Chapter 9 A Bit Much
A Bit Much
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ryan asks.
It’s the fourth time he’s asked the question in the last hour.
We stand at the end of my driveway, waiting for his Uber, and I’m not sure who looks more ridiculous—me, in my iridescent Disco Diner uniform, or Ryan in the orange tracksuit he’s wearing for his travel day.
Apparently, he’s off to Italy to visit an old coworker from another restaurant, and not a single part of that sentence registers as anything other than unfathomable.
My brother’s hardly left the Midwest, let alone the country.
“I’m fine,” I insist, also for the fourth time.
Ryan pokes at my side. “Haven’t you learned you can’t lie to me by now?”
I sigh, defeated, because a lot of twin clichés aren’t true, but we really can sense each other’s feelings like a force field.
Right now he’s probably picking up on the bone-deep humiliation that’s filled my limbs since Penn’s hasty departure last night.
I honestly thought he was going to kiss me, but he couldn’t escape the yard fast enough.
My attraction barometer is busted. Not only was there no kiss, but for the first time all week, there were no Morse code messages knocked along our shared wall, either.
I pushed too far, too quickly. I freaked Penn out.
“I’m just going to miss you, is all,” I tell Ryan, and at least it’s not a lie.
He pulls me into a side hug. “Any souvenir requests? Otherwise, you’re getting the tackiest magnet I can find, and I’ll expect you to keep it on your fancy-ass fridge.”
I laugh and tilt up my head to find him grinning. I want to tell him to be careful. To call me if he needs me. “No special requests,” I say instead. “Just—”
I stop, and we both turn at the sound of my front door closing, expecting to find Penn.
But it isn’t Penn who walks out of the mansion.
“Who’s that?” Ryan whispers.
“No idea,” I say, flummoxed.
We stare, open-mouthed, at the short, blushing redhead who waves shyly to us as she walks down my porch steps and across the driveway, a brown bag slung over her shoulder. Her car is parked in the street, and when she gets inside, Ryan lets out a surprised laugh.
“Damn.” He shakes his head. “Penn’s really making himself comfortable, isn’t he?”
The mysterious houseguest drives away, and panic bubbles in my chest.
Who is she, and why is she here? With him?
Did she come over this morning? Or was that an overnight bag?
Maybe she’s the reason Penn leapt out of his seat when we got too close. Maybe she was with him all night. Right on the other side of our shared wall.
No wonder he didn’t knock.
I feel sick.
“You might need to establish house rules on sleepovers,” Ryan jokes, giving me one last hug as his Uber arrives. “And you definitely need to keep me posted on whoever that was.”
I nod, dazed, as my attention shifts from Ryan’s car to the mansion. Slowly, I move to the porch, where I wait a few minutes for Penn to sashay his way outside next.
He doesn’t, so, with a ringing in my ears, I text him.
When are you heading to the diner? Want to go together?
Hey. Thought you already left.
I’m running behind.
I’ll meet you there.
“Running behind,” when really he’s trying to run circles around me. Penn thinks he’s dealing with MASH Ruby, but he’s dealing with me: a determined universe-hopper with a whole lot at stake. And this is a game I refuse to lose.
I need to find out what he’s up to. I need answers.
In a harried haze, I make a mad dash inside to grab my purse and the keys to my Jeep. Penn’s black Toyota 4Runner still sits in the driveway when I pull out. I park a couple blocks away, just around the corner, facing the mansion. And then I wait.
Here’s hoping the neighbor’s hedges are enough to hide my Crayola watercolor on wheels.
I sit still. I try to steady my breath. I tap the tiny disco balls hanging from the rearview mirror, watching their shiny reflections sway across the dashboard. The minutes tick by, and a Pink song starts playing. My thighs stick to the hot leather seat. My shirt feels too tight.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I white-knuckle the steering wheel, waiting, bracing, stewing over how much this has gotten to me.
Penn is supposed to be only a means to an end here—a game piece—but I feel blindsided, like I did with Connor.
I feel horribly, impossibly vulnerable, and I’m not sure what’s more humiliating: my current stakeout or the fact that I genuinely believed in the power of a tank top to alter a dynamic three decades in the making.
After eleven excruciating minutes, Penn backs out of my driveway. But instead of going toward The Disco Diner, he drives toward me.
“Shit,” I mutter, reversing farther around the corner.
My brain quickly cycles through excuses for why I’m lurking in the street like a private investigator.
Can’t text and drive! Busy scrolling to start my day with the perfect playlist!
Fortunately, Penn passes without seeing me, and as I trail him, I carefully maintain a three-car buffer, praying he won’t spot me behind him.
At the far edge of town, Penn pulls into a parking lot for a senior facility. I’ve visited the place often, actually, to see Connor’s grandma, and I assume Penn’s just turning around.
Except, he parks.
I pull over in the street and watch as Penn opens the trunk. He’s wearing jeans, a gray crewneck sweatshirt, and his go-to navy backward hat as he removes three bouquets of flowers from his trunk, struggling to hold them when he reaches back in for a paper bag.
“What the…”
He speed-walks through the main doors, and I let my head fall back against the seat.
I should leave. Abort the mission and interrogate him later, once I know what to say. When I have a plan.
But last night—all that teasing about making me jealous. The glint in his eye. I didn’t imagine it. The evidence was real, right in front of me: Penn felt something. I know it. And I have far too much riding on his feelings to let that spark go out.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
Then I make a run for it.
The automatic doors split open, revealing a lobby full of older people hunched over newspapers and coffee mugs. There’s nobody in here under seventy-five, which is why their heads must turn when I stumble inside.
Or perhaps it’s my iridescent shorts. And the Cucumber Melon scent coming off me in waves. And the push-up bra that even thirteen-year-old me would call “a bit much.”
I wave like I’m part of a parade, then break for the nearest hallway.
“Excuse me. Miss?”
I backtrack to the reception desk tucked into the corner, subtly buttoning my shirt as I stroll toward the short, confused man behind the desk. “Hello,” I say, too formally. I sound suspicious. “I’m here to see my…grandmother.”
Walter, according to his name tag, has concerned brown eyes and a mustache he brushes as he sizes me up. “Her name?”
“Betty Reynolds.” It’s a gamble, naming Connor’s grandma, and morally questionable at best, but I’m hoping the MASH gods understand my predicament.
Walter skims a clipboard. “She has another visitor. Your relative, perhaps?”
Oh, no. My stomach sinks into my toes.
“Please sign here,” he adds.
This is why I don’t break rules. It’s like they say about people who fear animals: Animals can smell it. Rules must know I don’t break them, so here they are, getting even with me.
“Right. Sure.” I tap the paper, stalling.
Behind me, someone clears their throat. “Ruby Wynne?”
Trembling, I turn and find Connor wearing his favorite sky-blue button-up, the hideous pleated khaki slacks I convinced him to donate in the real world, and a shy smile.
“Connor. Hi.” I’m breathless. I glance at Walter, flash him a reassuring grin, then gently guide Connor a few steps back.
He looks down at where I’m holding his arm, then at my chest. His cheeks flush, and I quickly pull my hands away. Accountant. He’s my accountant.
“Do you know someone here, too?” Connor asks.
“I do. Yes.”
He waits for me to elaborate, but the less I talk, the better. Otherwise, I might tell him to ditch the ugly pants, or maybe to go to hell.
Connor fiddles with the gold watch his parents gave him for his twenty-first birthday.
On the back, there’s an inscription: Quack, quack.
A nod to The Mighty Ducks, the movie Connor loved as a kid.
They adopted the fictional hockey team’s chant as a Reynolds family motto.
A reminder to work hard and keep pushing.
I’m about to push my luck if I don’t exit this conversation immediately. Because ever since I landed here, I’ve been confused and frustrated, but seeing Connor—a reminder of who I actually am, plus all the mess that’s waiting for me back in reality—I’m only sad.
“Did you see my email?” Connor asks.
“Yes. Sorry. It’s been a week,” I explain. Understatement. “But I’d love to meet for coffee. Tomorrow, maybe?”
“How’s ten-thirty?”
Always efficient. I attempt a smile. “Sounds great.”
Connor nods, his cheeks still rosy, and I have to look away. But what I find behind him is worse: Penn, coming around the corner, chatting up one of the employees. Still holding a grocery bag and those damn bouquets.
His jaw drops. He approaches, and I wish I could melt, Wicked Witch–style, onto the hideous tile floor. What the hell was I thinking, following him?
Penn would like to know the same. “What are you doing here?”
“Penn!” I chirp, as if it’s lovely to run into him here, at the Lakeville Senior Center.
“This is Connor. My accountant.” Facing Connor, I bow.
Like an idiot. “Connor, this is Penn Hayes. My…” Friend?
Roommate? Magical other half, whom I’m trying to seduce in hopes that he can beam me out of this godforsaken land? “My brother’s best friend.”
Penn’s eyes spark with a joke that he’s smart enough not to say aloud. Without a free hand to extend to Connor, he does a bro-nod instead.