Chapter 10 Intimate Gyrating #2
Around nine, Penn walked through our back door, like he always did, and suggested we go to the boathouse.
Lately, he’d been hanging out with new friends, and he’d invited them, too.
It made me irrationally angry, Penn spending time with other people at our spot.
For months, I’d been feeling like things were about to change, which made my chest ache.
I wondered uneasily how much, and who, I might lose.
Surely, that fear is why—despite Ryan insisting he was too tired to go out, and despite the clear rule that we weren’t allowed to leave the house at night, certainly not without permission—I said yes.
And maybe that fear is why I’d been drawn to Penn, too, who looked to me, surprised, his eyes flashing with something hopeful.
Ryan told me to go on my own, but I begged him to come with us.
On the way there, Penn teased me for the backpack I’d crammed full of snacks, drinks, and bug spray. Ryan’s EpiPen, too, which we carried everywhere. I was prepared, like always.
But two hours later, while Penn and I sat on the swings, arguing over, of all things, the best Tom Hanks movie, Ryan sat with the rest of the group at the boathouse, where he reached into another, identical backpack and pulled out a snack that had peanuts in it.
We heard panicked shouts for help, and I knew. Something inside me knew that Ryan wasn’t okay, and my ears started ringing. My limbs vibrated. My entire nervous system seemed to rev up, then abruptly shut down. Penn had to yell for me to get up, to follow him.
I’d helped Ryan through allergic responses before, but that night, I didn’t.
I sprinted to the boathouse, but then I froze. I failed him.
It was Penn who dug out the EpiPen. A stranger who called 911 while I trembled, wondering aloud what had happened.
What happened is that I did nothing but panic. All my life, I’d looked out for Ryan, or told myself that I did. But I didn’t. Not when he needed me most.
I’d broken the rules, and we all nearly paid an unthinkable price. After a few terrifying hours, Ryan was already cracking jokes, trying to make light of the night, embarrassed by all the attention but otherwise okay. I wasn’t, though. Not for a long time.
“That night changed me,” Penn says. “Like, completely.”
I don’t know if it’s the shock of talking about it, or being back at our spot, or feeling safe to speak because this isn’t my reality, but I face him and admit the truth.
“I think about it every day. The guilt still sits right here,” I add, clutching my stomach.
“And I still worry about him so much, Penn. I just want to wrap him in Bubble Wrap. Keep him safe forever.”
“Of course,” he says. “Because you want to feel safe.”
I swallow hard. He’s right. I feel okay only if Ryan’s okay.
“You’ve got to let go of all that old guilt,” Penn says. “It was a fluke.”
“But I forced him to come with us.”
“Yeah, and accidents happen. We make a million tiny choices every day, and sometimes a little one turns out to be big.” He shrugs. “We were kids. Ease up on yourself.”
I snort. “It’s not that simple.”
“Maybe not,” he agrees. “But you start like this. You talk about it and remember that you’re human.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes. “You are, aren’t you?”
I laugh and elbow him. He grins back.
“There’s no right way to do anything,” Penn adds. “You just do your best.”
I nod, remembering how alone and ashamed I felt in the months after the accident, no matter how many times Ryan told me to let it go.
“What about you?” I ask. “You seemed so…fine, after everything.”
Penn stares at his shoes, swinging them back and forth. “I wasn’t. I just handled it differently. You got safer, and I…”
“Went wild,” I finish for him, and he nods.
I resented Penn for all the late, wild nights that came after.
I was endlessly, unspeakably grateful that he’d helped Ryan, but I was also angry that he’d been the hero—him, of all people, stepping up when I didn’t.
Penn teased me about it a few times in the aftermath, but I didn’t take the jokes well.
I was still too raw. And I felt angry whenever Ryan went out with Penn, because it felt like he didn’t need me.
Heavy shame muted me for months. Made me want to root in place. Made me shift college plans and reimagine my future—one where I would be there, always.
“I felt like life was too short,” Penn says.
“I didn’t want to have a single regret, so I followed my gut wherever it led, even if it didn’t make sense.
Especially then. I didn’t want fear to hold me back.
” He slides me a look. “That’s why I was so happy when you went to Berkeley.
And when you opened the rink. That’s when I knew you were still you. ”
A stinging starts behind my eyes.
That wasn’t me. Fear does hold me back.
I’ve always been cautious, but after that night, I only grew more careful. More afraid. And I cold-shouldered Penn, frustrated that he seemed okay—that he thrived, even—while I felt haunted by every possible what-if. By my own mistake.
But Penn was doing his best. Dealing with it the only way he knew how.
I wish I hadn’t been so stubborn and afraid. I wish I’d opened up to Penn and thanked him. Admitted I was embarrassed. Been honest instead of pushing him away.
Maybe there’s still time for all that.
His business card is made with nice, thick cardstock, and for some reason, the thought of Penn designing and printing these cards at Jo’s Prints makes my chest tighten. “Acts of service,” I observe, spinning it between my fingers. “That’s your love language, too. Isn’t it?”
A slow half-smile. He nods, then asks, “What’s yours?”
“The act of unsubscribing? Arriving early? A shared calendar?”
Penn laughs, leaning back on his palms. Then, pensive, he studies me and says, “It’s not receiving gifts. You don’t care about that. And you’ve never needed words of affirmation, either.”
I shouldn’t be surprised—of course Penn knows me—but it’s startling, feeling so seen. Even here, where parts of me are different.
“Is it quality time?” he asks.
“I don’t have time for quality time.”
“A whole different issue. We need to table that for another day.”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “Probably.”
“Maybe it’s acts of service for you, too,” Penn says. “Like me.”
I nod. “Maybe.” That’s certainly how my love for Ryan has manifested. And how Bridget and I have been there for each other, too. “What’s the last love language again?”
He catches my eye on a sidelong glance. “Physical touch.”
The weight of his stare and the memory of his hand on my back, flattened against me, sends a wild spark up my spine. I remember falling on top of him at the rink and not wanting to move. Wanting, instead, to fall farther into him.
I examine Penn’s hand, wanting to lace my fingers with his. To test the theory.
He catches me staring, and his gaze rises to meet mine.
As if I’d asked for his touch aloud, he reaches out, gently circling my wrist with one hand.
I inhale, and he looks up at me, like he’s asking my permission to keep going.
I tip my chin down, nearly nodding, afraid of what this is and why I want it so much.
The hint of a smile plays on Penn’s lips as he carefully straightens my arm, still holding my wrist. With his other hand, so lightly I almost don’t even feel it, he presses the pads of two fingers into the crook of my elbow.
His eyes stay trained on mine as he traces his fingers down my forearm, whisper-soft.
I feel it everywhere: pins and needles across my skin, a knotting in my chest, warmth in my stomach, and lower.
Penn’s gray-blue eyes darken, and I wonder if he can feel it, too. If he’s doing this because he wants to touch my skin or get under it. Maybe both.
He doesn’t look away until his fingers reach my wrist, and then he drags them both through the crease of my palm. “Your heart line,” he says, voice low as he slips his hand over mine, pausing before he finally interlaces our fingers together.
Slowly, Penn raises our clasped hands to his lips and presses the lightest kisses against my knuckles, one after the other. Each soft brush hits me like a thousand sparks at once, like fireworks, and when he pulls away, lips parted, my pulse hammers against my rib cage, erratic and wild.
I’ve never felt erratic and wild.
I want more. More of Penn, and his touch.
My throat is thick. I couldn’t speak if I tried.
He lets our hands fall together into his lap. Then he fights a grin and leans in, his mouth beside my ear. “Ding ding,” he whispers. “I think she likes physical touch.”
His face stays there, inches from mine, and I turn to him, stupefied. Perplexed by what he’s done to me, and how. Maybe this is when I kiss him, or he kisses me, and everything changes. Maybe it’s a beginning. Or an end.
But Penn lets go of my hand to lean back against the deck, and I feel so crazed and desperate—pained by such a sudden, sharp longing—that I almost fling myself on top of him.
Madness.
I wrap my fist with my other hand, rubbing my knuckles. Waiting for my pulse to settle.
Penn tilts a look at me. “Physical touch,” he says again, pleased with himself. “Good to know.”