10. Penn
Chapter 10
Penn
"You all set, buddy?"
Slim Jim sits on his haunches, staring at me with that intense gaze. It's 6:14 in the morning, but Slim Jim is ready for anything. Everything. He could scale a ten-foot block wall right now if I gave the command. He is fast like a bullet and just as deadly. An assassin on four legs. Unbelievable, this dog.
I finish my pre-run electrolyte water, then clip a leash to Slim Jim's utility vest. In large, white-stitched letters on either side of his vest, is the directive DO NOT PET. And still, invariably, some well-meaning and air-headed doofus will reach a hand out to him. Slim Jim's a good dog, and not dangerous to anyone who isn't a criminal or trying to inflict harm, but he's not up for snuggles. He's a work dog, and his favorite thing in the world is to have a job to do. Everything Slim Jim does is a fulfillment of everything he was made to do.
Unlike Paper Towel Duke.
Slim Jim and I slip out the side gate, and I spend a short minute looking over the chalk drawings on my driveway. Some neighborhood kids cornered me yesterday when I was getting out of my car, asking if they could use it to draw on. The smallest kid, smiley and gap-toothed, informed me he'd already filled up his driveway. I'd told them to have at it.
Slim Jim and I set off, his big paws hitting the sidewalk with soft thuds in a comforting cadence.
She's marrying Duke.
We come to a break in the road, turning right onto a road that will eventually lead to the main drag through town.
Slim Jim keeps perfectly in line with me, never falling behind and never attempting to lead.
What the hell does she see in the guy? Their families were always close, the moms in book club and serving on the Olive Township restoration society. The dads tolerated each other, from what I could tell. Duke has two siblings, but for the St. James family there is only Daisy. Duke and Daisy were friends because of their families' connection to one another.
When did Duke go from friend to fiancé?
The question gnaws at me, its barbs tearing at my insides as it races around my body. My trainers smack the pavement as I pick up speed. My heart batters my breast bone, my breath heating and tearing at my throat.
I had no idea she was going to be my physical therapist, or that she owned the practice. It was only all those years of being a SEAL, of learning how to conceal surprise, that kept me in my seat when she walked in that tiny room. Her assistant, Isla, said not a word about the name of the person I was making an appointment with.
Fuck, but that was difficult. Being next to her, enveloped in her scent that is fist-bitingly luscious (plum, I’m almost positive, and maybe a little vanilla), and then she adjusted me and I thought I was going to come out of my skin. Her touch, electric and heady, overwhelmed me. Seeing her for my next appointments might end me. Survival is unlikely at this point.
Here lies the motherfucker who pretended not to be Penn Bellamy.
The thing is, I don't have to stay here. I could leave tomorrow. Today, for that matter.
I don't have to subject myself to this. Or Daisy, to me. To what it might do to her if she finds out I am not Peter Bravo, but Penn from her childhood.
Or you could be honest with her .
It's Hugo's voice in my ear. Hugo's advice from the second I called him and told him I would be returning to deal with the house.
What should I do about Daisy? I'd asked.
Tell her you're coming , he'd deadpanned.
For Hugo, honesty is paramount. Maybe it's all the sword fighting, all that upright posture and civility. Or maybe it's the fact his family is almost as influential as Daisy's and Duke's. Hugo has never been the poor kid in the ramshackle house with the catatonic mother. He's never been forced to make hard choices, the kind that hurt others at the expense of keeping yourself and your parent alive.
I pause on Olive Avenue, the main street running through the town. Shops line either side, two traffic lights placed equal distances on the long street. My gaze pulls to the far end, the second shop in on the left. The scene of the car accident. Fifteen years have passed, and still I hear the crunch of metal, the protesting screech of tires, glass breaking. Daisy's scream weaving through it all, and then, even worse, her silence.
I know I'm supposed to be kind to my younger self, but really, what the fuck was I thinking taking my mom's car when I was thirteen?
I take off at a faster pace, running hard all the way down the street, forcing myself to cross and run on the sidewalk I drove over as a kid.
Exhausted, I stop, hands on my knees as I gulp large lungfuls of air. I've been sprinting without meaning to. Slim Jim stares up at me, barely winded and waiting for whatever I say to do next. He's practically a machine, unlike me. Frail and fallible, even when I wish I weren't.
Though Slim Jim would go and go and never let on he has needs, I look around for water. A few stores down, an old man holds tight to a broom, sweeping the sidewalk with slow, fluid strokes.
Slim Jim and I head his direction. "Excuse me, sir?" I say as we approach. He pauses, bringing himself as upright as his slightly stooped posture allows.
Recognition fires through me. My mind had been so preoccupied while running that I hadn't realized where I was. Sweet Nothings . A bakery operated by Sal and Adela Kingman, a couple who, on more than one occasion, set aside day-old donuts and other sweets and charged me a single dollar for it all.
Did Sal and Adela know how their kindness affected me? How they were sometimes the reason I ate that day?
"What can I do for you, young man?" Sal's gnarled voice spans the two squares of sidewalk separating us.
Unsure of Sal's response to dogs, especially ones who look like Slim Jim, I choose to keep the polite distance. Assuming he's hard of hearing, I raise my voice and ask, "Are you open? I was hoping to buy a bottle of water for my dog."
Sal frowns. "I'm right here, boy. You don't need to yell."
I tuck back my laugh, in case he decides to take offense to that, too. "Yes, sir."
He waves a hand. "Give me a second." He turns, his well-worn jeans pulled up an inch too high, hugging his waist at an unnatural point. Behind Sal's fluffy white head of hair, nearly a half block away, a figure appears around the corner.
Long blonde hair swings back and forth with the cadence of her jog. Her arms pump, the motion fluid, as beautiful as any piece of music nearing its crescendo. It's not the brick red leggings and black sports bra, though I'm not complaining about the outfit wrapped like a second-skin on her body. It's just... her . She has never stopped being the most beautiful sight I've ever had the privilege of placing my eyes upon.
The moment Daisy clocks me is obvious. She falters, but only slightly. Her eyes narrow, a determined set to her perfectly arched eyebrows, and she closes the space between us.
Why did God make her this beautiful? Was it not enough that she is funny and playful and kind and all-around the best person I’ve ever met?
My heart lurches just looking at her, as if it’s reaching for her. Wanting her.
Daisy stops on the sidewalk a few feet away, gaze switching from me to Slim Jim. Wariness peeks from her eyes, but I can see she's trying to hide it. Or ignore it.
For some reason, that makes me furious. Who turned her into this pod person? Empty, devoid of her fire?
Duke. This is his fault. If he didn't do it, he's still responsible because he's letting it exist. He's not encouraging her authenticity. That fucker.
"Hello," Daisy chirps, far too chipper for both the time of day and the way we left things yesterday. As much as I want to keep her at arm's length, I'm not interested in watching the hurt and confusion take over those pretty brown eyes every time my response is gruff.
"Good morning," I answer, making my voice friendly. Maybe too friendly, given the way Daisy's eyes have narrowed suspiciously.
"I didn't realize you have a bodyguard," Daisy says, nodding down at Slim Jim.
Slim Jim looks every bit the bodyguard with the way he's seated in front of my legs, expression serious.
"He's actually a goofball, but he hides it." With two fingers I scratch under his chin. There is no motion to show he enjoys it, only the maintaining of intense eye contact. "Right now he's coming off as a bit of a standoffish asshole."
"You, or the dog?" Daisy's eyes fly open, her hand covering her mouth with a dull thwap.
"There it is," I say, at the same time she says, "I'm sorry."
"For what?" I ask, at the same time she asks, "There's what?"
We fall quiet, waiting for the other to speak, and then we exchange quiet laughter.
"Ladies first." I wave my hand, motioning like the floor is hers.
Her head tips an inch, sunlight spilling over her honeyed tresses. "You said 'there it is.' What were you talking about?"
"Your fire."
"I don't have fire."
"Sure you do. I remember that very well from a couple nights ago."
Her pretty mouth twists. She doesn't believe me. Or, and this is more likely, she doesn't want to believe me. Doesn't want to entertain the possibility, because the outcome isn't one she'd like to face.
She looks so uncomfortable that I let it drop. "Were you apologizing for calling me a standoffish asshole?"
She eyes me for a solid two seconds, then I see it in her eyes. A spark.
"Actually, I was apologizing to your dog." Her cheekbones lift, her smile mischievous.
Something in my chest rejoices.
It's me, Penn.
How I wish I could shout the words.
I bend my ear to Slim Jim. "What's that?" I cock my head like I'm listening, then straighten. "He says he accepts your apology."
"How gracious of him. Now, I?—"
Sal shuffles from the store. He's carrying a metal bowl and a bottle of water, a paper bag clutched in his opposite hand.
"Good morning, Daisy. Saw you out here, so I asked Adela to get your mother's order prepared."
Daisy sends a million dollar smile his way. What would I give to be on the receiving end of one of those?
My last almond Snickers bar?
All future ability to call Hugo rude names?
The option to block telemarketers?
The answer is obvious and immediate. All three .
"How's that wedding planning coming along?" Sal asks Daisy. Without waiting for an answer, he adds, "You sure looked beautiful at your engagement party."
Air streams tersely from my nose, earning me pinched eyebrows from Daisy before she turns back to Sal. "You're sweet. Nothing layers of makeup and plenty of hairspray can't accomplish."
Sal hands the bowl and water bottle out to me. I busy myself with filling the dish for Slim Jim, and Sal presses on about the wedding. "Kathleen says you went with the chocolate cake and the Grand Marnier frosting."
That gets my attention. Unless something has changed, chocolate is Daisy's least favorite cake flavor.
It shouldn't matter, but it does. It most definitely shouldn't matter to me , but it does.
It's cake. Who the fuck cares?
"Hmm?" Daisy says in response to Sal, her far-off tone taking my attention from Slim Jim and his water.
She's staring at me. At the scars on my rib cage, cascading down and across the right part of my stomach. Raised and mottled and lumpy.
Fucking ugly, and an even worse reminder of what I went through.
My pulse picks up, my mouth runs dry.
Daisy's wide eyes meet mine, her question floating right there on the surface.
An inexplicable anger slices through me. Daisy and I used to run around barefoot and see how long we could stand the heat of the pavement in the summer, daring the other to cave first. We ate ice cream cones as fast as possible, then moaned until the brain freeze wore off. Now I'm scarred in more ways than one, and Daisy's pretending like her feelings and preferences are something to suppress. How did we get from there to here?
Sal's gravelly voice continues on, repeating his comment about the cake Daisy chose, but it's background noise for me.
Retrieving my T-shirt from my pocket, I slip it over my head and thread my arms through. "Slim Jim and I are going to get going." I flip over the remaining water from the bowl into a nearby planter and hand it to the old man. "Thank you for the water, Sal."
I don't have a parting word for Daisy. I can't. I just can't .
Slim Jim and I take off. I feel Sal and Daisy's eyes on my back, so I peel off the main street at the first chance I get, lengthening my route back to the house where I'm staying.
Not that it matters. Nothing matters.
Daisy is marrying Duke.
Daisy has seen my scars.
It's me, Penn.