I struggle through the salad, the soup, and finally the meal, watching her from across the table. When a season ticket holder tries to engage me in a conversation about my new Noir Cologne ad and how his wife was very excited when she found out they’d be sitting with us, I find it hard to look away from Pen to converse with the couple. The wife’s cheeks are flushed, and they share a laugh. Even through all that, I kept taking sneak peeks at Pen as Foster’s words from therapy ring through my head.
Finally, the speeches start.
Whitaker addresses the group, but I’m not really interested. I know he’s the one behind me not getting my contract renewed. It’s obvious when we’re all together. Ripley says something about community and how we’re all on the same mission—to win the World Series.
Martin leans over to say something to Penelope after her dad’s speech.
She smiles politely, then turns back toward the table.
He says something else to her, leaning in too close.
I pick up my water glass, and my fist tightens around it.
“Goldie.” Easton says my name like a warning.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
What does he want from me? I am not actually fine.
By some saving grace, dinner clears shortly after, and people start moving between tables.
I abruptly stand but get stopped at the next table over. Again, someone comments about my contract.
Right now, I don’t care about my fucking contract.
I shake hands and talk baseball and say all the right things to all the right people, tracking Pen’s movements the entire time. When she moves. Where she stops. How Martin follows her toward the balcony doors with a fresh drink in his hand.
I wait a few minutes, and when neither of them returns, I follow.
The balcony overlooks the river. This evening showcases Chicago at its best. Everything surrounding us is lit up, and a soft warm breeze brushes over my face. I love this city. Penelope is at the railing with her arms crossed, looking as if her patience is running low. Martin is beside her, gesturing at something on the skyline.
I cross the balcony toward them.
“Sorry to interrupt.” I don’t sound sorry, and I don’t care. “Penelope, can I borrow you for a minute?” I nod at Martin. “Event question.”
Martin glances in my direction, looking as if he wants to throw down until he sees it’s me. “Decker Davis, of course.” He smiles at her. “Come find me when you’re done.”
He touches her arm, and my hands fist at my sides, my knuckles white.
We both wait to speak until he goes inside.
Penelope turns to me with her arms still crossed. “Event question?”
“Can we talk?” I approach, half expecting her to throw her drink in my face.
Her feet stay planted. “What’s the event question, Decker?”
I look at the door Martin just walked through and back at her. “He’s been following you around for an hour.”
“He’s a sponsor.”
“He’s interested.”
“He’s a sponsor,” she says again firmly, as though that settles it. “And I was handling it. I don’t need you to swoop in like some savior.”
“I know you don’t need me to.”
