Chapter 11
Tuck
“When’s the funeral?” Brady hands me a double espresso as I settle at the bar.
The restaurant has a whole other vibe hours before the usual dinner rush. An air of calm permeates the still room as staff prepare table settings, vacuum, polish cutlery, and confirm bookings. I’ve timed it right to catch Brady between food prep and admin tasks.
“Couldn’t say.” I spread my hands on the gleaming bar top. “Pen’s got a list of her mom’s final wishes. She needs to find the outfit her mother wanted to be laid out in so they can prepare the body. I don’t think that’s happened yet.”
Brady exhales loudly, like that alone tells him everything he needs to know.
“So, the avoidance tactic’s back? No surprise,” he says bluntly. “Remember when she bailed to Mexico last minute instead of facing the final day in our first apartment? Or how she ghosted me when I left for LA? Hell, she didn’t even show up to her own graduation—too busy partying in Long Island.”
“Yeah. She’s an expert at dodging whatever she’s not ready to deal with,” I reply. “But pushing her to do something isn’t an option. She’ll just dig in harder.”
“How does that work in her business?” Brady deftly pumps out another coffee and leans against the counter. “Because hell, running this place—it’s a beast. You don’t deal with something, it turns into a nightmare down the line. No way I’d keep things together without Viv and the strong team we got now.”
“That’s different. Pen wouldn’t think so, but she’s actually pretty damn shrewd,” I point out. “There was a point, a year or so in, where she lost track of overheads and fell short on her loan repayments. She sat down with a ledger, went through every expense and rebooted her procedures. Whatever she applies herself to, she always figures out.”
Brady nods. “She’s a powerhouse, all right. And at least you two are good again. What was it—a whole year of not talking? After you completely screwed her over.”
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “C’mon. It was just business. Pen accepted that. Eventually.”
Brady folds his arms. “Tuck—you did a hostile takeover of the company she staked her whole career on. She idolized that designer.”
“Taylor Napp. Yeah, I know.” I wave a hand, brushing it off. “But look how it turned out. Pen walked away with a decent payout, started her own business. It was a win-win.”
Brady gives me a long, unimpressed look. “Win-win. Right. You forget how bitter she was? She said you didn’t give a shit about the company’s ethos, you just wanted the market share.”
I shift slightly on the barstool, restless under his scrutiny. “It was years ago.”
Brady doesn’t drop it. “So…things between you are good now?”
I meet his eyes, keeping my expression even. “Yeah.”
His brow lifts, skepticism written all over his face. “Yeah? Things are good ?”
My patience thins. “I said so, didn’t I?”
I sometimes forget how protective Brady is of his friends. And if he knew how complicated things with Pen really were, I can’t predict his reaction. That time I went after the takeover, he was pissed, convinced I put business before friendships. But it wasn’t Pen’s business I disrupted—it was the one she worked for. Fair game.
Finally, he lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Okay. Glad to hear it.” He takes a slow sip of coffee, eyes still on me like he’s waiting for something to crack. Then: “What about Stella?”
“It’s over.”
He groans, raking a hand through his unkempt hair. “Tuck—”
“What?” I snap. “It didn’t work out. Don’t get all fucking righteous on me just because you found the love of your life. How many failed relationships did it take you to get there?”
Brady chuckles, shaking his head. “Can’t even call anything I had before a relationship. None of it feels real now. That whole bachelor life in LA, Christ, it’s like a haze. The drugs, the women, the partying. None of it meant anything, and I didn’t even know how miserable I was until it was behind me.”
He gazes into the middle distance, a smile playing his lips. “That whole struggle of chasing more excitement, more money, more sex, more highs. When you have a family you love with all you’ve got, that stuff feels so superficial.”
I snort. “Thanks for the sermon. Should I say three Hail Marys and kiss your ring?”
“You can kiss my ass.” His tone’s flat, but there’s a flicker of amusement in Brady’s eyes.
Then his attention snaps away as a delivery arrives. His easy demeanor vanishes.
“I needed this at eight this morning, not mid-afternoon!” he chastises the supplier, irritation bleeding into his voice.
There’s a rushed apology, and just like that, he shifts back into friendly mode—his voice lighter, his posture looser. And his energy lifts even more when Vivian and Finn walk in.
I can’t help but smile at the cozy scene. Plus, seeing Finn, fresh from school, brings back a rush of memories—Brady, Pen, and me at that age, thick as thieves.
“So, what did you learn today, Finn?” I query.
Finn slouches onto a stool, exhaling like he’s grappling with the weight of Middle East politics or the unpredictability of global financial markets. “That girls don’t like you sticking up for them. Next thing you know, they all turn on you, and it gets real ugly.”
Vivian pauses on her way to the kitchen. “For context, Finn felt compelled to tell his girlfriend Molly’s friend, Erica, that she needs a personality transplant.”
Finn huffs. “Well, yeah, because she never lets Molly finish a sentence without talking all over her. Anyway, now they’re both pissed at me.”
I pat him on the back, smiling at Brady. “Guess someone else needs your boundless fatherly wisdom.”
Brady shakes his head. “Nah, I think Finn already knows what to do. Right, kid?”
Finn sighs dramatically. “Apologize to Molly.” He slumps forward. “I tried to, but it’s also like…she says this stuff about Erica all the time to me. That Erica gets serious FOMO, never listens, loves the sound of her own voice. Isn’t it better to just say that upfront instead of bitching behind her back?”
“Nope,” Brady says resolutely as I do a slow head shake.
Finn groans. “ Argh —women!” He dumps his school bag and trudges after Vivian into the kitchen.
Brady watches him go. “Molly’s his first serious girlfriend, it’s a steep learning curve.”
“Not sure it gets any easier,” I say wryly.
Brady looks at me with genuine concern. “You cut up over the Stella thing?”
I give a slight twitch, which he reads too accurately.
“Hmm, yeah, that’s not it.” He narrows his eyes like a psychic, fortune telling. “Someone else on the scene, I’m guessing. How’s that playing out? You get pretty ruthless when it comes to getting what you want.”
I lean back. “Don’t you need to get back to tossing pans or something?” I nod toward the kitchen, where his staff has started to gather.
Brady smirks but doesn’t push. “Yeah, probably. But we need a real catch-up. Sunday? You’re sticking around, right—till the funeral at least? You can’t skip town before seeing my olds.”
“Of course, I’ll go see your parents,” I answer. “How’s the farm? They still got all those random rescues?”
“You know it.” Brady grins as he rounds the bar. “My tour groups lap it up—picking fresh produce and petting rehabilitated Alpacas—what’s not to like?”
I leave Brady to get back to his prep and head to the house, putting in a couple of hours of work myself before chatting with Mom and Dad when they get home. They’re in good spirits, swapping stories about their students, but my mind is elsewhere.
Pen’s been gone for hours. And I try not to overanalyze it, but last night felt different. There was something in her behavior I couldn’t pin down. Alternatively avoiding me, baiting me, and flirting with me. Then I tried to push her toward something real, something more than these rushed, reckless encounters in public places. I wanted her to come home with me. To stop pretending this was just some casual thing. To finally move forward.
And now, in the cold light of day, a tinge of something unpleasant creeps in. She just lost her mother, for Christ’s sake. And I chose now, of all times, to push for more.
Maybe Brady’s right. I can be ruthless about getting what I want, when I want it. Timing be damned.
I’m not even sure where that drive comes from. It’s not like I grew up in a cutthroat world. My parents found fulfillment in teaching—steady, meaningful work they excelled at. They weren’t chasing titles or paychecks, just doing what they loved. I was never that academic, but I always needed to be working toward something. Achieving. Earning. Proving myself.
My first real venture was at fifteen, printing and selling Blue Mountain Lake merchandise. No competition, plenty of tourists, and a sharp instinct for profit. I cleaned up at the markets that summer, getting my first taste of what it felt like to build something from nothing.
When Pen set her sights on moving to the city to study at the Fashion Institute, there was no way I was getting left behind. I put in the work, got my grades up, and applied to college. I did my Master’s at NYU—business, with a focus on fashion and design. Basically, learning how to turn creativity into profit.
Pen was relentless, hell-bent on getting in with a renowned designer to sharpen her skills. I took a different path, testing businesses I could scale. Selling merch at music festivals and markets, later moving online. Always tweaking, strategizing, and refining until I cracked the code—the right demographic, the right sales methods. From there, it was a numbers game. Offshore production was the logical next step, leveraging lower costs and higher margins.
And now? The company runs itself. The structure is solid. A board of directors, executive and senior management teams, global distribution. Expansion isn’t even the goal anymore. It’s about maintaining market share and staying ahead of trends just enough to keep us relevant. But not so much that we lose what made us successful in the first place.
I should feel accomplished. I should feel something. But instead, I keep circling the same question— what’s next ?
That’s the thing about reaching the top. There’s no higher peak, no clear path forward. Just a plateau where everything is stable, profitable, predictable.
All my success, for what? For who?
I look at my parents with their happy, fulfilled, relatively simple life. Then there’s Mason—about to be married. Brady’s building a future with the mother of his child. And I’m proud of them. Sincerely. But it also makes me feel the absence of something I can’t ignore anymore.
Brady’s really stepped up—fatherhood. It’s got me thinking. Is that what I want a chance at, too? To have the privilege of raising a child? Someone to teach, to watch grow, to pass on what I achieved?
But it’s a slim hope. My track record with relationships isn’t good. Never going the distance. As soon as I’m deep enough in to even have those conversations—marriage, kids…the future…it inevitably falls apart. And I know why.
This ache. A hollow space success never filled. Because the one thing that ever really mattered—the one thing I was always chasing, whether I admitted it or not—was her.
Pen.
I want her in my future. I need her in my future. But after everything—the choices we made, the paths we took—how do I make that happen?
Because whenever I picture the future, it’s her I see in it.
But this isn’t just about what I want. I can’t afford to mess this up. If I go all in and lose—if I hurt her, there’s no coming back from that.
Brady barely forgave me for that business move against Pen. If I screw this up, he’d never let it slide. But that’s the least of it. I could live with Brady hating me. What I couldn’t live with is knowing I did something to hurt Pen.
Because for all her tough confidence, I know she’s learned to deflect and keep people at arm’s length because of vulnerability. There is a part of her that’s more fragile than she lets on. Maybe more than even I realize.
Her childhood left dents in places she doesn’t talk about, cracks she’s spent years covering so no one can see. And if I push too hard, if I make the wrong move, I could be the one to tear them wide open.
So then what? Am I being selfish—delusional—to believe we could ever be more than this?
Do I walk away and convince myself she’s better off without me?