Chapter 15 Ambiguous Footsie
Ambiguous Footsie
I rush upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.
Without a car, I need to hurry, or else I’ll be late for my meeting with Penn.
In a half hour, according to the PENBY calendar invitation, he’s supposed to meet with Theo and me to share a streamlined process for inventory management, along with a plan for how to train the staff.
But I quite literally run into him in my hallway.
“Hey,” Penn says on a laugh, holding out his arms to steady me.
I stare up at him, out of breath. “Hey.”
He’s in his gray Curly’s T-shirt, his face inches from mine. I’m distracted by the soft look in his eyes. The naked affection in his easy smile.
My brain has a whole cornucopia of plights with which it should be concerning itself: the Jeep breaking down, the unnecessary pool party, if I should really refuse Rollerworld’s offer.
My entire material existence. And yet, as Penn hooks a hand around the back of his neck, the way he always does when he’s nervous, all my neurons seem capable of responding to is the blush crawling up his cheek, and the tendons in his forearm, and the memory of his hands tangled up in my hair last night.
Great. Perfect.
I clear my throat. “What are you doing here?”
Penn’s smile slants. “Why are you drenched?” Reaching out, he tugs at my hood’s drawstrings. “You look like one of those little troll dolls entered a wet T-shirt contest.”
“I was going for drowned Care Bear.”
His laugh bursts out of him like confetti, bright and colorful, and I wish I could tuck the vibrant sound inside the pages of a scrapbook.
Once again, I need to get a grip.
I move past him and head to my room, Penn trailing behind me.
I make a beeline to my closet to grab my Disco Diner uniform, and only when I turn back and find him leaning his elbow against my doorframe, his biceps putting on an obscene show, do I realize that perhaps leading him to my bedroom wasn’t the best grip-getting strategy. At all.
“Are you okay?” Penn asks.
Rain pelts against the window. My mouth is dry. My brain is mush. “No.”
It’s the first time I’ve admitted to him that I’m not okay, and he looks at me thoughtfully. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I clutch the uniform to my chest. “Not yet.”
He nods. “Okay.”
Penn waits a beat, then straightens, slowly closing the gap between us. He stands in front of me, head tilted to get a better look at me. I’m afraid he might kiss me—and that I’ll let him—but instead he lifts his arms and I sink against his chest.
It’s the hug I’ve been wanting. The affection I needed.
Physical touch.
Penn holds me to him, warm and solid, smelling like his citrusy soap and the Herbal Essences shampoo I used in seventh grade, and I smile into the soft cotton of his shirt.
This is the danger of knowing each other for so long.
We have too few hoops to jump through. We can skip steps one through forty, because we can already read each other’s cues.
Without thinking, we fill in the unspoken gaps.
It’s like Bridget said: Penn and I have been laying a foundation for decades. Maybe even across universes.
Inevitable.
And it’s that memory of his words—their sincerity—that makes me back off.
“The Jeep died,” I say suddenly, meeting his eyes. They’re a light gray in the overcast afternoon light. “I was heading back from Bridget’s school when it broke down. It got towed.”
“What?” Penn’s brow furrows. “Why didn’t you call me?”
There’s no way to explain, so I just come out with it. “I had a meeting with my accountant scheduled anyway. Connor? Who we saw yesterday? So he picked me up.”
“On the side of the road?”
I nod, and Penn swallows, shoving his hands into his pockets. His eyes meet mine, searching, and I’m afraid of what they’ll find.
“Anyway,” I say. “I should get dressed. We need to get going. Theo’s probably waiting for us. Are you going to change?”
Cool. Now I’m rambling.
Penn’s still a little dazed when he shakes his head. “No. I already told Theo I can’t make it in today. Two guys called off at Curly’s, so we rescheduled our meeting for Sunday.”
“But that’s in two days.”
“I know. Sorry.”
Anxiety needles at my scalp. After talking to Connor and visiting Rollerworld today, I’m convinced I have to work more closely with Penn to turn the diner around.
Not only because he’s my “other half” around here but also because he truly has the management experience I lack.
He was right: Running a bar and running the rink really aren’t so different, and although I’ve listened to his suggestions, mostly, I’ve stubbornly criticized them.
When I got here, I had to do everything any way except Penn’s way. But now I think maybe what the game really needs is for me to consider both of our perspectives. The numbers, yes, but also the best ways to preserve what makes the rink so special in the first place.
I’m cautiously optimistic, but the clock is ticking. I’ve been here almost a week.
I must look forlorn, because Penn says, “I’ll drop you off, and I’m sure Theo can give you a ride home, okay?”
It’s not a ride I’m worried about. It’s the colorful sand I imagine falling through an hourglass. It’s that Penn’s schedule gives me hives. His time is divided among Curly’s, PennPals, and The Disco Diner. He’s the one who needs two versions of himself.
“It’s okay,” I say, unable to explain why every second makes a difference. “I’ll figure it out.”
—
Four hours and far too many discussions about Theo’s ideas for a new Instagram handle later, I sit in the back office at The Disco Diner with a Trapper Keeper full of notes in front of me, revisiting some of Penn’s ideas that I’d initially pushed aside. First up: a liquor license.
When there’s a knock on the door, I call out, “Come in.”
The door doesn’t open, so I swing around.
There, on the checkerboard tile floor beneath the door, is a pink slip of paper. Folded neatly into a triangle. Heart lurching, I pop out of my chair to grab it.
On the front, my name is written in all caps, a small and sad excuse for a heart drawn in each corner. Clearly, all of Penn’s creative genes were funneled into brainstorming business ideas, leaving no room for the rest of the arts.
I unfold the page, laughing so loudly I cover my mouth even though no one can see me.
Dinner Date?
Yes / No / Only if there’s intimate gyrating
Still grinning like an idiot, I open the door, but Penn isn’t standing there. I spot him heading out the main doors.
Back at my desk, I chew at my nail, deliberating. There’s no question I’m saying yes, but after last night’s kiss, and today’s hug that I never wanted to end, I’m well aware that a date with Penn could be dangerous. Lines are blurring. I’m playing with fire.
Then again, I do want to discuss some ideas for the rink. And it’s only dinner.
I reply with a text I know he’ll appreciate.
-.—.
That’s Morse code for YES.
Does the intimate gyrating remain optional?
Quite the forward question for a first date.
That’s not a no.
Dress code?
Casual. Think: More than underclothes.
For now.
—
With precisely five restaurant locations to choose from in Lakeville, the brick patio at La Trattoria is usually packed, especially on a Friday night.
But Penn “knows a guy”—the owner, whom he often treats to free drinks at Curly’s.
So tonight it’s just us sitting at a table for two beneath a starry sky and a sparkling web of string lights, Italian music drifting out of the restaurant, the earthy smell of potted flowers potent after today’s rain.
I tried on at least sixteen different outfit combinations tonight, enjoying a nostalgic turn at playing dress-up.
After much consideration, I settled on a plum-colored camisole with green pants and floral ankle boots, a violet coat wrapped around my shoulders.
Turns out I like myself in purple. And from the way Penn stared when I came down the stairs, his gaze raking over me so unabashedly that something wild and warm rippled through me, he must approve, too.
I love being around Date Night Penn. He’s sweet and earnest. He’s asked three times if I’m comfortable, and he’s in a navy sweater that does something altogether unfair to his eyes.
All night, he’s found excuses to touch me. His hand in mine on the walk to the restaurant. His palm against the small of my back as we were led to our table. His sneaker dancing around my ankle on and off for the past twenty minutes.
When our drinks arrive, I call him out on it. “Have you been trying to play footsie with me? Or are you just tall?”
Penn slouches back in his chair, biting at the small black straw he’s pulled from his Old Fashioned. “That’s the benefit of being tall. People never know.”
“That’s thee benefit of being tall, huh? Ambiguous footsie?”
He shrugs. “It’s a three-way tie between ambiguous footsie, clean ceiling fans, and unobstructed parade views.”
“How many parades are you attending?” My laugh is quick and shimmery, and Penn smirks around the straw between his teeth.
He’s so brazenly satisfied every time he gets me to smile.
In real life, where all our exchanges feel like competitive matches, I’ve taken his delight as arrogance.
But here, tonight, with color in his cheeks and warmth in every word, I think Penn’s just genuinely glad I’m enjoying myself. I am, too.
I tip back my wine, a dry pinot grigio. “How was Mrs. Baker today?”
Penn dropped off her groceries and prescriptions after his Curly’s shift. Usually he helps her on Thursdays, but after our chaotic morning at the senior center, he had to postpone.
“I worry about her. She’s lonely.”
“Maybe you should set her up with Earl.”
“Nah.” Penn grins. “Earl’s a one-woman kind of guy. He found The One, and I don’t think he’ll ever bother with anything else.”
“You believe in all that? The One?”
His gaze drops. “I don’t really know, but…” He meets my eyes and nods. “Yeah. Maybe I do.”
I flash him a teasing grin. “Wow. How unexpectedly romantic of you.”
“Why ‘unexpected’?”