Chapter 25 Lovesick Gremlin
Lovesick Gremlin
Penn stands behind the bar, drying glasses. When I slide onto the leather stool in front of him, he huffs out a laugh, his jaw ticked to one side. “Rubella, did you take a wrong turn?”
“I figured I’d face down my mistakes,” I joke, gesturing to the stool beside me. “Thought I’d return to the scene of the crime.”
“Was the crime being punishably uncoordinated?” Penn asks. “Unlawfully clumsy?”
I wait for a beat. “Cool synonyms. How many more have you got?”
He shrugs. “I was running low. Glad you cut me off.” His teasing slices right into my chest. “What can I get you?”
I’m distracted, staring at his hands. Remembering what they can do. How they feel.
“Considering your turbulent history,” Penn says, “I can’t in good conscience serve you tequila. But maybe we can risk rum? You talked a big game about Rum Ruby, so she seems like someone I need to meet.”
Hope flitters in my chest.
It’s been four weeks since I woke up in Penn’s bed and mentioned Rum Ruby in passing. He wasn’t lying. He really does remember everything I tell him.
“Actually, I don’t want a drink,” I say, knocking my knuckles on the bar. “I’m here to talk to you about PennPals.”
Wide-eyed, Penn whispers, “What did you say?”
“Oh,” I say lightly. “You don’t remember telling me?”
He’s gone pale. “Telling you what?”
“That you wanted us to be pen pals. Exchange letters?”
He studies me, flummoxed, and man, I really underestimated how much fun it would be to screw with him in reality.
“I’m kidding,” I say finally. “I want to talk about PennPals, your help hotline.”
He fumbles the glass in his hands, then straightens. “I haven’t told anyone about that, and I definitely didn’t tell you. Why would I tell you?”
“You did.”
“When?”
I give him my biggest, most obnoxious sigh. “Wow. Now who needs to lay off the tequila?” Penn tugs at his hair, tormented, so I assure him, “You swore me to secrecy. I promise I haven’t told anyone. I wouldn’t.”
“Okay,” he says, slowly. “Fine. Then what did you want to talk about?”
“How are you funding it?”
Penn guffaws. A word I’ve read, but never thought, until now, when I witnessed a real live guffaw. “Excuse me?”
“Your business,” I reiterate. “How are you funding it? Have you considered a campaign? Or an investor? You should probably form an LLC, too, if you haven’t already.”
“Gee,” he says, irritated. “Thanks for the unsolicited advice.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Why are you digging into this right now? Why do you care?”
Perhaps I should’ve thought this through a bit longer.
Perhaps showing up here and carrying secrets between worlds is a bit impulsive.
But while I’m tempted to brush Penn off with a joke, I can’t. Not if I want something to change between us.
“I’m digging in because I want to help you,” I say. That’s all I’ve been thinking about—how much Penn’s help meant to me, and how I hope to return the favor. Regardless of what happens between us, I want to help him make his dream a reality.
His gaze drops to the floor. “You feel sorry for me or something? Is that it?”
“What? No, Penn. No. That’s not it.”
Several giant leaps forward. A million steps back.
“Well, I seem to remember the many comments you made about the ‘mite kingdoms’ you expected to find in my bed,” he adds bitterly, turning his back to me.
I have no recollection of said comments, but I also have no doubt that when they dragged me up to Penn’s apartment, I made a fuss about being in his bed.
“Look, your sheets were lovely,” I say, and he throws me a look over his shoulder.
“Really. A delightful bed.” I sigh, trying again.
I have to make him understand, quickly. I have to be honest. “Penn, I’m here because I owe you one after my birthday, and because I feel a little lost right now.
” He turns toward me, just slightly. “And in case you haven’t heard, I’m unemployed, so I have more time than usual, and I’d like to funnel it into something that matters. ”
Penn leans back against the bar, arms crossed over his chest. Thankfully, he doesn’t tell me to stop, or shove it, or leave.
“I have a—a friend,” I continue, bending the truth just a bit. “She ran her own business. And she learned the hard way that if you don’t accept help, you won’t get anywhere.”
He presses his lips together. “So, I need help. For my help hotline.”
“Yes. You do.”
“And you want to be that help.”
“Yeah, Penn. I really do.”
One act of service at a time, he looked out for me. He taught me how to show love, even when you can’t quite say it. Now it’s my chance to return the favor. His turn to feel loved.
He stares at me. His throat bobs.
I resort to Plan B: begging. “Please.” I clasp my hands together. “Let’s make PennPals the…the hottest hotline.”
He shakes his head, embarrassed for me. “Listen,” he says. “I heard you quit your job. And that you’re making a lot of…other changes.”
I nod. “Connor and I broke up. On my birthday, actually. I just didn’t want to make it a thing for everyone.”
“I know,” he says, and I don’t miss his protective tone. “May I ask why?”
I lift a shoulder. “I want to be with someone who knows me.”
“And he didn’t?”
“No. Not the me I want to be, anyway.”
Penn bites the inside of his cheek and nods, sitting with that. Then he locks eyes with me again. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I do need money. But I don’t want yours.”
“That’s not what I’m offering. Although I do plan to get you the money you need.”
“Then what are you offering, exactly?”
“Lap dances.”
He coughs, bringing a fist to his mouth. “What?”
“Connections. Resources. Excel skills I know you don’t have. I can help you plan a launch party and organize the financials.” As he levels me with a look, I lean closer. “I’m offering you my time, Penn. Do you want it or not?”
He turns away, confused.
This poor man. I’ve just accosted him in the middle of his workday, using clever ammunition acquired in another universe to put him on the spot.
I grab a cocktail napkin and the ballpoint pen left on the bill beside me. Then I write my offer more plainly, in a language I know he’ll understand, and slide the note across the bar.
You + Me
Yes / No / Only if there’s rum involved
Penn’s eyes retrain on me, and in that subtle but unmistakable wink of a glance, I can feel his hand cupping my neck. A whisper against my cheek.
He circles the last option and pushes the napkin back across the bar, along with a bottle of beer I didn’t ask for. “That’ll be three dollars,” he says. “And a lap dance.”
—
Penn and I are friends, I remind myself. Friends help each other. Friends hang out.
It’s chill. Cool. Casual.
Standing in the checkout line at the office supplies store, I dig my nails into my palms, carving out hysterical half-moons while I watch Penn push up the sleeves of his gray Henley.
The muscles between his shoulder blades move as he lifts the box full of neon flyers I designed for him.
As he walks toward the exit, I study the curls at the nape of his neck, and then the blue rings around his gray eyes when he turns and says, “Would you hit that?”
Dear God. I would love to hit that.
I gape at him, mouth open, until he gestures to the big, square button on the wall.
Right. With a plastered-on grin, I press the button to open the automatic doors, waving for Penn to pass through first.
“Thanks,” he says. His biceps flex as he adjusts the box.
“No problem,” I squeak out.
Everything’s going swell. Really. Peachy keen over here.
In MASHland, I pursued Penn to win and escape. Now I’m playing a different kind of game—the long game. And as I tell myself many, many times a day, being Penn’s friend while managing the lovesick gremlin inside my heart is better than sharing nothing at all.
I flip up the collar of my new, beloved purple coat to block the wind as we pace along the strip mall sidewalk.
It’s the last Saturday in November, but the chilly air and bare tree branches already signal winter.
In a couple of weeks, just before Christmas, PennPals will launch—officially—with a front-page story in the Lakeville Gazette and a massive party at Madre’s.
I knew Penn could do it. I knew he just needed help and that he’d never ask for it.
He tucks the box into the trunk of his car, then slips on a green field jacket before we walk to the deli to pick up sandwiches. Although we still have our fair share of disagreements, we’re united in our passion for fresh sourdough.
“Dare you to try a condiment,” he teases, leaning in to me.
I smile up at him sweetly. “Dare you to mind your own business.”
“Sauces were invented for a reason, Wynne. You’re missing out. And ordering the same boring meat-and-cheese combination for your entire life is diabolical.”
“Offering to help you, Pennjamin,” I deadpan. “That was diabolical.”
His brows lift on a surprised laugh. “Pennjamin?”
I shrug. “It suits you.”
He shakes his head, tossing me another playful grin.
It’s been a busy six weeks. I encouraged Penn to delegate, suggesting other bartenders could pick up his slack at Curly’s.
Theo is plenty capable. I also helped him apply for an LLC, made an easy-to-maintain budgeting spreadsheet, and persuaded a very enthusiastic investor—Mac, who boasts both an impressive megaphone collection and a trust fund—to support Penn’s efforts in connecting the community.
He’s even setting him up with a friend to talk through possible app opportunities.
I’m doing my best to give Penn what he needs. Not just startup capital, or an extra set of hands, or my CIA-level attention to detail, but also a vote of confidence. Someone in his corner.
Outside the sandwich shop, Penn points to Paws ’n Claws next door. “Remember when Ryan wanted a guinea pig,” he says, “and you delivered a long, completely made-up argument on how it could give him rabies?”
“I believe that was the same summer you advertised as a ‘non-dog walker’ and strolled the neighborhood with a turtle in a basket, so I’m not sure you can point any fingers.”