“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 Iare 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 whileI 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 wouldloveto 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 theLakeville Gazetteand 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.”
