Chapter 6
Iam an idiot. A ridiculous, reckless idiot.
That’s been my refrain for the entirety of the drive to Vermont. Four and a half hours into the trip, approaching the state border, it hasn’t lost its relevance.
What the fuck was I thinking, suggesting to Rory that we fake an engagement?
I left that awful dinner with my parents, resolved to figure out some other way to appease my father, pride be damned.
Then I showed up at the Kensingtons’ to find Rory, of all people, there and thought it was some sign from the universe that the lie I’d told Julian wasn’t insane.
Especially when it occurred to me that the arrangement would benefit Rory too.
If she and I announced an engagement, no one would be talking about Carson’s cheating anymore.
But it was insane. Idiotic.
Of course she’d study me with shocked concern, like I’d lost my mind, once she managed to stop laughing.
Of course she’d make an excuse to head to bed earlier than an elderly person, leaving me alone downstairs to stew about how I’d managed to make a bad situation even worse.
I woke up early, with a headache, ordered another rideshare to drive me back to the country club to retrieve my car, and was on the road to Vermont before seven.
At least I know my parents are preoccupied on Nantucket.
I had no idea Rory would be in the Hamptons this weekend, and if her path had crossed with Julian’s after last night …
I have two days to find a solution for this disaster.
“Party Rock Anthem” starts playing, and I quickly skip to the next song on the random playlist I selected before I started driving.
I stopped believing in signs after last night.
I’m not sure what the message behind Penn’s favorite song playing on my way to tell his parents I have to delay my plans—again—is, but it’s not improving my glum mood.
A random number calls, interrupting “Sweet Caroline.” I quickly decline.
Some girl wrote my number in Proof’s women’s room after we “broke up”—which I argued required both parties agreeing to a relationship—and I’m not sure her plan had its intended effect.
The digits must have been painted over during the recent renovations because I haven’t received any tit pics lately.
The call was probably spam. They leave a voicemail though, so I tap the Play button out of curiosity.
The message begins with a giggle, then a whispered, “Do it!” before I hear a different voice at normal volume.
“Hey, Flynn. It’s Greer. Greer Wayland. I heard you couldn’t make it this weekend, so I just wanted to make sure you knew it was an open invitation.
There’s a pool … and I just bought a bunch of new bikinis.
Also, this is literally the only weekend my parents are planning to spend here.
If your boring lawyer schedule opens up, let me know. Congrats on graduating! Bye!”
There’s a pause, and then the music resumes.
I turn Neil Diamond down and the air-conditioning up, releasing a long exhale.
Greer is Dan Wayland’s only child. She just graduated from Stanford, which undoubtedly factored into the timing of my father’s ultimatum. So did the upcoming visit to the Waylands’ summer home, I’m realizing. One of my parents must have given Greer my number after they arrived in Nantucket.
Meaning … they didn’t believe I was dating Rory.
Rory doesn’t have the connection to my parents that Greer does; she does have more money and more social clout.
Two things Julian would prioritize over his daughter-in-law being his best friend’s child.
Yet he isn’t even giving me a chance to admit the lie to him.
And now he’s involved Greer. She had a crush on me when she was in high school, I think, but I figured that would be long gone by now.
I press the accelerator harder, not letting up until the speedometer drifts fifteen over the speed limit. It’s already a shitty day. Might as well get a speeding ticket.
The prospect of getting pulled over reminds me of the police arriving last night. A reluctant smile replaces the scowl I was sporting as I recall the expression on Rory’s face when she heard the sirens approaching.
My phone starts ringing again. Kit this time.
I let it go to voicemail, but he doesn’t leave one.
Likely checking in after last night since I was vague with details when I texted to ask if I could spend the night at his parents’.
He correctly surmised that meant the celebratory dinner with my parents hadn’t gone well.
Kit is one of the few people who knows how dysfunctional our relationship is, but even he doesn’t know all the ugly details.
He can’t relate. His parents are awesome.
Proof that having money doesn’t automatically make you a terrible parent.
Two hours later, I enter Ludlow. The small town has a tiny downtown section that Penn’s parents live only a few blocks from.
Their winding driveway, lined with oaks and maples, couldn’t be more different from the bustle of New York or the perfectly landscaped Hamptons.
The driveway is dirt, packed and dry, thanks to a recent lack of rain.
The clouds of dust the tires kicked up are still visible when I park in front of the house and step out of the car.
My muscles are stiff, and my mouth is dry.
I stretch, watching a blasé bunny munch on a dandelion near the A-frame’s front porch. It hops away when the front door opens.
I’m expecting Ferdinand—a brown Lab—to greet me first, but Nora Ashbury approaches alone.
Her smile is warm as she greets and hugs me, smelling of baked bread and herbs and sunshine.
She sticks her hands in the pockets of her striped apron when Byron appears, brushing sawdust off his worn T-shirt before he hugs me as well.
Like his wife, he smells like the outdoors, along with linseed oil from his furniture business.
“Where’s Ferdie?” I ask, glancing around for the dog again.
The Ashburys’ smiles falter, answering before they can.
“The vet thinks it was a stroke,” Byron elaborates. “It was quick. He didn’t suffer. But we sure do miss him around here.”
“He had a wonderful life,” I tell them, wishing I could come up with something more meaningful to say. Just like when Penn died, words feel woefully inadequate.
“Spoiled rotten was what he was,” Nora says.
She laughs, but the sound rings more hollow than happy.
“I’ve still got a big batch of his homemade dog food in the freezer.
We’ve talked about visiting the animal shelter, but we’re not quite ready to move on yet.
Anyway”—she tugs the strings of her apron, pulling it over her head—“I hope you’re hungry because I just baked some loaves.
And we want to hear all about your new job! ”
I follow her indoors, slipping off my sneakers by the bench that Byron hand-carved, along with most of the furniture in the cabin.
I remember watching Byron inspect the joints of the extra-long twin bed frames when I entered my dorm room to meet my new roommate.
He commented on the subpar craftsmanship while Penn rolled his eyes.
Ferdie’s bed still sits in the same spot next to the wood stove, where it was during my last visit.
I pass it on the way to the kitchen table, where five steaming loaves sit.
Nora sells her homemade bread at local farmers markets year-round.
I’ve eaten at Michelin-starred restaurants around the world, and I would choose a slice of her miche, slathered with honey butter from a nearby dairy farm, as my last meal.
I take a seat at the sturdy table while Nora starts slicing one of the loaves. Byron ambles over to the farmhouse sink to wash his hands.
Some of the tension in my temples eases as I inhale the fragrant aromas filling the house.
I’ve visited Penn’s parents every summer since starting college.
The first year, I made the trip out of guilt and obligation.
Since then, it’s become a safe haven. I can’t replace their son, but I’m a reminder he existed.
I glance at the framed photograph centered above the fireplace mantel.
I took that picture—the last one they have with Penn.
If I’d gone to that party with him, maybe I’d have driven here with him in the passenger seat.
Penn always said that he’d wind up living in New York, that eighteen years in a small town was enough for a lifetime.
“Tell us what being a lawyer is like!” Nora says, approaching the table with a plate piled high with buttered bread.
“I’m not officially a lawyer until I pass the bar,” I say, grabbing a slice as soon as she sets the plate down.
“Mostly, it’s been a lot of studying. Orientation for my new job starts Monday.
Bar results are released in October. Assuming I passed, I’ll be licensed, and then I can do more than background research and document review. ”
“My uncle was a lawyer,” Byron contributes, ambling over and taking another slice. “One town over from here actually, so very different—”
“Oh, Byron, the boy didn’t drive all this way to discuss your uncle.”
“I’ll just eat my bread,” Byron says, reclining in his chair and winking at me.
“What else is new with you?” Nora takes the opposite chair, resting her chin on her hand. “How is Molly?”
“Uh … we broke up,” I admit.
“Oh, Flynn.” She’s immediately contrite. “I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s fine,” I say hastily. “We weren’t very compatible. It was sort of inevitable once I left Boston, I think.”
“Relationships require sacrifice, Flynn! I can’t be the only one making an effort.” Molly told me that after I drove three hours to see her, mind you. We broke up about an hour later.
“You’re a shallow playboy who’s incapable of love,” was the last thing she said to me.
Not compatible is probably an understatement.
“You’ll know when it’s the right person,” Byron tells me, which is incredibly similar to Kit’s refrain since he settled down with Collins.
In Kit’s case, I actually believe him since he’s basically pined after his now girlfriend from the second he saw her, but I don’t have much confidence in the same certainty ever happening to me.
I respect Byron too much to disagree outright, so I simply shrug. “We’ll see. I’ve got plenty on my plate with work and with starting the foundation.”
“We wanted to talk to you about that actually,” Nora says. “Are you sure taking this project on right now isn’t too much, Flynn?”
“I’m sure,” I say firmly, entirely abandoning my intention to tell them the opposite during this visit.
When I shared the idea for a foundation, honoring Penn’s memory, to his parents back in college, I hoped the project would be up and running by now.
Then I did some research into what the process entailed—the paperwork, the board of directors, the cost—and realized the scope was something I’d severely underestimated.
Plans were put on hold indefinitely after my dad delayed my trust for the first time.
I’ll either figure out a way to get him to capitulate now, or I’ll fundraise if I have to.
Whatever it takes to make The Penn Ashbury Foundation a reality.
“We just want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself,” Byron tells me. “You just graduated from the top law school in the country and are beginning a demanding career. We don’t want you to get burned out. Penn wouldn’t want that either.”
An unexpected lump appears in my throat as I stare at the Ashburys’ kind, concerned expressions.
I can’t tell them the funding might not come through—they don’t know how much I’m planning to invest. Nora and Byron loved their son as a person, not on the condition of certain accomplishments.
They deserve to have him here, telling them about his job and his love life.
The least I can do is try to ensure other families don’t suffer that same loss.
“I appreciate that,” I reply. “But I want to do this, and I want to make it happen as soon as possible. Once I have more details to share, you two will be the first to know.”
“Anything we can do to help, you let us know, all right?” Byron asks.
I nod, watching Nora discreetly wipe a tear before she jumps up to refill the plate with more bread.
“Do you need any furniture for your new apartment? I just finished an end table that should fit in your car.”
I smile. “I’d love it.”