Chapter 5
Five
Pen
The great thing about visiting the Luck home after all these years is that, for this brief moment in time, I get to feel like a kid again.
Once we’d cleaned up after dinner, we’d all gone back to our rooms, changed into our pj’s, and then met back up in the family den.
June, May, and I curl up like kittens in the corner of the massive sectional couch, while March sprawls like a king on the other end.
August has gone missing. Which is for the best, really.
If I don’t have to look at him, I don’t have to remember being utterly embarrassed by him.
It’s been my go-to game plan when dealing with him for years.
“What are we watching?” March asks, picking up the remote.
An impassioned argument ensues. As usual, no one can agree on anything.
We never could when it came to movies. Except that one summer when, inexplicably, we’d all decided, as though by magic, that it was the perfect time to watch The Lord of the Rings trilogy.
The sun had shone, the pool had been open, and we’d all hunkered down, bleary-eyed and pale, stuck on the drama of Frodo, the intensity of Aragorn, and beauty of Legolas tossing his golden locks.
It had become a quest: must finish, no matter how sore our butts had been.
Even August, who usually eschewed such group get-togethers, had been sucked in.
Today, however, is not that day. March insists on a smashup car chase. May and June want a fantasy series—truly, the power of Legolas remains an influence to this day.
“You’re going to have to break the tie,” March says to me. “Or we’ll get nowhere.”
“What tie?” June says with heat. “May and I agree. That’s two to one. We win.”
“A,” March holds up a finger. “You two are a freak hive mind when it comes to movie choices so that counts as one vote. And B . . .” He holds up another finger. “Pen gets a say. You never know, she might want my pick.”
“As much as I enjoy cars,” I deadpan, “I don’t think I’m up for another showing of Fast and Furious Fifty—The Furiouser.”
“Hey! It’s Ten. The tenth one.”
“Which is, like, nine too many,” May says.
“Try ten too many,” June mutters.
March’s brows lift in outrage. “Did I say anything last Christmas when you two insisted we watch The Devil Wears Prada? Yet again?”
“Yes. Frequently.” May sniffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “We could hardly hear the dialog over your commentary.”
“It added much-needed depth to the plot.” March shakes his head in disgust. “That chick wouldn’t even eat the grilled cheese sandwich. I’d have killed for that sandwich!”
“Why don’t you go make a sandwich now?”
March lobs a pillow in the direction of June’s head. Unfortunately, his aim is not as good or as fast as August’s. May ducks, and I get a face full of pillow.
“Ack!”
“Sorry, Penny.”
“March, you bonehead!”
“I said I was sorry. You all right, Penny?”
“All right? You nearly killed her. I’m telling Mom.”
Holy hell. We really have reverted to children.
“I feel like we’ve entered a bizarre time warp,” I tell them darkly. “Next thing you know, May is going to stomp her feet and March will wet his pants.”
“I never!”
A rumbling chuckle cuts through the chaos. August stands in the doorway to the den and shakes his head. “I leave you kids alone for twenty minutes and look at all this squabbling.”
Quicksilver eyes find me. The impact of meeting his gaze does funny things to my insides. Maybe he knows this because his mouth quirks with humor. “I must say, Penelope. I didn’t know you’d had it in you to bring up The Pants Incident. Nice hit.”
Hot shame colors my cheeks and swarms along my skin. God, that was a low blow. I glance at March, but he grins back like he’s proud.
“We’ll corrupt her thoroughly by the time she leaves.”
“It’s already too much.” I cover my face with my hands. “I’m sorry, March.”
“Don’t back down now,” March says. “That was a wicked bad hit.”
I shake my head, refusing to look up. I could say it was shame making me hide, but that would be a lie.
My heart beats fast and light. My skin has gone tight and sensitive.
It’s as though I’ve been shocked into full wakefulness.
And it’s all because of August. I don’t want this awareness.
It’s uncomfortable and inconvenient. At the very least, when we were younger, my discomfort came from the way he ignored me.
He’s not ignoring me now. And it’s unsettling. I can actually feel him enter the room. It’s like a useless superpower.
August sits in the big swivel armchair at the far side of the room. Which is good because he didn’t sit next to me. And it’s bad because the position gives me a direct sight line to him.
He’s still watching me with a faintly amused expression. I refuse to twitch.
“Augie,” May says. “Help us pick out a movie.”
His attention is unwavering. “You never gave your choice, Penelope.”
This is for the very simple reason that no one here will accept my choice.
I like classic Hollywood movies from the 1930s and ’40s.
Movies my great-grandparents would have worked on when they were young.
I watch them and feel connected. But those movies are best watched alone, when I can really sink into them. Here?
“I don’t think it much matters in this crowd. May and June will talk throughout—”
“Hey!”
“—and March will fill in all other silences with jokes.”
“True.” March salutes me.
“And you’ll fall asleep halfway through it anyway,” August says to me with a small smile.
I blink, a punch of surprise hitting me. “I don’t fall asleep.”
“Yes, you do.” This from everyone. In unison.
“It’s this couch,” I protest. “It’s always been too comfortable.”
No one seems convinced.
“Why don’t you pick, August?” I counter.
Leaning back in the chair, he sets his hands on his flat stomach and appears to think about it.
The lamps are on low, and the only other light source comes from the flickering glare of the TV.
Everything is muted and soft around the edges.
Except for August. Finely delineated and sharp against the soft curved back of the chair, the colors of him—espresso dark hair against cognac leather, crisp white T-shirt pulled tight against golden-brown arms—is more vivid than anything else.
I’ve often wondered why it is some people shine and others don’t. But perhaps it’s the ones doing the looking that make it so. Perhaps, I only see August’s shine because I’ve been trying my whole life to ignore it.
Oblivious of my turmoil, August squeezes the back of his neck and squints into the distance. “How about,” he finally says, “The Fellowship of the Ring?”
At March’s groan, August grins but then glances my way. “We watched it last time we were all together.”
That he remembers is a shock. August barely paid attention to the movie at the time and spent most of it looking at his phone, “studying plays” he’d claimed.
Regardless, his choice is accepted. Or rather, March shrugs with indifference, June immediately cues it up, as May does a Legolas dance, which mainly consists of wiggling in her seat and singing “Legolas” over and over.
June spreads a throw over our laps. My fingers curl into the caramel-colored chenille.
The blanket is worn, buttery soft, and likely as old as I am.
Everything in this room has a patina of age and care.
Framed family photos and well-loved books grace the shelves.
The papier-maché carnival mask January made in elementary school hangs on the wall, battered but miraculously still whole.
There is history here. Maybe that’s why we revert to children in this room, in this house: because we can.
Here, in these walls, with these people, we’re safe and loved.
I want that feeling in my life. More than I’ve realized.
“And all was right with the world again,” I say as the movie starts.
August’s grin is quick but wide. “If you fall asleep, Penelope, I’ll make sure these yahoos don’t mess with you.”
Sweet but . . . “I’m not going to fall asleep.”
I fall asleep.
I come to this unfortunate conclusion when a gentle touch on my shoulder eases through warm layers of slumber.
“Pen.” Another touch. “Penelope.”
That voice. I know that voice. It’s like Pops’s favorite bourbon: rich, smooth, a hint of bite. I jump fully awake with a gasp and nearly knock heads with August, who’s leaning over me.
He lurches back just in time with an apologetic sound. “Jesus. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Something almost smug glints in his eyes. “But you weren’t waking up.”
Stiff with sleep, I fumble my way into sitting, surreptitiously wiping at my face to make sure I haven’t drooled. “No, no. It’s okay. I was just surprised because I . . .” The words trail off.
August crouches beside me, his expression perfectly composed. The truth of the situation hangs between us, and I know he’s laughing on the inside.
“I did not fall asleep,” I tell him.
“Uh-huh.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“And snoring.”
Horror pricks my skin. “I do not snore!”
A tiny dimple forms near the left corner of his mouth. “Fine, we’ll call it a snuffle.”
I glare.
His smile blooms until he’s showing his teeth. His perfect, toothpaste commercial–worthy teeth. “An adorable little snuffle. Like a chipmunk.”
My brow rises.
He frowns but amusement lingers in his eyes. “Aw, come on. Not one little smile at that?”
“After you’ve likened me to a chipmunk? I’d rather not risk further tooth-related comments.”
August winces and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about the teeth thing earlier. That was . . . ah—”
“Traumatizing?” No, I will not smile. Not ever again in front of him.
But he does. It’s wry with a self-deprecating tilt. “Yeah. It was definitely that.”
A small huff of laughter escapes despite my best effort. “I meant for me.”
A look of regret pinches his features. “Shit, Penelope. I didn’t mean to traumatize you.”