Chapter 10
Ten
Pen
Monday morning starts with bossa nova. Astrud Gilberto’s “Summer Samba” to be precise.
Her honey-cream voice combined with the up-tempo Moog synthesizer makes me think of pretty ladies with lacquered beehive hair and A-line silk brocade dresses socializing at a cocktail party, swinging elaborately long cigarette holders while making their point and sloshing pink ladies onto the toes of their pointy kitten heels.
Snuggling down in my bed, I smile at the image.
I’d like to have a cocktail party one day, hand out colorful little hors d’oeuvres that look like art but taste even better.
I’d put on a flirty dress and laugh with friends while sipping martinis out of etched glasses.
In theory, I’d like that very much. In practice?
I don’t have enough friends to fill a room, and I’d probably hide in the corner or play waitress in an effort to avoid talking to anyone.
How . . . unsatisfactory. I turn to my side and pull the covers up high.
August wants me to play at being his fiancée.
I’d have to socialize on a public stage.
I’d have to make conversation, to laugh and smile, and be .
. . something that I’m not. He doesn’t understand that because, for a brief but brilliant time with him, I’d been someone different.
I’d been open in a way I never am. He fails to remember clearly how quiet and withdrawn I usually am.
Or maybe he doesn’t care.
But he will. When I’m at his side, in public, he will. Someone like August needs a fake fiancée who will shine like a diamond. He needs polish and poise. Most days, I can barely tolerate talking to strangers. As much as I’d like to help him, I’m going to have to decline.
The thought of not seeing him anymore depresses me. Without this deal between us, what reason would he have to continue?
My stomach grumbles. As much as I’d like to stay in bed all day, I’m awake now, which means I need my coffee.
But given that bossa nova is blasting throughout the apartment, my roommate, Sarah, is definitely up and about, and she’s a bit much to take today when I want nothing more than to be quiet with my own worries.
Another grumble from my stomach has me sighing and throwing back the covers.
Glancing at my phone, I’m surprised to find it’s already ten.
It isn’t like me to sleep in this long. The last thing I need is to spiral into a depressive episode.
I have classes to attend, money to find, and a fake marriage proposal to contemplate. I’m swamped.
Laughing at my own cheesy joke, I pull on some clothes then head out to find my coffee.
Sarah is in the center of the living room, now bopping around to “The Girl from Ipanema.” While it’s not quite a beehive, she’s teased the top of her orange hair into a smooth dome before sweeping it up into a high ponytail.
She’s wearing bubblegum-pink pedal pusher pants and a purple mock turtleneck tunic.
She twirls around and spots me. “You’re back.”
It isn’t a particularly happy announcement; Sarah finds me too quiet for her tastes. But I pay my half of the rent on time and am clean. Cleanliness and financial solvency in a roommate has become increasingly hard to find.
“I am.” I head to the small galley kitchen.
The cabinets are vintage tin, painted in bright teal.
Salmon-pink walls and yellow Formica countertops and vintage avocado-green appliances complete the look.
In the full light of the midday sun, it’s bright enough to give me a headache, and I squint as I reach for an I Love Lucy mug and pour myself some much-needed coffee.
“You don’t look great,” Sarah says from the doorway. Her pet, Edward, eyes me with distaste from his perch on her shoulder. As usual, they are in complete agreement.
“Thank you.” I add a dollop of half-and-half to my coffee and stir. “I’m grumpy.”
“Well, it can’t be from Astrud.” She takes another step into the room. “No one can resist the happiness of her voice.”
“I always thought she sounded melancholy.” In all honesty, I’d heard a bit of Astrud Gilberto and bossa nova, but never really listened to it before living here. But the point remains.
Sarah laughs shortly. “I guess she does. But her voice makes me happy, so.” She shrugs and Edward shifts to get more comfortable.
Sipping my coffee, I root around in the fridge for the eggs and butter. I’m going to fix myself a nice scramble with toast and then go for a long walk. I don’t want to make small talk with the headache I’m currently blooming, but Sarah stays and watches me cook.
“Where’d you go again?”
“Boston to visit my mom.” I crack an egg and watch it plop into the bowl. “It was all right.”
The eggs start to firm up in the pan. Plating my food, I grab a fork and head out to the little dining nook. I take a seat at the round teak dining table, and Sarah remains leaning against the doorway, watching.
A sense of smallness and failure crawls over my skin. Sometimes I feel like there’s something wrong with me for wanting my solitude. I like being social. But I need my alone time. I need to be able to eat my breakfast without having to talk. Not every day. But today, it pricks at my chest.
When I don’t say anything, Sarah sighs and shakes her head as if to say I’ve failed her yet again. “Edward is a better conversationalist than you.”
“No doubt.” I’m tempted to say she’s free to talk to Edward and leave me to my breakfast.
Maybe she sees it in my face; she huffs in a mix of annoyance and amusement, then strolls over to the turntable and selects another album from the library of records stuffed onto the built-in shelves lining one wall.
The room fills with the melodic sounds of Charlie Byrd’s classical jazz guitar, as Sarah sprawls on a chartreuse velvet armchair and Edward settles on her chest.
Digging into my eggs, I plan my hiking route when the door buzzes.
“I’ll get it,” Sarah says with a watery sigh.
She disappears into the front hall. I hear the rattle of the door opening and then the deep, smooth sound of August asking for me. My fork clatters to the table. It irritates me how quickly my heartbeat kicks up.
Before I can do anything more than sit straight, Sarah rounds the corner and enters the main living room with August in tow. He spots me immediately.
He smiles with his eyes. The thought hits me in the solar plexus.
How had I never noticed this before? Oh, there’s a small curl to his lips, polite and reserved, the kind I’ve seen on August’s face many times before.
But his eyes? They’re lit with a glow of pleasure that makes me want to beam with happiness, and spreads a glowing warmth through my belly.
I think I’ve waited my whole life for August Luck to look at me like this, and now that he is, I don’t know what to do with myself. My hands flutter about like butterfly wings before I shove them in my lap and give him a dignified “Hello, August.”
It only makes the smile spread over his whole face. God, he’s like the sun breaking over bleak hills.
“Hello, Penelope.” He uses the same proper tone, but I hear the humor in his voice all the same.
It’s as though we’re sharing a private joke, only I’ve forgotten the punch line.
All the same, I feel like smiling wide. I don’t, of course.
Sarah is hovering, mouth agape as she stares at August. As if feeling her gaze, he glances back at her, and his “dealing with the public” expression returns.
I shove back my chair and stand. “Sarah, this is August. He’s ah . . . an old friend. August, Sarah is my roommate.”
At that moment, as if to voice his protest in being ignored, Edward perks up and lets out a loud croak.
August nearly jumps out of his skin. His wide-eyed gaze zeroes in on Edward and he turns decidedly pale. Despite this, he clearly makes an effort not to react further. No, August Luck, King of Control, merely bows his head. “Good day to you too, sir.”
In less than five minutes he’s made my whole day better. I’m in big trouble.
August
Pen’s roommate looks like she’s cosplaying Daphne from Scooby-Doo, right down to the orange hair. I do mean orange, not red. She’s been eyeing me from the moment she opened the door. And frankly, I’d been too distracted by those long, gawking looks to notice her companion. Until he croaked.
He’s all I notice now. Because sitting on the roommate’s shoulder, is a fucking enormous frog, wearing a jaunty purple top hat. A top hat just like the Mad Hatter’s from Alice in Wonderland. There’s even a tiny “10/6” ticket tucked into the hatband.
I blink again, wondering if I tripped up somewhere and fell down a rabbit hole.
“Where are my manners,” Sarah says, shooting a glare at Pen before picking up the frog and presenting him to me on the palm of her hand. “This is Edward.”
Years ago, I came across my parents laughing their asses off while watching an old ’50s cartoon of a frog in a top hat who would sing and dance for his owner, but only when no one else was looking. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if Edward here does the same.
“Ah . . . good to meet you, Edward.” I am not shaking hands.
It’s all I can do to keep from diving over the red lip-shaped coffee table and hide behind Pen.
I’m not ashamed to admit: Frogs give me the creeps.
I’m not going to admit this out loud, however.
I have the feeling Sarah would brain me if I did.
Edward, perhaps sensing weakness, croaks again and twitches. Like he’ll leap onto my face at the slightest provocation. My body tenses. Flight or fight. It’s fifty-fifty at the moment. I try to hide my terror with a stern warning look. His glassy half-lidded stare tells me he’s unimpressed.
“Edward, dearest.” At this Sarah gives his frog ass a little kiss. “Meet August Luck, our team’s new quarterback.”
So she knows who I am. Wonderful. She’ll probably record it if Edward tries to get personal.