19. Penelope
Igrab Cat the second she walks through the door and drag her upstairs before she can even take her jacket off.
“Jesus, Penny, I have arms—”
Door closed. I turn to her. The tears are already there, waiting behind the performance of “I’m fine” that I’ve been maintaining since the kitchen.
Cat sees my face. Drops everything, pens her arms, and I fall into them like a building with its foundation pulled out. “What happened?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.” I pull back. Wipe my face. Sit on the bed. She sits beside me. “X and my dad have been working with the police. Body cameras. A whole federal case against Reece. Behind my back. For weeks.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. And I found out by walking into the kitchen at the wrong time, and I lost it, Cat. Full anxiety attack. Couldn’t breathe. X had to talk me down with breathing exercises like I’m a fucking mental patient.”
“You’re not a mental patient. You’re a person with anxiety who had an anxiety attack. There’s a difference.”
“But then—after all of that—X made me close my eyes and say what I want for my future. And I told them.”
“Told them what?”
“I changed my major. I emailed my advisor last week. Music industry management. And I added a sports management minor.”
Cat’s eyes narrow. The squint of a girl who is connecting dots and enjoying the picture they form. “Sports management.”
“Don’t.”
“Sports management. To manage athletes. What kind of athletes, Penelope?”
“It’s not just for—”
“What kind of athletes live across the hall from you and train at MMA gyms?”
“Shut UP, Cat.”
She’s grinning. I’m fighting the smile and losing. But the smile dissolves fast because behind the career victory is the thing I actually dragged her up here to talk about.
“Cat. I need help.”
“With what.”
“Iz.”
She turns to face me fully. Legs crossed. The posture of a girl who is about to listen to something complicated and has cleared her internal schedule.
“I’m attracted to him. Obviously. Who wouldn’t be—he’s six-two and kind and has that smile that makes rooms brighter and when he touches me I feel safe.
Actually safe. Not the adrenaline version of safe that X gives me where safe and dangerous are the same word.
Real safe. Warm safe. The kind of safe where you can close your eyes and know the hands on you are going to be gentle. ”
“But.”
“But he’s not X.”
“I know.”
“How do you know? I haven’t even said why yet.”
“Because I have eyes, Penny. I’ve watched you with both of them. With Iz, you’re comfortable. With X, you’re alive. And those are different things.”
“Should I end it with Iz?”
Cat pauses. The particular deliberation of a girl who is going to give real advice and needs to make sure it’s right. “What does your gut say?”
“My gut says yes. My gut has been saying yes since the night I stopped Iz from going further because my body wouldn’t cooperate because it wasn’t Xander’s hands.
But then my brain kicks in and says ‘what if X hurts you again? What if the games come back? What if you end it with Iz and X reverts to the closet version of himself and you’re alone with no safety net? And that's not fair to Iz.’”
“So you’re not sure.”
“I’m sure. And I’m not sure. I’m sure it’s X. I’m not sure X won’t destroy me again.”
“Has he been different lately? Genuinely different, not performing different?”
“Yes. The group chat thing. Calling Darla instead of Reece. The way he talked me down in the kitchen today—Cat, he was so calm. He wasn’t the predator version or the savior version.
He was just… there. Breathing with me. And he showed me the texts—he blocked Bella.
Told the boys he was struggling. Asked for help.
Xander Anderson asked for help in writing. ”
“That is massive.”
“I know. And he’s training at the gym and he’s on meds and he cried in my dad’s arms, Cat. Like actually cried. And my dad is building him a studio and setting up MMA connections and treating him like a son and X is… he’s becoming the person I always knew was underneath all the armor.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is I’m scared! I’m scared because every time X has been kind before, the cruelty followed.
Every soft moment has been followed by a hallway or a Bella or an empty bed.
And I don’t know if this time is different or if I’m just falling for the same pattern because my body is wired to his frequency and can’t tell the difference between growth and another cycle. ”
Cat takes my hand. “Penny. I’m going to say something and you’re not going to like it.”
“Great.”
“You already know what you’re going to do. You knew before you dragged me up here. You’re not asking for advice—you’re asking for permission. And you don’t need my permission to choose the boy you’ve been choosing since you were seven.”
The accuracy of the sentence makes my eyes sting.
“But Iz—”
“Iz is a grown man who will understand. He’s known, Penny.
We’ve all known. The only person who’s been pretending this is a real choice is you, because pretending gives you a safety net and the safety net is the last thing standing between you and the terrifying act of choosing Xander with your whole chest. And as much as Iz won’t complain, it’s not fair to string him along and always use him as your backup choice. ”
A knock on the door. My mom pushes it open.
“Everything okay in here?” Alice reads the room. Tear tracks. Cat’s hand in mine. She sits on the edge of the bed. “What’s going on, girls?”
“Mom, I’m going to end things with Iz.”
Alice’s face does the three-emotion shuffle: relief, sadness, concern. “Oh, honey. I love Iz. He’s been so good for you. But—”
“It’s always been Xander.”
“It’s always been Xander,” she echoes. The knowledge of a mother who watched two babies in a maternity ward and has been waiting eighteen years for this sentence. “But I’m worried about Iz, Penny. That boy has poured himself into you.”
Cat: “Iz will understand, Alice. He’s been preparing for this. He told X he was filling a hole shaped like someone else.”
Alice takes my face. Kisses my forehead. “Just be kind to him. He deserves that.”
“I will, Mom.”
She stands. At the door: “For what it’s worth—the sports management minor? Smartest thing you’ve done all year.”
“MOM!”
She laughs. Disappears. Cat and I look at each other and lose it—the relief of laughing after crying, the valve releasing.
The boys are in the kitchen. Pizza on the counter. Seven teenagers in a house—the chaos of a friend group that keeps expanding to fill whatever space it’s given.
Cat and I come down the stairs. Iz is by the island. He sees me first—always does.
As I walk past him, his hand catches mine. Pulls me gently. Into him. My back against his chest. His arms wrapping around me from behind. His chin on top of my head. The full hold.
He presses his lips to my hair. “You okay? You’ve been crying.”
I nod. Sort of. The kind of nod that means “I’m upright and breathing and that’s the best I can offer right now.”
He reads it. Reads me. Takes my hand again. “Come on. Let’s go talk.”
He leads me back toward the stairs. Past the group. I can feel Xander’s eyes on us—the heat of his gaze tracking our hands, our direction, the stairs, my bedroom. I don’t look at him.
Can’t. Not yet.
My room. Door closed. We sit on the bed. His back against the headboard. My legs crossed beside him. The particular arrangement of two people who are about to have a conversation that will redefine everything and need the comfort of soft surfaces to get through it.
I open my mouth to start. He stops me. His hand on my jaw. Turning my face toward his. His eyes—brown, warm, steady. The eyes that have been my anchor for weeks.
“Before anything,” he says. Low. “Before whatever this conversation is going to be. I need something.”
He kisses me.
Not a goodbye kiss. Not a performance. The kiss of a boy who knows this might be the last time and is going to make it matter.
His mouth on mine—slow at first, testing, the patience that is Iz’s signature.
Then deeper. His tongue sliding against mine.
His hand leaving my jaw and finding the back of my neck, pulling me closer, his fingers tangling in my hair.
I kiss him back. Because my body still responds to this mouth. Because kindness has its own frequency and Iz broadcasts on it clearly. Because I owe him the full honesty of my body’s response, which is: yes. This feels good. You feel good. You are not the problem.
He shifts. Pulls me onto his lap—straddling, my knees on either side of his hips. His hands on my waist. The position that puts us face to face, chest to chest, the maximum surface area of contact.
His mouth moves to my neck. Slow. Deliberate. Iz kisses the way he does everything—with full attention, with care, making sure each point of contact registers before moving to the next. His lips on my pulse. My jaw. The spot behind my ear that makes me tip my head back.
His hand slides under my shirt. Flat against the small of my back.
Warm. The shock of skin on skin that sends a current up my spine.
His thumb traces my hip bone. His other hand moves to my stomach—flat, careful, moving upward with the particular patience of a boy who is asking with his fingertips instead of his words.
I shiver. He feels it. Pauses. “This okay?”
“Yeah.”
His hand continues. Under the fabric. His palm warm against my ribs. His thumb brushing the underside of my bra. Not removing it—tracing. That restraint of a boy who could go further and is choosing to stay in the space between what’s possible and what’s wise.
His mouth finds mine again. The kiss deepens. His hands are on my skin—my back, my stomach, the curve of my waist. Touching, mapping, giving attention from a boy who is memorizing a body he may not touch again.
Then he stops. Pulls back. Forehead against mine. Breathing hard. His hands still under my shirt but not moving—just holding. Warm. Present.