* * *
Foster steps in, and his gaze goes immediately to my rumpled sheets, twisted from tossing and turning all night. “You have someone in here last night?”
“No.” I grab my clothes and go into the bathroom to change. “Remind me why you’re here again?” I say through the bathroom door, still open a crack. “Callie okay?”
I walk out of the bathroom, and his arms are crossed as he leans against the desk.
“Ellis had a rough night. She’s fine, but… why didn’t you ever tell me about Penelope in high school?”
I should’ve known he’d never let that go after therapy. This is what happens when you talk to your estranged brother and he’s actually listening now.
“You knew that we knew one another from Philly.”
“You said you were friends, which I thought was more like acquaintances. You didn’t go to the same school.”
I’ve been packing hotel bags after road games for years and have never once had to concentrate this hard. “You knew about Ripley being Mom’s friend. I told you all this when we were in college.”
He pulls out the chair and sits. “You left out a lot of details, Decker.”
I zip up my bag, spot my charger by the nightstand, and go over to pull it from the plug, wrapping the cord in a bundle. “It wasn’t important.”
“Bullshit.”
“She was Ripley’s daughter. Mom and Ripley were close at the time. Her mom had gotten remarried quickly after he started working with me. She was always going somewhere with her new husband, so Ripley had Penelope a lot of the time. We were just close in age and only had each other while our parents…”
Foster may be just sitting there, but I clock it when he stills. “Were they together?”
I tuck my phone cord in the bag and sit on the edge of the bed, meeting his blue eyes. “Truth? I’m not really sure. I think so, but neither of them have ever confirmed anything. Maybe they never defined it, I don’t know.” I shrug. “I remember Penelope spending the night a few times when we were younger, and Mark would stay late, the two of them building a bonfire and drinking, or sometimes they’d plan trips to the zoo or the museum. Sometimes it was just Mom with me and Penelope, and other times just Ripley and us. But… I think there was some type of relationship.”
He gets up from his chair. “I’m playing for my mom’s ex-boyfriend?”
I’m thankful he’s stopped asking about Penelope and me because I can’t really define what we had. We weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, although we did kiss once, but that was more experimental than anything. And then we promised to be each other’s best friends, that we didn’t want to ever risk losing the other by crossing a line we couldn’t uncross. Years later, we made that mistake and realized we should have listened to our younger selves.
“I’m not sure he was her boyfriend.”
“Why wouldn’t you ask?”
I shrug again and stand my suitcase on the floor. “It wasn’t really my place.”
“It sure as fuck was. Come on, Deck.”
I’m not sure why this bothers Foster so much.
“Did you ask Dad who all the women he brought home were? Try to put a label on them?”
His eyes narrow. “That’s different—no one was important to Dad. I didn’t need to ask to know the answer.”
“I’m not sure Ripley was important to Mom either. I think they just used each other, in truth.”
“Ew, don’t tell me that. Now I’m thinking of Ripley plowing into Mom…” He presses the heels of his hands to his eye sockets. “Jesus, I can’t unsee it.”
“Grow up, Foster. Mom has sex.”
He shakes his head. “It’s the two of them together.”
“They weren’t a couple. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think Ripley really does relationships.”
Foster shakes his head. “And you and Penelope? Did you play games like ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’?”
