Chapter 6 Angry-Blushing #2
The Penn I know wouldn’t think twice about what he’d eaten at The Disco Diner, let alone try to compensate for it. But three Le Creuset pots the color of sunflowers dot the stove, steam snaking out from beneath the lids. The kitchen smells like heaven. Like garlic, tomatoes, and fresh herbs.
“I already made you a plate,” Penn calls from down the hall.
All the research in the world couldn’t have prepared me for a Penn who eats in the formal dining room. Most of the meals we’ve shared have been consumed while sitting on counters or barstools.
“Who even are you?” I ask, rounding the corner.
Never mind. This Penn isn’t so different.
He sits at the head of the long dining table, still wearing nothing but his gray sweatpants, now with my yellow polka-dot scarf tied around his neck. Smirking, he tugs at it with two fingers and says, “I was inspired.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re insufferable?”
“You. Many times.”
I roll my eyes and sit beside him, where my plate is already piled high with spaghetti and meatballs. He’s lit a tall pillar candle and poured us two glasses of red wine. If I didn’t know any better, and he weren’t wearing a scarf-bib, I might be fooled into thinking the whole setup was romantic.
“This is so nice,” I say, reaching for the wine. “Is there a catch? Did you poison it?”
“Just a healthy sprinkling of arsenic.”
“Yeah, right. You’re not the murder type. You can’t even handle Scream.”
He arches his scarred eyebrow. “Have to earn my keep around here somehow. And I couldn’t let you eat Gushers for dinner.” As he twirls his pasta, he asks, “Recognize this dish? It’s one of Ryan’s recipes. From his old blog. I still revisit that thing for ideas.”
A buzzing fills my ears. One, because Penn reading Ryan’s old recipes is so sweet that I don’t know what to say. And two, because I’d completely forgotten about my brother’s short-lived cooking blog.
“It’s interesting,” I say, tiptoeing through the conversation. “How Ryan pursued it.”
Penn beams. “I’m so proud of that guy. He’s worked so hard, and he really did it all his way, you know? Finding restaurants that fit him, climbing the ranks.”
I nod, speechless. I can’t get over how different my brother’s life looks here. Penn, Bridget, my parents—their lives seem to match between worlds. But not Ryan’s.
Maybe it’s because my choices affect him the most.
Of course they do.
We grew up defined by the Ruby-and-Ryan Venn diagram everybody used to compare us.
Our parents, friends, teachers, coaches.
Strangers who met us on the playground. They pointed out what was only me, what was him, and where we overlapped.
That’s the lens through which I’ve been perceived all my life.
Sometimes I wished I could stand on my own, but mostly I found it grounding.
I was always connected to something—to him.
He was the mirror through which I could see each piece of myself reflected and refracted.
Here, though, I don’t know Ryan. I’m untethered. And I’m facing one impossible, unknowable decision after another, in a world with consequences I’m not entirely clear on.
I take a very long sip of wine.
Penn fills the silence with work talk, relaying his pitch for new hours. Meanwhile, I shovel in forkfuls of absolutely delicious pasta, trying to settle my nerves.
The thing is, I know Penn. I know the small bump on his nose is from a line drive to the face in middle school.
I know he used to be self-conscious about all the scruff along his jaw, which showed up earlier for him than it did for other boys.
I know his eyes have always crinkled when he laughs, but only recently started to crease in the corners with every expression.
I’ve always been fluent in Penn, a known variable.
Not here, though. Not when that skill might finally be put to good use.
So I need to get creative. Because, frankly, I’d rather dive into the aquarium and lock lips with all thirteen of my pet fish than try to convince Penn to fall in love with me, but if he’s going to be my “other half” in this world, then I need to connect with him.
It isn’t just my reality at stake. MASHland has made it clear: My choices have consequences. Not just for me, but for Ryan, too.
“What?” Penn asks, his eyes searching my face. He stops. “Oh. You think I’m a good cook, don’t you?” He smirks. “And you hate it. Don’t you?”
True.
But what I really hate is the gap between what I should know and what I don’t. So I set my fork down, clasp my hands on the table, and tell Penn, “I think we should start over.”
A clean slate. That’s what I need to feel like I have some sort of control here.
No matter how many emails I read or old photos I look at, I’ll never fully catch up to who I am in this world, or who everybody else has become.
I’m playing a game without knowing the rules.
And I refuse to end up trapped here, dressed like an extra in a Disney Channel Original Movie.
“We should start what over?” Penn asks.
“I want a clean slate,” I explain. “For you and me.”
An even playing field. A new beginning.
Penn pauses, napkin pressed to his mouth. When he finally sets it down, his lips slide into a grin. “You just want me to forget about that negligee, don’t you?”
I roll my eyes. “No. I want you to forget the last, say, eighteen years? Give or take?”
“Wow.” Penn lets out a surprised laugh. “That’s very…specific. Why do we need a clean slate again?”
“So that we can survive temporary cohabitation.”
He considers it for half a second, then shakes his head. “No.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
Penn shrugs. “Sorry, Wynne. I don’t know if I can agree to that.
Think of all the precious memories we’d lose.
Like the day you drove me to the dentist and nearly killed me in your manic attempts to turn off the windshield wipers.
Or the time you asked me, dead serious, whether a Sausage McMuffin was a real thing or a euphemism. ”
A laugh rockets out of me. “I did not ask you that.”
His smile falters. “How do you not remember that?” He clocks my distress. Quietly, he says, “You’re serious about this.”
“Yeah. I am.”
His lips purse as he studies me. “Okay, then.” He clears his throat, extending a hand as he unwinds my scarf from his neck. “Pennjamin Hayes.”
I snort. “Pennjamin?”
He lifts a shoulder. “New start, new name.”
My smile returns, my chest lighter now that I’ve convinced Penn to start over with me.
But as the candlelight shimmers across his face, I remember catching his eye across the sticky bar table on my birthday, and some small voice tells me: Careful what you wish for.
Stop knocking on the wall.
It’s Morse code.
You don’t know Morse code.
I do. I’m self-taught via Google.
That means “SUP.”
Nobody says “sup.”
We should bring it back.
Good night, Penn.
Do you still snore?
I used to hear you from Ryan’s room. You sounded like a dying lawnmower.
You’re such a liar.
I’m not! I’m recording you through the wall tonight as proof.
Maybe you were right about sleeping in the basement.
Please don’t banish me.
By the way, this floor mattress is surprisingly sumptuous.
Congratulations on knowing the word “sumptuous.”
That was Morse code for “THANKS.”
I struck a nerve when I joked about your vocabulary, didn’t I?
Maybe.
I’m more than my puerile behavior.
Go to sleep.
I see you’ve gone to “Do Not Disturb” mode.
And yet you still didn’t take the hint.
I took the hint, considered it, and chose to ignore it.
GOOD NIGHT PENN.
Night, roomie.
(That meant “C-YA.”)