Chapter 20 Yes / No / SOS
Yes / No / SOS
If I excel at anything, it’s throwing myself into my work. And crying in the shower.
Across the next four days, I do plenty of both.
And I try not to swoon when he goes above and beyond.
Penn meets with the owner of Madre’s—Ryan’s boss—and convinces him to serve food at the event in exchange for signage, an official sponsor title, and the chance to be the first local restaurant to partner with us on a regular menu item.
He asks three of the Curly’s bartenders to work the event pro bono in a show of community support, then posts flyers in the window of every shop that will let him. He also invites all his friends—which, for Penn, means everybody he’s ever met.
When he isn’t out working on behalf of The Disco Diner, Penn’s at Curly’s. We’re ships passing, which is for the best, but the distance backfires—it only makes us want each other more.
One night, while he’s working a late shift at the bar, I’m tempted to slip a note beneath his door: HI. PROMISE YOU’LL STILL LIKE ME IN EVERY OTHER TIMELINE? YES / NO / SOS.
—
Luckily, by Thursday night, all our haphazard plans come together. Rather successfully, if I may say so myself.
The Disco Diner still doesn’t have electricity, but we do have battery-powered black lights, strobe lights, and—thanks to my ransacking of every Target in a twenty-mile radius—enough neon necklaces and glow sticks to host what might as well be a roller-rink rave.
If the past ten days have taught me anything, it’s that I can’t control everything. And sometimes what pops up instead of all your best-laid plans is something even better.
The rink doesn’t look as perfect as it usually does, with the arching lights and the glow-up tables, but tonight it’s packed with nearly two hundred customers, and the ticket earnings beat out all our profits from the past three months.
Money aside, it’s also comforting to see familiar faces. Although, admittedly, they’re a little trickier to make out beneath the black lights.
I do a loop—skate a loop—and welcome guests. Mac is here with his boyfriend, and probably his megaphone. Katie’s in line at the skate desk with Earl, who tells me he’s here for the people-watching, and Juliet, the dental hygienist, brought her two sons.
Even Mrs. Baker is here. She taps me on the shoulder and thanks me for thinking of her.
It was Penn, of course, who thought of her.
Seeing everyone come out, and come together, I’m proud of myself—of all of us—for making tonight happen.
I only wish Ryan were here, too. He’ll lose it when I show him all the selfies I’ve taken today.
Bridget and I have our hair pulled back in butterfly clips, and our temples are covered in the same pink body glitter she used on my actual birthday, back in reality. The connection feels comforting.
I skate up to the merch table, where Bridget’s manning the ship. “Selling like hotcakes,” she says, shoving a box forward. “Here. Help me unpack.”
Theo found boxes of clothing in the storage room.
Apparently, I stashed them away a few months ago when merchandise wasn’t selling.
There are tie-dye T-shirts that say Rollin’ With The Homies, a pink version of the collared Disco Diner uniform, and blue hoodies embellished with skates that say Let the Good Times Roll.
I start to open a box, but I’m startled by the sound of a screeching microphone.
“Hey, party people! Who’s ready to rock and rooooll?”
It’s Theo, who’s still getting the hang of his handheld microphone.
His makeshift DJ booth isn’t quite what we had in mind, but battery-operated Bluetooth speakers work just fine, and at least his outfit is a crowd-pleaser.
Strangely, on the one occasion when it would finally make sense for Theo to rock nostalgic Noah and the Weekenders merch, he’s wearing a Gilmore Girls T-shirt under his uniform instead.
He’s left the buttons undone to show off Lorelai Gilmore’s face, plus the big pink letters on his chest: #1 Milf.
Bridget’s got twenty bucks on Theo ripping off both shirts by the end of the night, and I hope he does. I’m not above using Theo Ford’s many abs to liven up the party.
As I unpack, I smile at the woman who’s next in line. Considering that she’s in head-to-toe black, I’m shocked she’s eyeing our shirts. “Hi,” I say brightly. “What would you like?”
“To thank you for the invitation.” She extends a hand. “Sloane Bishop, from Rollerworld.”
“Oh! Hi,” I say, flustered. “I’m so happy you could make it.”
Truthfully, amid all the preparations, I forgot I’d invited her. I sent the email early Monday morning while battling the worst physical and emotional hangover of my life. Reaching out to Sloane felt like tossing a last-ditch, desperate dart at a game board I still don’t understand.
She points to a nearby table. “May I steal you for a moment?”
I nod, then turn to Bridget, who’s staring back with a loaded expression that tells me she’s clocked exactly who this is and will happily kick her out if I so please.
Sloane and I sit down, and if the electricity were on, the table would be glowing, but instead it’s lit by two vases filled with glow sticks. Nothing but class.
“Forgive me,” I start. “I don’t usually take meetings in butterfly clips.”
“And I’m not usually out on a Thursday,” Sloane purrs. “But this is a special night. What a turnout. What fun. You obviously know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t, actually.”
She laughs, assuming I’m kidding. “The design—every detail is so thoughtful.”
“I’ve had a lot of help,” I explain, thinking of Bridget, who helped me hang decorations after work.
Theo, who bought the black lights and ironed uniforms. Penn, who tackled every item on the to-do list I gave him.
I managed spreadsheets, made calls, coordinated vendors, and mapped out table arrangements to ensure maximum crowd movement.
I’ve been busy and tired, but I’ve had fun.
I couldn’t wait to see all our hard work come together.
“What inspired you to open in the first place?” Sloane asks.
I shrug, accustomed to brushing off any questions about my MASH past.
But I do know the answer to this one. “Honestly? A roller-rink restaurant just sounded like a blast,” I say, channeling my thirteen-year-old self. “I wanted to bring people together and offer a bright spot in their day, no matter what else might be happening.”
“And look. Even without power,” Sloane marvels, “you’ve done just that.”
She gestures to the rink, where Mac’s skating circles around a group of giggling middle-aged women, and where a whole parade of kids have formed a conga line, everybody wearing their 2000s best along with stacks of glowing neon jewelry.
It’s ridiculous, but I love it. Real or not, this place has become so special to me.
I didn’t stress over tonight’s party details just for the sake of the game; I did it because I wanted to.
For teenage me, and for the people I’ve come to care about so much.
For the staff, and the neighborhood, and especially Theo Ford, who’s officially stripped off shirt number one, and who adores this place more than anyone.
MASH Me wasn’t a fool for hiring him. I was, for not wanting to give him a chance when I first arrived. I was wrong about him—about a lot of things.
I press a finger to my eye, where tears have started to escape.
Sloane notices. “It’s touching, how much you care about your work. That passion, that’s what we want to capture at Rollerworld.”
My gaze shoots up to meet hers.
“I know you’re still considering your options,” Sloane says. “But we’d really like to snap this place up, make it part of our group, and I’d like to hire you as the creative director. I love your vision, and I’d like you to replicate it, again and again. And again,” she adds with a laugh.
I’m not sure what’s more jarring: the offer, or the title: creative director. I’m not known for my creativity. I’m celebrated for my discipline, my spreadsheet game, my punctuality.
This was my vision, though—albeit years ago—and I understand why Sloane loves it, because I do, too. But there’s no replicating what we’ve done here. This place is one of a kind. And it’s mine. My stupid, silly, perfect dream.
Sloane mistakes my silence for nerves. “It’s a lot to digest, of course, but maybe we can meet again this week to talk through the specifics? And dollars?”
I stare at her, and then down at my obnoxious, glittery nails, and for the first time in a long time, I listen to my gut. Because it’s loud. It’s screaming at me—shouting that this isn’t just a game to me. Not anymore.
“Actually, I’m busy this week,” I say. “And although I appreciate your offer, and the kind words, I’m not interested in any kind of partnership. I’m sorry I wasn’t clear on that sooner.”
Sloane’s laugh is humorless. “Seriously?”
I nod. “Seriously.”
My phone buzzes. I pull it from my shirt pocket, and the lights flicker overhead. Cheers erupt through the room, but seconds later, the lights go dark again.
Sloane stands, and I thank her, grateful for what she’s forced me to learn—relieved to have clarity on this one thing.
Once she leaves, I check my missed call. It’s from the puzzled mechanic who’s struggled all week to figure out why my Jeep won’t start, unable to identify a problem.
He left a voicemail: Evening, Miss Wynne. My guys and I still aren’t sure what the issue was, but it seems your Jeep is up and running again. We’re about to close for the night, so come by and pick it up anytime tomorrow.
My jaw drops, my hand rising to cover my mouth. Good news—finally. I must’ve done something right for once.
The talk with Sloane. That must be it. Maybe I was correct about her offer being an obstacle to overcome, and I’ve done it. I’ve passed the test.
Adrenaline buzzes through me like a fizzy can of Fanta as I skate toward the rink. I’m excited and hopeful, pleasantly lightheaded. But then I spot Penn across the room, laughing with one of the Curly’s bartenders, and my chest feels too tight again.
Something tells me that, unlike my issues with the Jeep, my problems with Penn won’t fix themselves. And I’m not quite sure where we go from here.
I slump against the edge of the rink, and a moment later, someone’s arm slings over my shoulders. I turn, expecting Bridget, or Theo, or maybe even Mac. But then I scream.
“Ryan!”
My brother pulls me in for a hug. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your moody audition for an HBO limited series.” As I shove him away, he adds, “You look like you should be staring out a rainy window near a large body of water.”
I laugh, giddy and slightly confused at the sight of him. Ryan’s wearing sky-blue capris, a gauzy button-up shirt, and a thin scarf around his neck.
I snort. “A scarf? Since when do you accessorize?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Mm, sorry, but you can’t knock anybody’s accessory preferences when you’re rocking butterfly clips.”
I’ve missed him so much. “I can’t believe you’re here. How did you…When…?”
Ryan’s gaze travels across the rink, and I don’t have to follow his eyes to understand. Penn made sure he got here. Of course he did. He knows exactly how to look out for me.
I’ve never been taken care of like this, not even by myself. I used to think I did a pretty good job at looking out for myself, but now I’m not sure I’ve been going about it the right way.
“I thought Penn might have been calling to tell me he’d murdered you,” Ryan jokes, his grin inching up. “Or that you’d attempted to axe him and I had to bail you out of jail.”
“Close,” I say, laughing.
His smile fades, his expression turning thoughtful as he asks, “Why didn’t you ask me to come yourself? You know I’d want to be here.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.” I shrug. “I just wanted you to live it up in Italy.”
“Oh, believe me, I did,” he says. “But I would never want to miss this.”
I nod, remembering what Penn told me on my birthday, back in reality: Let your brother live a little, will you?
At the time, I was offended, and as recently as last week, the thought of being too far away from Ryan left me ill.
Here, though, I’ve had no choice but to loosen my grip.
And still, he’s been fine. We both have.
So, maybe it isn’t just my brother who needs to live a little.
It’s me, too. I can’t keep holding on to so many shoulds.
“I’m really glad you came,” I say, leaning in to him. “Thank you.”
Ryan nods toward the rink. “It’s really something, Ruby. I’m proud of you. I was so proud of you when you launched, but I’m even prouder to see how hard you work to keep it all going.”
The tears I’ve been holding back spill over. “Warn me next time you plan to go full afternoon special on me, will you?”
“No way.” He grins. “I like seeing you blubber.”
“I’m not blubbering.”
He cracks another joke, but I miss it, distracted by Penn’s presence across the rink. He’s talking to Claire, one of my favorite servers, and I don’t realize I’m staring until Ryan snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
As heat rushes to my cheeks, Ryan’s eyes ping-pong between me and Penn. “Why are you looking at him like that? What happened while I was gone?”
I glance at Penn again, and this time, he’s staring back. Looking at me the way he has a million times, with a smirk and a steady gaze. The difference is, now I know what it means. The weight it’s always carried.
“Oh, you know,” I say airily. “The same thing that always happens with us. We’ve been at each other’s throats.”
“You two,” Ryan says, shaking his head.
I nod. “Us two,” I repeat, and I send up those two words like a prayer.
Or a wish.