Chapter 22
Penelope
“This one’s called the Drunken Alchemist, with cypress, juniper, gin botanicals, and black pepper,” the masseuse says eagerly, holding up a small amber bottle. “It’s one of our most popular blends. We also have gift packs in the spa lounge if you’d like to take some home. Essential oils make great gifts!”
I sink deeper into the plush lounge chair, my legs wrapped in a warm towel, the mingled scents penetrating my skin and muscles so that I’m tingling all over.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lake stretches out in the distance, its surface shimmering under the afternoon sun. The whole place is impossibly serene, its peacefulness punctuated by trickling sounds of water and soothing string music.
It’s also wildly unexpected.
“This was nothing but a weathered fish-and-chip kiosk last time I was here,” I say, in awe of the sleek wood paneling, stone-tiled floors, and soft lighting that makes everything feel warm and expensive.
Vivian grins, rolling her shoulders as her foot massage and pedicure winds up. “It’s the perfect spot to untangle all my knots after a week in the kitchen. Sure, I love a good nature walk, maybe a bit of kayaking. But a five-star spa with Reiki massage just fifteen minutes out of town? Pure heaven.”
“Yeah, definitely a step up from Gus’s bait shop,” I agree, stretching out my legs.
Misha, lying on the lounger beside me with a cloth over her eyes, hums in agreement. “And actual lattes.”
Vivian laughs. “Yes! Great coffee. And the restaurant’s decent too. It’s nice to have something other than cafes, bars, Chinese takeout, or burger joints. Sometimes we want to eat out somewhere other than our own restaurant.”
Misha sighs dreamily, stretching like a cat in the sun. “All this pampering, the view, the quiet…it almost makes me see myself living the small-town life,” she murmurs.
Vivian lifts her head just enough to smirk. “Mmm-hmm. Living the small-town life…or loving your small-town fireman?”
Misha peeks out from under the cloth, grinning. “Can I just put this out there? Because I’ve been in a drought so long, I need to shout it from the rooftops: Steven is so cute, so sweet, and boy-oh-boy , he really knows how to work his equipment!”
Vivian snorts. “And here I thought you kept coming back because you missed me in LA!”
“Sorry, honey, it’s all about the sex!” Misha grins. “There, I said it. The drought is over, the oasis has appeared, and it’s no mirage. Steven plays my body like Robby Krieger on guitar!”
Vivian shakes her head. “You’re so dramatic. I bet your ‘ drought’ was, like, two weeks.”
“Excuse me! It was at least three months,” Misha retorts. “And look, I can handle being single. Maybe even enjoy the independence for a while. But one-night stands and a vibrator just don’t cut it long-term.”
“ Duh . That’s why you need a reliable fuck-buddy,” I say, giving in to Misha’s candor and blurting it out.
Her eyes widen like I just handed her the secret to happiness. “Oh my god, I’ve always wanted one! No small talk, no awkward dates, no crappy Tinder matches—just a your place or mine? arrangement.”
“Exactly,” I smirk. “He knows what you like and where you like it. There’s a whole shorthand built in. Just fun, no attachment.”
I say it lightly, but the truth lingers at the edges of my mind. Tuck isn’t exactly honoring the “no attachment” rule.
Vivian glances up from her phone. “Speaking of bedroom adventures, thank god for Violet. Every Monday, she invites Finn over for dinner and a movie night. I have no idea what she endures with their taste in teenage blockbusters. I like to imagine she has a good book to see her through. Bonus for us? Private adult time.”
“So Finn’s there tonight?” Misha doesn’t miss a beat. “That means Mama is free for cocktails, right?” She claps her hands. “That deck bar over the lake is calling my name.”
“I can have one cocktail—” Vivian starts, immediately met with exaggerated groans from Misha and me. “No, seriously, I don’t mind being designated driver,” she insists. “Tomorrow’s a big day at the restaurant, getting everything in gear for a hectic week. And…” she hesitates, glancing at me, “the funeral, of course.”
Misha instantly turns somber. “Gosh, of course.”
I wave a hand, brushing away their sudden concern.
“Honestly? It’ll be a relief to get through the formalities. To finally say goodbye. And I really appreciate today—now that everything’s arranged, it’s good to think about something else for a while…to get pampered and let all the emotions settle.”
I turn to Misha. “And I can’t thank you enough for all the fun this week. It’s helped me remember that I still have a life to live, even though Mom’s was cut short. I give a bright smile. “So, I say— more of it ! Cocktails are on me!”
The bar is plush and expansive, its decor mirroring the blues and greens of the lake and forest. And while the cocktail menu is nothing groundbreaking—standard fare with a few house specialties thrown in, it doesn’t matter. The real highlights are the view and the company.
I’m not sure how this even happened. Me —fully immersed in a girly hangout. Not feeling out of place or judged. Just…easy. Fun even. Huh. Who’d have thought?
The outlook from the deck is pure summer. The lake stretching wide, dotted with kids making the most of the water.
A group of them paddle around on inflatable rings, laughing as they bump into each other, while a couple of older ones take turns launching themselves off a floating dock. Further out, a boy wobbles on a stand-up paddleboard, a younger girl shrieking with delight as she clings to the front, urging him to go faster.
Vivian watches them for a long moment. Then she shakes her head, dreamily.
“I can’t believe how fast it goes,” she murmurs. “You spend years drowning in the exhaustion and the crying and the constant neediness, thinking it’ll never end. Then you blink, and suddenly, you have a teenager. Finn used to be that little, you know? And now he’s planning his own Friday nights.”
“I haven’t asked you, Viv,” Misha says, idly stirring her drink with her straw. “Now that you and Brady are together, have you talked about having more kids?”
Vivian exhales, considering. “We’ve talked about the future…at least business-wise. In the next eighteen months, we want to step back from the restaurant’s daily grind, hire a qualified chef to run it, and focus more on expanding the tours. If we pull that off, we could theoretically have time for another child…”
“That’s a lot of planning,” I remark, biting into the wedge of pineapple garnish from my daiquiri.
“It’s also about Finn,” Vivian says, her tone more thoughtful now. “Things are great between Brady and me. But I don’t want to bring up the idea of another child when Finn’s still getting used to having an actual dad.”
She meets my eyes. “You know the story, Pen,” she says. “You’re one of Brady’s closest friends. I’m sure you get how huge this was for him. All of a sudden, learning he’s the father of a teenager.”
“Absolutely,” I answer. “It was definitely a surprise. But Brady really stepped up. Embracing fatherhood way more naturally than I would have guessed. It’s amazing.”
I hold back my lingering disbelief that the same Brady I used to know—the party guy, the one who never took anything seriously, is now a responsible adult with a kid.
“So yeah, I’d love to do it,” Vivian confirms. “And I hope we can. But you never know what lies in store. I got pregnant a little too easily at nineteen. It might be a different story now.”
Misha glances at me, an attempt at subtlety that fails miserably. I know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s itching to bring up what I told her about my own thoughts on having a baby.
Well, fuck it . What’s the point of female bonding if you can’t share some stuff?
I roll my eyes but give her the green light. “Go on, then. You can say it.”
Misha wastes no time turning to Vivian. “Pen wants to have a baby!”
“Oh!” Vivian swivels toward me, eyebrows lifting. “Um—that’s great?”
“Except I haven’t exactly planned things out the way you’re saying,” I admit. “My approach is way more…abstract.”
Vivian lets out a sharp laugh. “Ha! Okay, let’s be real for a second. I had a baby as a single nineteen-year-old while I was overseas. I did not plan shit.” She grins. “And Finn survived. So don’t let my overthinking scare you off.”
I straighten, emboldened by her words. “So—what? Instinct just kicks in? You figure it out?”
Vivian leans back, smiling at the memory. “Well, I got lucky. In Switzerland, I had an amazing Doula —someone who helps with the birth and, just as crucially, afterwards . Like with the mother’s rest and recovery, nursing advice, emotional support, even household help. And, when I came back home, I moved in with my parents…and basically never left.”
“Well, why would you?” Misha interjects. “They live in a giant mansion in Beverly Hills.”
“Right.” I nod, my excitement momentarily tempered. “But in theory, it can’t be that hard, right? I mean, we’re tough. Women are strong and adaptable.”
“Totally,” Vivian agrees. “Except…wow, the emotions. That baby has you from the very beginning. Your whole existence gets tied to them, and suddenly, being apart feels impossible.”
Her eyes glisten as she dives into the memories of early motherhood.
“Going back to work hurts. But staying home 24/7? It’s amazing but exhausting . Sleep? Forget it. Privacy? Gone. And just wait until they hit their teenage years. It’s like they get revenge. They call you out on everything. What you say, how you dress, what you think is cool. It’s brutal .”
Then she shifts perspective and lets out a laugh. “You should hear what Violet and I talk about.” She shakes her head. “We love our kids, but parenting a teenager? Very tough. I’m glad I get to vent with someone.”
“Okay, well, on that note,” I say, pushing aside any illusions of effortless motherhood, “can I slip in one more drink?”
Vivian looks to her barely touched mojito. “Oh, of course,” she says. “Let’s enjoy the rest of the sunset.”
I signal a waiter, and Misha takes the opportunity to loop the conversation back to Steven— “Wouldn’t his genes make excellent children?” Which spirals into who has the best fatherly attributes, and— shit. The last thing I need is for Vivian to find out that Tuck, of all people, has thrown his hat in the ring.
If Brady catches wind of that, it’s game over. Our whole private arrangement—our neatly contained, no-strings-attached understanding—would be out in the open, and everything would explode.
That makes me pivot hard the moment there’s a brief lull in conversation.
“Anyway,” I say, steering us to safer ground, “you know what I really miss about the city?”
That does the trick. Soon, we’re deep in a hit list of what small towns lack: museums, art galleries, Broadway shows. Big concerts, ethnic food, public transportation. The endless energy. The late-night buzz. All the things I love about urban life, the things that make me me.
But then, as the sun sinks and the sky turns to streaks of gold and cotton-candy pink, our chatter naturally fades.
“I mean…just look at that.” Misha’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I so rarely actually stop for a sunset in the city.” She exhales, taking it in. “It’s like you get plugged back into something bigger. It’s uplifting, right?”
“It’s magical,” Vivian murmurs. “Every sunset is different here. Even the lake changes by the hour—the colors, the birdlife, the peace. To live among this is such a blessing.”
“Uh-huh.” I nod.
Because, yeah. I know it’s beautiful. I grew up here. But my life is in the city. My work. My studio. My routine. My inspiration. I belong in the city. Don’t I?
But damn. That is one hell of a sunset.
The good vibes stretch on. Even as we wrap up and head to the car, I don’t feel the usual rush of anxiety about sliding into the backseat. No urge to be the one in control.
It’s been a good day. The kind that settles into you, that lingers. The kind I can carry with me into an early dinner and, hopefully, a restful night.
Before the weight of tomorrow sets in.
But then, just as we’re pulling out of the parking lot, Misha blindsides me.
“Are Brady and Tuck still at Battalion?” she asks brightly, tapping her phone.
“Last I checked,” Vivian says, but there’s a wary edge to it. “Brady’s sure gonna be feeling it tomorrow.”
Misha flashes a satisfied smile, still focused on her screen. “Perfect. I just sent Steven there to meet up with them.” She bags her phone and grins at Vivian. “Sooo…can we swing by for a couple more drinks? You can leave the car if you need to—your house is just up the block.”
Vivian sighs, but I can already tell she’s conceding. “I guess. I probably should check in on Brady anyway…see if he managed to offset the effect of copious beers with a burger, at least. He and Tuck have been there for hours.”
Huh. Tuck and Brady out drinking all afternoon? Where was my invite to the boozy reunion?
Vivian glances at me in the rearview mirror. “That okay with you, Penelope? Or I can drop you home first?”
I shrug, keeping my voice as even as possible. “I could go for another drink.”
Inside, though, something sharpens. It makes sense they’d be hanging out. But Tuck never mentioned his plans. Not a word. And sure, I didn’t exactly update him on my day either, but somehow… that feels different.
Misha rummages in her bag, pulling out lip gloss and a compact, swiping color onto her lips as she checks her reflection. I catch sight of myself in the window’s faint glare: skin a little too shiny from the heat, damp hair, traces of essential oils weighing it down. Shit. I rake my fingers through the mess, twisting it into a loose braid, tucking it inward—neat, contained.
Then— zing . A heated memory…of the way Tuck seems to really like loose hair and ponytails. The way he fists my hair always gets my blood raging.
My hands pause. Slowly, I unwind my braid, letting my hair fall free, combing through the strands with my fingers. I borrow a sample of Misha’s pomegranate gloss and adjust my cleavage.
I mean—I just like to look my best.
And if looking good reminds Tuck what he’s been missing by not inviting me today, all the better.
When we step into Battalion, surprisingly packed for a Monday night, that pleasant zing grows into something electric, pulsing its way through my nervous system.
It’s the same buzz I used to get before a big debate competition, the same low thrum of energy in a group yoga class, or during my short-lived running phase—whenever I catch myself competing .
Only this? This isn’t about competing. It’s the pure soul-enlivening zing of anticipation .
It’s why I hang back as Misha and Vivian head toward the bar. Stretching out the seconds before we lock eyes. And why I savor the moment Tuck registers our arrival, looking up as Misha steps into the fray and making space at the bar for Vivian as she slots hands on hips in mock outrage, before ultimately giving in to the charm of Brady’s lopsided grin.
But it’s Tuck’s searching look beyond the commotion, scanning the room, that has my skin vibrating with longing. The fact he’s looking for me.
Then…he sees me. The current of electricity connects, and a knee-weakening smile spreads across his face, slow and certain, like he was just biding his time before I arrived.
And suddenly, I’m moving. Drawn by something unspoken, something undeniable. Butterflies unravel in my stomach, their wings beating out a rhythm I can’t ignore.
His hand finds my waist. His blue eyes dance with mine.
And in a moment of reckless, breathless surrender—I give in.
No hiding. No pretending. No more trying to define whatever this is.
Because in this moment, my heart has already won the battle.
Game. Set. Match.