“Oh.”
I look down at the mug.
Sheaskedhim.
Sheinterrogatedhim.
Penelope walks over with toast on a small plate. Two slices. Butter. She sets it on the coffee table and pushes it toward me with one finger and then sits on the arm of the couch.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Penelope asks.
“I don’t even know whatitis.”
“That’s fair.” She takes the dishtowel off her shoulder, folds it, and puts it on the arm next to her. “Can I tell you what I saw?”
I take a bite of toast and nod.
“You and Blue were inseparable from about ten o’clock onward. You danced together for a while. You sat on the back porch for a long time. Then I left.”
I look at Mila. “And what happened?”
Mila starts, “You told me that he offered you his bed, and you were going to stay the night there.”
I’m mortified. “What else did I say?”
“You told me not to ruin your chances with him because, and I quote,it’s always been him.”
My mouth drops. “No.”
“Yes,” Mila says.
I made a fool of myself in his house. In front of everyone.
“I was supposed to —”I was supposed to keep my distance.I was supposed to be a polite friend of a friend. I was supposed to not get within ten feet of him. I shake my head. I can’t believe I actually said that. I look down at the hoodie. This is my evidence. “I’m wearing his hoodie.”
“Yeah.”
“I have to give this back today.”
Mila repeats, “Today?”
“Yeah, I can’t keep his hoodie. Knowing him, it’s probably the only one he has. I have to return it.”
Mila laughs. “God, do you know absolutely everything about him?”
“He comes from a very humble background,” I defend him, saying it in those words because we’re in front of Penelope. If we weren’t, I would tell her to stop judging me. “And plus, why would he need another one if he’s already got one he likes?” That’s a direct quote from him in high school.
“Then return it,” she says.
I eat one slice of toast and start on the second. I take a few sips of my coffee, and it’s slowly helping my sore stomach.
Penelope turns on the TV, which is a rare thing for the apartment. She doesn’t put on a show. Instead, she opens YouTube and starts playing a faceless, silent vlog of the European countryside. Mila and I watch the screen, hypnotized. My brain’s happy for the break.
After about ten minutes, I sit up. The vlog is still playing — some woman in a wool coat is walking through a market in what might be Portugal, picking up tomatoes — and Mila is asleep with her cheek on the arm of the couch. Penelope is in the armchair by the window with her sketchbook in her lap and a pencil that hasn’t moved in five minutes.
I look down at myself, knowing that I have to return this today. It’s cold.
I clear my throat.
