Chapter 12 Okay, Peter Pan
Okay, Peter Pan
It’s been years since I last took a bath, so I gravely misjudge the required amount of soap and end up chin-deep in bubbles that spill over the tub’s edge if I move so much as an inch.
Turns out, I’m terrible at relaxing. But I’m trying; I have to.
I’ve been trapped inside this cursed game for five days, and it’s getting to me.
It’s warping my perception, and I’ve already grown far too comfortable in this nostalgic wonderland.
Here I am, unironically enjoying a plumeria-scented bubble bath, and I’ve consumed so many Capri-Suns, my blood might actually be part fruit punch at this point.
Worst of all, I want to kiss Penn. Not only because he’s a means to an end, and quite possibly my ticket out of here, but also because I’ve never felt all the synapses in my body firing the way they did when he held my hand. When he stood too close, holding me tightly.
I wonder what else I might be able to feel, and I want to find out.
Maybe it’ll be a win-win. Maybe I’ll like kissing Penn and it will help me escape this game, once and for all, and I’ll have no memory of what happened. I’ll just return to my real life and feel like myself again. Comfortable, in control. And not noticing Penn’s jawline.
My phone dings on the windowsill, and I roll sideways to eye the screen. When I read the notification, I jolt too quickly, water sloshing over the tub’s edge.
It’s a shared calendar invitation. For a calendar called PENBY.
Did he just give us a couple name?
And do I…not hate it?
I sink back into the water with a groan, submerging myself even lower. Only to be interrupted yet again. By Penn’s voice.
“Ruby?”
He’s knocking on the door. Of my bathroom.
I bounce upright, adding more water to the puddle beneath the tub. “Yes?”
“Sorry,” Penn calls. I can hear the lilt of regret so clearly in his voice that he must be speaking right into the crack of the door. “I came to talk about dinner, and your door was open, and…I should’ve waited.”
“No, it’s fine. You can, uh, come in.”
A pause. “Are you sure? Are you decent?”
A hot, full-body panic starts in my toes. I’m ass-naked, so no, I’m not what one might call “decent.” But there are plenty of bubbles, and I can sink a bit lower, and if I wait any longer to respond, it’ll only get more awkward. Besides, this helps my cause. Right?
“Yep,” I squeak out. “All good.”
What am I doing? What is he doing?
What the hell are we doing?
The turn of the doorknob seems to happen in slow motion, while my heart cartwheels in my chest. As Penn registers me in the bath, our gazes snag together.
“Hey.” His voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I say.
Penn leans between the two sinks, gripping the counter behind him with both hands. He’s already showered and changed into black joggers and a white T-shirt. He’s shaved his face, too, the scruff a bit shorter than it was this afternoon. I try not to think about why.
His eyes drift to the water, then rise to meet mine. The moment feels too intimate: holding his stare in this silent room, wearing nothing at all. His lips part, but he says nothing, his attention suddenly focused on the tile floor beneath him.
This is fine. Normal.
We’re just two former neighbors turned frenemies turned roommates who hold hands and sometimes sit in the bathroom while the other one’s naked because why not?
“Penby,” I deadpan, trying to get us back on familiar ground. “How cute.”
He tips me a mischievous look. “Thought you’d like that.”
A second ticks by, then another, and neither of us says anything. It’s unnerving. Going by the fear splashed across his features, he’s overwhelmed, too, which makes me feel a little better, actually.
I feel a zing of adrenaline. A bit of that control I’ve been craving.
I can do this. Whatever else this is with Penn, it could just be fun.
“So,” I singsong, trailing a hand through the water’s surface, careful not to disturb the bubbles too much. Penn watches me, transfixed, as I ask, “What are you in the mood for?”
His hand slips off the counter and he nearly falls, catching himself at the last second. “Wh-what?”
“For dinner,” I clarify.
Penn’s head drops on a faint, breathless laugh, his cheeks pink when he glances up at me again. “Right.”
It’s delicious, seeing him so undone. “You okay there?” I tease.
“All good,” he insists. “I just got…distracted.”
“Oh. You find this distracting?”
Penn lets his attention drift over the bubbles, over my bare face and the hair piled on my head, over every inch of me he can see, unwilling to back down. But then his stare gets heavy. The air pulls taut, and his voice is so low, I barely hear him when he says, “A little.”
My turn to smirk.
Penn mirrors it. He cocks his head, his tongue at the edge of his grin. “Why’d you invite me in here, Wynne?”
“Dinner. What do you—”
“Change of plans,” Penn says, cutting in. “I have another idea.”
“You? An idea? Dangerous.”
He nods. “Sometimes.”
I swallow, and I worry he can hear it. It’s too quiet. Every sound echoes: the gently rippling bathwater, Penn’s breath, my heartbeat thumping in my ears. I dig my nails into my leg.
“Laser Tag,” he says finally.
I pause, sure I’ve heard him wrong. “What?”
“Let’s play a round of Laser Tag. Loser cooks dinner. Are you in?”
Jesus Christ.
All the tension evaporates into the aggressively floral-scented air. I exhale, my head falling back against the bath while bubbles spill over the sides. “Are you serious? Laser Tag?”
“What?” Penn asks, feigning innocence. “Scared you’ll lose?”
I sit up again, narrowing my eyes at him. “No. I’m in.” After a beat, I add, “Put it on the calendar.”
“Will do. But you’ll have to wear clothes,” he says. “I don’t want any more distractions.” His eyes flash with something mischievous, and I roll my shoulders back in response.
“Good luck, Pennjamin,” I say primly. “You’ll need it.”
He darts me one last look before he leaves, closing the door behind him. Seconds later, my phone dings with another notification: a calendar invitation reading Inaugural Penby Duel.
—
Everything is painted black: the walls, the ceiling, the floor.
Black lights glow overhead, and neon tape lines the mazelike foam barriers set throughout the basement storage room, which must reach at least thirty feet across in both directions.
Rock music plays through the speakers because I warned Penn I’d waltz right out of here if he insisted on blasting house music.
He’s lucky I allowed for the janky fog machine.
Just inside the door, there’s a makeshift changing area where glowing gear hangs from hooks set along the wall. Penn stands there, waiting, wearing a flashing light-up vest over his T-shirt.
The blaster gun in his hand drops to his side as he levels me with a disapproving look. “Wow. Okay. You’re playing dirty, huh?”
I slip a glowing vest over my head, feigning ignorance. “What do you mean?”
“I was pretty clear in my request,” he chides.
“Which one was that?”
Slowly, he takes me in and says, gruffly, “You. Clothes.”
I’m wearing a navy sports bra and matching bike shorts. Since MASH Me is allergic to black, this was the darkest athleisure I could find. A deliberate choice, too. Now that we’re basically living out a kid’s birthday party, I have to pull out every stop if I want Penn to see me differently.
“These are clothes,” I point out.
He shakes his head. “No. Those are calculated underclothes.”
“Laser Tag is a sport, Penn. So I’m dressed to sport.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never sported once in her life.” He crosses his arms. “Admit it. It’s a tactic. You’re trying to distract me.”
A triumphant laugh slips out of me. “God, Penn, hasn’t anyone ever told you to keep a poker face? You’re not supposed to show your cards. Or tell your opponent how to get to you.”
His eyes lower again, and his stare holds steady as he steps toward me. The dark room closes in on us, and his voice slips into a low rasp. “C’mon, Wynne. You already know.”
My breath catches. “I know what?”
His eyes are two dark, endless pools. “How to get to me.”
I thought I’d felt tension earlier, but now the charge between us is a live wire.
Heat flashes in Penn’s expression, and I wonder if he’s right.
If in this world I’ve always known that he could want me.
Because it is brand-new information to me and surprisingly satisfying.
Ruffling Penn has always been my favorite game, but I especially love it like this.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I lie. “How, exactly, do I get to you?”
I need him to spell it out before I make a move. I can’t risk being wrong.
Penn works his jaw. He scans my face, deliberating, and his fingers flex at his side. Abruptly, he sets down his laser gun, and with a smirk that makes me terribly nervous, he says, “You know what? You’re right. We should dress to sport.”
He unbuckles his vest, takes it off, and lets it fall to the floor before he reaches for the hem of his shirt.
My gaze drops to his waistband without my permission, zeroed in on a sliver of tan skin.
As he pulls the shirt overhead, I take it all in at once: Penn’s broad, smooth shoulders.
How his waist narrows into his shorts. The top of his black boxer briefs.
It’s a taste of my own medicine.
He’s trying to one-up me, and it’s working.
Standing in front of shirtless Penn, trapped in this dim room, already half-clothed myself, it takes a Herculean effort to keep my expression neutral.
Penn, obnoxiously calm, picks up his vest and slips it back on, his bare shoulders right there, assaulting my peripheral vision. “Had to level the playing field,” he deadpans. “Plus, now I can be more aerodynamic in there.”
“Oh, okay, Peter Pan. Do you plan to fly around the room?”
His mouth twitches. “Maybe. You don’t know all my tricks.”
Leave it to Penn to turn Laser Tag into some kind of weird foreplay.
“Show me what you’ve got,” I scoff, pushing past him. “Game on.”