Chapter 10 Penny
Penny
It’s the same story at the next two pawnshops. We go in, ask if they have the ring, show them the picture, and they say no. My ridiculously optimistic, high hopes of recovering the stolen jewelry are falling further and faster with every minute.
And though I did have that one moment of weakness earlier, I’ve done my best to stay positive, promising myself the next store would be the one and cheering myself up after every no and invitation to get the fuck out.
On the upside, I’m solidly maintaining my streak of being wrong, and so far, I’m zero for four—striking out at Paul’s, A-to-Z, Cash-a-rama, and a no-name place that really set Griffin off.
He’s usually grumpy and snappish, but he was downright hostile to the clerk at that last store. Okay, so yeah, the guy was flirting with me, but I can handle myself.
Usually.
Except right now, I really don’t want to deal with guys who try to “c’mon, baby” me into giving them my Instagram handle so they can “slide into my DMs and maybe me” later.
Blech. Which is what I literally said out loud to the guy.
That apparently hurt his wittle feelwings, and he had to let me know that I wasn’t “that cute” anyway.
As if. I’m fucking adorable and I know it.
I’d been ready to hair flip out the door and head to the next stop, but Griffin had already nearly taken the guy’s head off, calling him a Fleshlight fuckboy.
Yeah, it was kinda funny, leaving both me and the clerk slack-jawed in shock, but peeling Griffin off other guys is getting to be exhausting.
On the ice is one thing, but in day-to-day life?
I mean, has he heard of therapy? It’d probably do him some good to work on communication that doesn’t involve threats of violence when things don’t go his way.
It was kinda hot, though.
Sigh. Maybe I need some therapy, too, because growly, asshole, fight-first types are not my type.
Never have been, never will be, and one day with Griffin certainly isn’t enough to change that given all the times he’s acted like my very existence was bothersome.
My body’s probably just confused from spending all day surrounded by his cologne and weird kindness, which is probably his intent anyway.
I wonder if it’s some new tactic in our ongoing battle of who hates whom more?
Why does he smell like sex and pine trees, and why do I like that? And I love—I mean hate!—that he opens doors for me when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.
Pulling the now folded-and-refolded list from his pocket, Griffin looks at it thoughtfully.
His full lips are pressed into a hard, flat line, and his eyes are squinted like he’s staring at one of those hidden-image pictures where you have to stare through it to reveal the secret.
Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s any mysterious message in Paul’s chicken scratch.
Scrubbing a hand over the scruff on his jaw, Griffin peeks up at me through lashes so thick and long they make me jealous, and asks, “Where to next?”
“My internal toaster just popped with one of those irritating buzzy sounds that threaten possible electrocution if I don’t stop.
” I wiggle my hand by my ear like I actually hear buzzing, and Griffin looks at me like I’m speaking gibberish, which, to be fair, I might be because he looks really sexy right now, and that’s a sure sign that my brain has turned to mush.
Because while he is obviously objectively attractive, I have never considered the words Griffin and sexy in the same sentence in my life.
Griffin and woodchipper? Yes. Griffin and grump-apota-saurus?
Obviously. Who hasn’t? But sexy is a new one to me where he’s concerned, which is .
. . concerning, possibly to the point of an “am I having a stroke?” danger zone.
The loss of the ring must be getting to me.
It’s the only explanation. Well, either that or the lunch we grabbed from a potentially sketchy food truck contained hallucinogenic aphrodisiacs, in which case, I really need to get home before the buzzy sound in my head leads me to search out another type of buzzing.
One thing I know for sure is that I do not want to ride a Molly trip with Griffin as the closest human being.
I once witnessed a girl dry-humping a frat boy’s leg, and that was enough for me to know that wasn’t for me.
Especially since it wasn’t even his thigh but his shin, which seems exponentially worse.
Point being, I’m coming to terms with not finding the ring.
I think I started to hit the acceptance stage of grief a couple of stores ago, and now, the process is nearly complete.
I just need a few minutes alone, curled up in a nest of blankets, screaming into the void .
. . or a pillow, because despite Mrs. Rosenthal’s opinion, I am a considerate neighbor, and I’ll be okay.
Eventually.
I always am. Life pulls this shit with me all the time—handing me lemons, knocking me out, and then kicking me while I’m down.
But what do I do? Handle that shit like the badass chaos queen that I am.
I wake up from the dirt nap, act like that was totally on purpose by making a dirt angel, and then serve up a homemade lemonade with a smile.
All without losing my crown since I’ve got lots of practice keeping it righted on my head amid the disarray of my existence.
And this speed bump in the road of Penelope Lee will be the same as every other obstacle I’ve faced, in my rearview mirror, and nothing more than a chapter in my memoir, which I’ve tentatively titled What Not To Do When the Universe Sends You a Glitter Bomb of a Day.
I think it’s gonna be a New York Times bestseller for sure.
“You’re off the hook. I’m going home. I’m gonna file this under ‘Lessons Learned’ and hope to never get a repeat lesson.” I hold my hand out, offering a handshake. “Thank you for your help.”
Griffin glowers at my hand like the polite offer outright offends him. Or maybe it’s just me that irritates him, because he blurts out, “Just like that? You’re giving up that easily?”
“Ouch,” I snap. “No, not ‘just like that.’ It’s hard, and I’m pissed! It sucks, and it hurts, and I’m pissed—and yeah, I know I already said that, but I really, really am.” I throw my hands out. “What else am I gonna do?”
I once saw a T-shirt that said something like “don’t you dare tell me what to do, but also .
. . could you tell me exactly, step-by-step, what to do?
” That’s kinda how I feel like now. If Griffin has an answer, I’d love to hear it.
I’ll be mad as hell that he does when I don’t, but I’m also mad that he doesn’t have an answer when I don’t.
Can he win? No. Can I? Also no. But life isn’t always logical.
Hell, in my experience, I’ve found it rarely is.
I might not have high hopes left, or an ounce of go-get-’em remaining, but apparently, I do have some fire in me. There’s also the slightest chance it’s arousal, but I’m going to ignore that entirely, and stick with what I know—anger, which I take out on Griffin.
“Well? If you’ve got a better idea, I’m waiting to hear it.
” I blink, waiting expectantly. When he stays silent, his glare inching closer to a warning look, I assume a smug smirk.
“Didn’t think so. So this—whatever this is”—I wave a hand between us—“is over. I won’t say a word to Dom, which means you’re free and clear.
Go on, get, you stupid mutt, I don’t want you anymore. ”
“Did you just Air Bud me?” He scoffs.
I make a shooing motion, hoping he’ll take what’s not even a hint but an explicitly spelled-out dismissal, and leave me alone.
I should feel guilty about it because the truth is, he doesn’t deserve it.
The thief targeting the bag isn’t Griffin’s fault, not really, but he’s become one of my favorite punching bags.
This is how we are, and right now, I really need to hit something, to rage and fight against the unfairness of the whole situation, and he’s standing right here in front of me, with those broad shoulders that can carry the weight of the world and thick skin that nothing gets through.
And he already hates me, so witnessing my poor-me pity party won’t change a thing.
Griffin has crossed his arms over his chest, taking every sharp word I spit, every bit of my anger, and giving zero reaction to any of it. His stone-cold facade never shows a single crack. “You done yet?”
He doesn’t mean with the ring hunt but rather with my tantrum, because if I’m honest, that’s what it was.
Can you blame me, though? I’ve got $10,000 on the line, a guy who hates my guts confusing me by acting all sweet, and my plans for taking my work to the next level poofing into the ether.
In my estimation, I’m entitled to a moment of hysterical verbal shit-slinging, and I’m taking full advantage of it.
I sigh, my shoulders dropping. “I’m gonna go home, cry my way through a box of Thin Mints with Talia—one of the prized freezer packs we save up for special occasions—and then figure out how to recover financially from this before the credit card bill comes due.
I might be unlucky as hell, but I’m a businesswoman at heart, and I will figure this out. ”
Griffin clenches his teeth, the muscle in his jaw popping out and disappearing again hypnotically.
It’s obviously not the answer he expected, and I don’t think he has any idea how to respond to my mercurial mood swings.
After a solid fifteen seconds of staring at me like he’s waiting for me to take it all back and pick another pawnshop to go to, he inhales deeply. “Okay.”
And that’s that. The search is over. The day is done. Our choose-your-own-misadventure is complete without a happy ending. Of any sort . . . until he pulls his phone out of his pocket and clicks around, then looks up and down the street. “There’s our rideshare. Let’s go.”