Chapter 10
Penelope
I feel like Alice in Wonderland—waking up to a mysterious orange drink and two white pills on the bedside table.
And a note: “Drink that. Take those. Thank me later.”
I squint at my phone. 10:40
Ugh.
As I sit up, I press a hand to my forehead, bracing my throbbing brain.
Ouch. The light, the movement, hell, even the act of thinking, feels like dull instruments thudding behind my eyes.
Flashbacks of last night flicker through my mind, hazy and disjointed like an old film reel.
Dinner. We stayed back, had more drinks, and hung out at the bar. Tuck, Brady, and Vivian—we finally got to catch up after dinner.
God. What did we even talk about? No clue. Just that I remember gushing about how great their food was, how cool the restaurant space looked—the mural on the back wall—wait, did we take photos in front of that giant rabbit artwork?
I scroll through my camera roll. Big mistake.
I cringe at the evidence: my shiny face, limp bangs, a wild-eyed grin that screams overly enthusiastic drunk girl. Fantastic. Vivian must think I’m a riot. In one shot, I’ve locked arms with her like we’re lifelong best friends.
And then there’s Tuck, standing beside me, assessing everything.
My temples thump, my tongue is furry. Yuck. I reach for the pills and glimpse the second part of Tuck’s note: “P.S. Don’t forget you lined up something with Misha for today. 11 a.m. Her number’s in your phone. P.P.S. Drop by next door if you need bacon.”
A fresh wave of nausea twists through my stomach, adding a new layer to my hangover. Forget the bacon. Misha? What’s up with that?
Sure enough, she’s saved in my contacts. Well…whatever we planned, I need to cancel ASAP. Because not only am I hungover to shit, I also have a string of messages from my studio team, one from the funeral home, and a ton of unread emails waiting.
Except Misha turns out to be way more persuasive than I expected.
A back-and-forth of messages, where my flimsy excuses crumble under pressure, leads to something horrifying.
An actual phone call.
What the hell? Who calls?
I stare at my buzzing phone for several long seconds before answering.
“Um…hi?” I force a cheerful tone, then remember my hangover is a solid one-third of my excuse for not meeting up. I throw in a dramatic groan. “Ugh. So hungover.”
“Me too!” she chirps with the energy of a head cheerleader. “But don’t worry, I have the best day planned. I’ll pick you up in twenty, okay?”
“Sorry, what?”
“Twenty minutes. I’m already in the car. We stayed out at Steven’s brother’s lake house last night—love his mom, but gosh , she can be a bit much sometimes. I think she wants to marry us off, and we’ve only been dating a few weeks. Anyway, I’m on my way!”
Wait—what?
She’s gone. She hung up.
Shit.
I should call her back.
I hit redial. Busy.
Fuck!
What are we supposed to even be doing today? I can’t face a frigging girls’ day out with a virtual stranger. Or non-stranger. Anyone.
I trudge next door, feeling like a grumpy cartoon character shrouded in a storm cloud.
“Knew you’d want bacon.” Tuck smoothly pulls a pan from the stove and dumps it on the benchtop.
“She hung up on me!”
“Who?”
“Misha! She’s on her way over!”
Tuck eyes my outfit, smirking. “And you’re going for the effortlessly disheveled look?”
I glance down at my oversized Wham! t-shirt.
“Don’t worry, Pen,” Tuck says, adding toast to the breakfast spread, “post-punk hair and ironic neon are probably huge in Newcombe.”
I freeze, my stolen piece of crispy bacon suspended midair. “Newcombe? Why the fuck are we going to Newcombe?”
Tuck wags a warning finger. “Don’t look at me. I gave you an out last night—told her we had stuff to deal with at the funeral home. But no, you had to be contrary as hell. Whatever I said, you swore the opposite.”
His tone is clipped, and I note his irritation as he aggressively scrapes butter across the toast. Hmm. Okay, maybe I was a little provocative last night.
I reach for his coffee, take a sip, and grimace. “Ugh.”
I dump in a generous spoonful of sugar.
Tuck chews his toast, watching me with a neutral, unreadable expression.
The silence needles me. If he’s mad, he should just say so. If I upset him by being difficult last night, well…it’s not like he doesn’t know what I’m like.
I reach for the toast still in his hand, and he relinquishes it without a word.
“Tuck…I don’t want to go to Newcombe. It’s where Mom worked. I haven’t been there in forever. Why would I go now?”
His jaw tightens. “Well, that’s you all over, Pen, making champagne promises. Guess you gotta suck it up.”
I groan. “But Tuck…I really don’t wanna go. Can’t you just tell her I’m sick? That I’m dangerously dehydrated? That I can’t possibly be ready for a trip in—”
Tuck flicks his eyes to his watch. “Eight minutes.”
“Huh?”
“Better get ready, Pen.”
“Tuck! I don’t want to—” My voice takes on a pleading edge, but he just turns his back, rinsing his plate in the sink.
“Tuck—”
“Seven.”
I groan, down the rest of the coffee, and stomp toward the door. “Shit.”
In the end, Tuck does throw me a lifeline—to a point. He invites Misha in for coffee, buying me enough time to at least attempt to look presentable.
Having surrendered to the inevitable, I finally climb into the Cherokee Jeep Misha’s driving—her boyfriend Steven’s vehicle—and mumble an apology for making her wait.
“Are you kidding?” She throws me a wide-eyed look as she backs out of the driveway. “I couldn’t have paid for that kind of networking! Tuck Allen’s business advice is gold—he even walked me through his global scaling strategy. Not that I’m going that big, mind you.”
“You’re expanding your recycled fashion range?”
“Just through New York State to start,” she says, swinging onto Main Street.
Then I hear how a recent health scare—an abnormal mammogram result that led to a barrage of tests—forced Misha to rethink her lifestyle. Along with religiously following the EWG Healthy Living app to avoid dangerous toxins, she’s adjusted her work life. She’s become more selective about the productions she takes on and is expanding her business so she can afford a factory manager, freeing her to focus on what she actually enjoys: designing.
It turns out Misha is best friends with Vivian and is totally inspired by her bold move to Blue Mountain Lake.
“Viv uprooted her entire life—and Finn’s. Gave them both a fresh start. Gave Brady the chance to finally know his son. And the whole restaurant thing has taken off. Plus, the food tours. They’re even writing a cookbook together!” she exclaims as we exit town.
I confess I’m still grappling with viewing Brady as a responsible adult—and an obviously committed dad—something I never would have imagined.
“Well, after meeting Brady’s parents, I’m not surprised he’s a good father,” Misha asserts. “They’re so down to earth and sweet. They adore Vivian and Finn, that’s for sure.”
A smile softens her features. “Steven’s family is super nice, too. I think that’s a big thing to know about someone, don’t you think? What kind of family life they have…”
A nugget of discomfort lodges in my chest. Is that what it inevitably takes? To be a good partner and parent, you need to have that exampled to you throughout your life? To feel it through those early years when experiences layer into your psyche?
Tuck’s parents are good people too, through and through. The type who demonstrates their love with hugs and encouragement, attention and care. Whose love for their son is so encompassing, I feel it flowing out of them even as I exist on the periphery.
Meanwhile, my formative years were spent on the road with my parents’ arguments and all-around instability. When the unrest would make me shrink into made-up fantasies to escape. Like inserting myself into TV sitcoms as a much-adored middle child with a real bedroom, stuffed toys, family dinners, and actual friends.
“How a guy gets along with their family, especially their mother, tells you a lot!” Misha emphasizes.
“Except, you also don’t want them to get along too well with their mothers,” I counter. “My last boyfriend took off back to Brazil six months ago because he missed his mom so badly.”
“ Mmm , Brazilian.” Misha bites her lip. “Hot, I bet?”
“Seriously hot. Unfortunately, I don’t think he could ever love another woman as much as his mom.”
Misha giggles.
Maybe it’s my altered state—still vaguely hungover—or Misha’s unfiltered enthusiasm, but the tension I’ve been carrying starts to unravel.
She handles both the oversized Jeep and the conversation with effortless confidence, chatting easily, even as she smoothly navigates around touring minibusses and the occasional transport truck rumbling north.
There’s something disarming about her openness, the way she shares without hesitation. It only makes me more aware of how guarded I keep myself. I’m as closed off as an Egyptian mummy next to her.
Even when I get stuck on my phone, juggling a few urgent messages from my studio, she keeps the conversation flowing. Before I know it, we’re cruising downtown Newcombe.
We pass John’s office—my mom’s workplace—and my heart stalls, my gaze snagging on the red-brick building, the weathered sign.
Misha chatters on, oblivious to my flicker of unease, and I slowly take in the other elements of the bustling township.
Mom spent so many years here. Did she have a favorite among the string of quaint cafés? Did she stop by Office World for supplies, exchanging polite small talk with the clerk? Or was she as guarded here as she was in Blue Mountain Lake? Quiet. Distrustful. Always keeping to herself.
We stop for lunch in a cute corner place called Kirabees. Its white-washed walls, polished wooden floor, and cascading ferns provide a cool retreat from the sun-drenched street.
The menu proves to be Lebanese-inspired, and soon we’re chowing down on heavenly flavors of baked eggplants, zaatar, hummus, charred capsicum, fetta, watermelon radish, and succulent Lebanese sausages.
“Who knew you could find a gourmet oasis like this in the middle of nowhere?” I scoop up another bite of red pepper dip with warm flatbread.
“Oh, there are heaps of good food spots around,” Misha assures me. “I got all Vivian and Brady’s tips, and I’ve barely worked my way through half the list. I guess the boom in tourism helps sustain all these small businesses.”
“Amazing…it’s so not how I remember this town. It was more like a single grocery store, one butcher, a baker, and a couple of uninspiring boutiques with odd names like Ula-La and Classic Touch.” I laugh.
Misha flips a hand at my top—a striking matcha-green color, with a wide, exaggerated cowl neck. “So, this isn’t where you got your fashion flair, I take it?”
“God, no.”
As we dig into the meal, she gently prompts me for information—where I learned to sew, when I first discovered my eye for design.
After more conversation and sips of cardamom-scented coffee, something shifts. Maybe it’s the relaxed pace of the meal, or the way Misha listens without pushing—but I take a leap. One I rarely allow. And soon, I’m opening up about myself.
It’s a risk, letting someone see beyond the solid facade.
But it’s also like I have no choice. The emotions stirred by my mother’s death are so big, so all-consuming, they’re pressing against the edges of everything. Something has to give. Some tightly sealed drawer in the cluttered archive of shame and self-pity.
So I roll with it—and let one small, painful truth tumble out.