Chapter 10 Intimate Gyrating
Intimate Gyrating
Penn beats me there.
From the far edge of the grassy park, through a break in the tall oak trees, his figure is visible on the deck of the big wooden boathouse on the lake.
He’s taken off his sweatshirt. His white T-shirt strains as he sits back on his hands, face slanted toward the sky, and his legs dangle off the deck’s edge, so much longer now that his white sneakers nearly touch the glittering water below.
The sun is pleasantly warm, the deep blue of the lake a color I could match from memory.
I feel bad leaving Theo to his own devices, but he assured me over the phone that he’s “on like Donkey Kong,” completely misusing a phrase he shouldn’t use in the first place. And I need to prioritize Penn. I have to play along with whatever game he’s playing to get answers.
“Careful,” Penn says when I approach, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. “Your shorts might blind me if you get too close.”
I take his warning as an invitation and shimmy right beside him, making the bright reflections from my shorts dance across his cheeks. He laughs, surprised, and the jingly sound echoes across the water.
Looking down, though, I realize I’m quite literally shaking my ass in Penn’s face. I’m tempted to back away, horrified, but when he gazes up at me, his smile fades and a tingling sensation rises up my legs, my body acutely aware of just how good it feels to have his eyes on me.
I sit beside him, my palms pressed into the wood. The sun is warm on my thighs, which haven’t been this tan since I spent entire summers at the pool as a kid.
“I’ve been thinking,” Penn says, wrestling with a grin.
“Uh-oh.”
“And you must’ve really Fast and Furious–ed your way through Lakeville to stalk me today.”
“I plead the Fifth.”
He smirks. “Glad to see you’ve taken it down a notch. You seem lighter.”
“It’s hard to take anything too seriously when I’m in rainbow-striped knee socks.”
Penn hums. “Fair point.” He shifts to reach into his pocket and pulls out his wallet.
“Consider that shimmy move on the house,” I joke, “I only charge for lap dances. Or especially intimate gyrating.”
“Do you do a lot of intimate gyrating in your spare time?”
I shrug. “Why? Interested?”
“I don’t know. I’ll need to look into your lap-dance pricing model before I commit,” he says, straight-faced. “I’m on a pretty strict budget.”
“Guess you better save up, then.”
Penn’s laugh escapes, and I fight a smile as we both look away.
It’s strange, being here with him. I wonder if it’s weird for Penn, too. We watch the ducks pass by like we did as kids. I can practically smell the coconut sunscreen and the Fruit Stripe gum that he used to chew.
“So,” I start, interrupting unwanted thoughts. “You and Earl. BFFs. Do I finally get to hear about the meet-cute? And why you’re on a first-name basis with Lakeville’s retirees?”
Penn turns his wallet over, the smooth leather sliding between his fingers as he pulls out a small, shamrock-green card. He hands it to me. “This is why.”
It’s a business card. At the top, in big white letters: Pennpals.
Beneath it, his phone number.
“What is this?” I flip over the card. The back is blank.
“Are you looking for, like, literal pen pals? Do you and Earl write to each other?” Penn runs a hand over the back of his neck, pink rising to his cheeks.
“No, I mean, that’s sweet, if you do,” I say, backpedaling.
“Maybe I’ll slip you a letter under your bedroom door. ”
“I look forward to your correspondence. But that’s not quite it.” Exhaling, he says, “It’s my new business. Soon-to-be business. And I promised I’d explain everything, so I will. But if you think it’s dumb, don’t tell me.”
“Me? Think something you do is dumb?”
Penn hits me with a blank stare.
I raise both hands. “Clean slate, remember? I’ll withhold judgment. Promise. It can’t be any worse than the chili stand.”
He points at me. “Hey, the chili stand was a work of genius.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I cackle. “That thing was absurd. Nobody wants to eat meat soup on the go. Especially out of a Dixie Cup. With a plastic spoon.”
Penn puts a hand to his chest. “I, for one, love meat soup on the go.”
“That’s why you, ‘for one,’ were your one and only customer.”
There’s a warmth to his stare as he smirks and shakes his head.
“But I do respect your entrepreneurial gusto,” I add.
His eyes shine with pride. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Penn attempted to launch many businesses when we were growing up, none of them remotely genius.
There was the near-permanent food stand with seasonal offerings: lemonade, Popsicles, candy apples, and the aforementioned meat soup.
In middle school, he tried to brand himself as a “non-dog walker,” which he explained to those who didn’t understand (everyone) as a person hired to walk every other type of pet.
As if there might be a big gap in the market for gerbils who need exercise or something.
We never let him live down the day he carried around a turtle in a basket.
I brush a finger across the card. “What kind of business is it?”
“A help hotline. Of sorts.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised.
Penn bites his lip, and it’s obvious that while he desperately wants to talk about it, he’s bracing for a joke. Waiting for me to make light of it—of him. And I get it. That’s always been our thing. But I don’t want to do that this time.
“A help hotline,” I say, folding my legs beneath me. “I love it. Perfect name, too.”
Unmasked delight washes over his face. “Really?”
“Yeah. Tell me everything.”
Penn sits back, stretching out his legs.
“Okay. Well, working at the bar, you hear a lot of people’s stories.
Problems, mostly. Some have easy fixes. A guy works twelve hours a day and can’t check on his mom.
A woman needs someone to take care of her groceries, or her prescriptions, because she’s drowning after her husband passed.
” He lifts a shoulder. “Plenty of different services could fit the bill, but people live in Lakeville because they feel like they belong here. They don’t want a stranger driving their son to the dentist. They want help from someone they trust, but maybe they don’t know who to ask.
Or how. That’s where I come in to help, or to point them to the right person for the job. ”
He looks at me then, eyes round and hopeful, and something unlocks in my chest. Penn’s eleven again, standing on a street corner, trying to belong here, too.
“So, Earl,” I prompt. “He’s a client?”
“My first one. His granddaughter, Katie, came into Curly’s last spring and said she was worried about her grandpa—that he’d lost his light.
I hadn’t planned to start until next year, once I’d officially launched, but a few weeks later, I was arranging flowers for Earl.
” He tips me a look, his brow arched. “Katie is the woman you saw this morning.”
Every outlandish word I uttered earlier comes roaring back to haunt me. I feel silly for all the conclusions I jumped to this morning—and all week. Although, in fairness, a hot girl carrying an overnight bag has a logical connotation.
As I cover my face with both hands, Penn laughs and explains, “She was dropping off her résumé. Earl knows I’m busy, and she needs extra cash, so he suggested we get in touch.
Katie’s in nursing school, which would be so helpful.
Especially for Cindy. She always has questions about her prescriptions. ”
Penn’s bizarre knowledge of Mrs. Baker’s groceries. All the strange phone calls. That wasn’t him being intrusive or suspect. That was him taking care of people—just like he looked after his nanna.
I loved Penn’s grandma. She had a raging crush on Alex Trebek and a leopard-print robe and a loud, throaty laugh that only Penn could tease out of her.
I swallow hard. “It sounds special, Penn. I think Nanna would be really proud.”
“Thanks, Wynne. That means a lot coming from you.” He gives me a wry look. “My therapist says I ‘need to be needed.’ She might be right, but maybe I just like to help out.”
I have the strangest urge to put my arms around him.
“I haven’t told anyone else about the business,” he says. “Customers think I’m just doing odd jobs, and I am, but I have bigger plans. Someday, I’ll get an LLC. Learn how to use Excel. Make it all official.”
“You don’t have an LLC? What’s holding you back? Why not launch now?”
“Time. Money. Resources.” Earnestly, he says, “Please don’t tell anybody. I don’t want anyone at Curly’s to think I might bail on the bar. I need that job to keep everything afloat.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
He lifts his shoulder, uncharacteristically shy. “It’s no roller-rink restaurant, but…”
It’s better. Thoughtful and special, and a far bigger risk than I’ve ever been willing to take. Although, here, in MASHland, Penn doesn’t understand that. He thinks I’ve been brave, too. Even though he should know better than anyone that I’m not. Not when it matters.
I pick up a stick and scratch at the deck like I’m a kid. Like we really have reverted, somehow. We might be old friends, but sincerity is new for us.
Penn clears his throat. “Hey, Ru.”
I startle at the nickname that never slips out of him. “Yeah?”
“Do you still think about that night?”
I face him, surprised. He’s never asked me about that night, and I’ve never wanted him to. But some part of me knew, in coming here, that that might change. And maybe I’m ready for it. Maybe I need a little change.
A lump swells in my throat. “Yeah,” I whisper. “All the time.”
Penn takes a deep breath. “Me, too.”
It was a sticky night in mid-July, the summer before senior year. Ryan and I had been home alone, which happened often on weekdays, but rarely on a Saturday night. Dad was working an overnight shift at the hospital, and Mom was out of town visiting college friends.