her coffee! You never ask me if I want coffee!”
“Because you don’t fucking drink coffee!” I spit out. “Why would I offer you any?”
“That’s not the point!” she screams.
I slam the closet and move on to scan the bathroom. “Then you better get to whatever the point is because I’m done with this crap, Stella. These petty arguments about how much attention I give you? It’s bullshit. This is my life—my business takes focus and dedication. I’m not one of your loser friends living off trust funds and planning their next music festival weekend.”
Her face tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “It’s not because of all your business interests. It’s because of one person ,” she says with an acidic smile. “I see it every time you’re with her. I bet Penelope is thrilled I’m out of the picture at long last!”
“She’s not thrilled about anything considering her mother just died,” I retort.
“Oh…” Stella falters. “Well, I’m sorry. That’s really sad. Is she okay?”
“They weren’t close.”
“But still…” Stella murmurs, trailing me down the hallway. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. Everyone knows Penelope is incredible . She’s so stylish and talented. It’s not like I don’t see why you’re so stuck on her.”
“Stella, this isn’t about Penelope,” I remind her. “It’s about us deciding that we don’t fit, okay?”
She stares at me, unblinking, something calculating behind her eyes.
“What?” I frown.
“You’re a smart man, Tuck,” her tone shifts. “Surely you can’t be this clueless. You understand I’m about to walk out that door—and out of your life forever, right?”
“And?”
“Before I do, I have one request that I want you to acknowledge and follow.”
“What’s that?” I fold my arms, resigned to whatever’s coming.
“That you wake up!” she explodes with passionate abandon. “Admit you’re in love with Penelope! Admit it to yourself—and then go admit it to her. Stop wasting everyone’s time. And stop hurting women who aren’t her!”
I look to the ceiling as my frustration peaks.
“Look, I get that you’re upset, Stella. But you don’t get it. Pen and I…” I pause, searching for the words. “We’ve known each other forever. That’s all. We’re not in love, we just have a…unique connection.”
“Uh-huh,” Stella’s voice is thick with doubt. “What’s her favorite food?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, it depends.”
“On what?” she presses, arms crossed like she’s got all night for this.
“Christ. Lots of stuff—the season, her period, whether she’s watched any French movies lately, what time of day…”
I stop there, though I could go on.
Pen lives on fruit and copious amounts of gelato in the summer, every form of meat and potatoes in winter, and craves pizza and ice cream when she’s on her period.
If she’s been bingeing French films—or anything vaguely European—she’ll eat her weight in soft cheese. She skips breakfast but loves brunch, and adores early dinners—which she turns into marathon events, hopping between courses and venues.
When we moved to New York, she swapped pub crawls for food crawls, dragging me all over the city for dim sum, tapas, and whatever obscure gem she’d unearthed that week.
“Right,” Stella says, eyes narrowing, lining up her next shot. “Not menstruating, no French movie, autumn, early evening?”
It blurts out before I can stop myself. “The divey hole-in-the-wall on the edge of the Garment District for steamed pork buns…but only after a dirty martini at Dutch Fred’s.”
Stella’s deadpan look could rival Emma Stone’s best delivery.
“So what?” I scoff, trying to regain ground. “It doesn’t mean I’m in love with someone just because I know what they like to eat. Besides, I know all about your keto diet so—”
“ Paleo .” Stella’s eyes glimmer with something sharper now—pain edged with triumph.
“Yeah, that’s what I meant. Paleo,” I say lamely.
“And the food question was only because I don’t want to test you on the ones that would hurt a whole lot more.” Stella swipes a finger under her eyes. “But I bet you’d ace those, too. Like how many different smiles Penelope has—and the one she keeps just for you.”
“What? She doesn’t—” I start, but the words choke off.
Because, of course, I know.
A flood of Pen’s expressions races through my mind. All falling away to the smile she gave me just this morning. The one loaded with possibilities. Daring me to follow her anywhere—to unknown adventures…and the kind of alone time that wrecks furniture.
Stella’s expression is smug and knowing. “Oh yes, you do. Because you have one just for her, too,” she says bitterly. “Just like how your voice changes, your eyes, your whole energy—everything in you lights up when she’s around.”
She slowly shakes her head. “It’s not anything obscure, Tuck. It’s fucking obvious. To everyone but you.”
“Stella—”
“No! Stop pretending otherwise,” she spits out. “Do you remember how close we came to moving to LA? How Brady and Mason pretty much had you convinced?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Then Penelope appeared, and suddenly you had a bunch of reasons why you couldn’t do it! Even though you complain about the New York rat race all the time. And you know what I heard Brady say about that?” she demands. “When you were off with Penelope choosing wine or whatever?”
“Brady?” I grimace. “You know what he’s like—”
“Yes. He’s honest ,” Stella contends. “He tells it like it is. And he said to Mason: ‘Sure, LA might suit Tuck way better—but he would never leave Penelope behind.’”
She roughly hitches her bag and wipes away a tear.
“So here’s my last words to you, Tuck Allen. Pull your head out of your ass and do something about it! Make sure I’m the last person who walks away with a broken heart because you’re too stupid or stubborn to see that you’re madly in love with Penelope!”
Then she leaves.
The door slams. She’s gone.
And it’s all for the best—if that delusion makes it easier for her to walk away from our relationship, then she can believe whatever she likes.
I head to the kitchen and down a mineral water, Stella’s crazy logic still rattling around my head.
Fine—what I know about Penelope Miller could fill a book. We’ve been constants in each other’s lives since grade school. Back when she lived next door and started hanging out with me and my best buddy, Brady. Other friends came and went over the years…somehow Pen and I stuck, no matter what.
We even ended up in New York together for college and tech school studies—all the gang from Blue Mountain Lake: me, Pen, Brady, and Mason, too.
Brady bailed pretty quickly to head to LA, and Mason powered through his law degree before joining him. But Penelope? She’s always belonged to New York. I can’t picture her fitting into the West Coast lifestyle like the others.
Her delicate, pale features don’t suit tanning beds, contoured makeup, or sun-kissed highlights. And she wouldn’t be caught dead in athleisure.
Pen defies Hollywood fashion norms. For all her creative designer clothing, her make-up is understated, her hair natural and undone, and her shoes have all seen their fair share of pavement. Her beauty lies in contradictions. Aloof yet authentic. Edgy but always effortless.
Love her? Yeah—of course, I do.
In love with her? Well, hell—that’s another question entirely.
How do you define a person who helped shape the core of who you are? Penelope’s smarts, her sass, her bravery challenged me, made me better. She’s always been a risk-taker, and since I was never going to let her outdo me, I had to push myself harder.
From marbles to board games, backyard baseball to pinball—we fought to beat each other at everything. My parents couldn’t get me to care about schoolwork, and Brady never gave a damn about grades, but if Penelope got a B, I wanted an A. She even got me to join the debate team in high school—because, of course, she signed up first.
And now, even as I check my influx of work-related messages and shoot off responses, my main concern is if she’s okay.
I power through a batch of emails, hit the gym, and unwind with a cold beer, holding off until evening before reaching out.
She’ll be holed up in her studio most of the day, completely immersed in designing her upcoming collection. And asking how she is? Pointless. She’ll brush it off with a curt, noncommittal answer that gives away nothing.
So, instead, I bait her.
With a photo of my dinner. Complete with a heavy sprinkle of random herbs to make my plate of roasted chicken and greens look vaguely artisanal.
Because Pen might love eating, but she hates food porn with a passion. And totally abhors the use of pointless garnishes.
Bingo. My phone buzzes within seconds:
Pen: Is this a *show ur single w/o saying ur single* challenge?
Those dried herbs CANNOT save this microwave tragedy.
Rating: ★★
Then she sends a photo through—a Mexican burrito bowl sitting by Pen’s sketch pad on a familiar wooden table. The cluttered background confirms it’s her studio.
Okay—so she’s still at work. But at least I know she’s eating.
Pen: Challenge accepted. I raise u a room-temp bowl of disappointment, apparently seasoned w/ air
Me: Work done soon? Need company 2nite?
Her response is almost immediate:
Pen: Late one. Talk soon x
And there it is—Pen’s tactical retreat. I know she’s hurting, but the barrier’s gone up. As it always does when things cut her deeply.
I shove my plate aside and flop back against the couch. Is she really going to shut me out when she so obviously needs someone?
Her mom just died. I’m pretty sure Pen can’t face the fallout of that alone.
I consider the options. After all, I’ve spent my life one-upping Penelope Miller.
And I guess now is the time to dig in and strategize.