Bridget cackles. “Well, hold the music, but keep the playbook.” She raises a finger. “Actually, you know what? Let’s stop comparing life to whatever happened in your little MASH galaxy, okay? Love isn’t a game. And all that fear about what Penn might think, or how the rest of us might react—that’s just your excuse to keep stalling the inevitable.”
I inhale sharply at that word:inevitable.
“But what if I lose Penn for good?”
Bridget lifts a shoulder. “Yeah. What if?”
I get what she’s saying. There’s nothing she or anyone else could say to make me feel safe, or sure. It’s impossible. All I can do is try.
Maybe that’s where I went wrong in the game. Maybe it was never win or lose, and all I ever needed—all I was there to get—was a participation trophy. Because I can’t plan out every move, and I can’t fix the part of Penn that tells him he’s loved only when he’s needed, or the part of me that sees everything that could possibly go wrong. But I can love those parts in both of us, and take care of them, and give Penn the chance to do the same.
Bridget sits back, smirking. “I can see the wheels turning.” She does that mortifying train-horn motion again. “All aboard!”
“No, B,” I warn. “Don’t do it.”
“Next stop,” she calls out, ignoring me. “Bone town!” As I hang my head, she touches my arm and adds, “By the way—have I ever told you about The Move?”
28
No Take-Backs
Penn didn’t wantto make the PennPals launch party “too big a deal.” For someone so good at celebrating everyone else, he sure has a hard time shining a spotlight on himself.
But I didn’t give him a choice.
I dressed up the Madre’s event room with balloons, streamers, and branded PennPals napkins, all in the company’s signature green. I reached out to Penn’s mom, too, asking Diane for pictures from when we were young so that I could surprise him with silly framed photos of his early business ventures. Seasonal food stand included.
I arrive with Bridget and Ryan soon after the party starts, and almost immediately, those two extroverts get swallowed up by the crowd.
The guest list kept expanding over the past few weeks. After years of Penn supporting others, he’s receiving that same goodwill, tenfold. Thanks to the flyers and local listings and word of mouth, his phone won’t stop ringing. He’s already moved upconversations with Mac’s techie friend, hoping to build a simple PennPals app sooner rather than later.
Grabbing a glass of wine, I mingle, dipping in and out of conversations. The room is packed with friends and neighbors, plus the earliest PennPals clients. Katie’s here with Earl, who apparently used to be quite the traveler. He’s been giving my brother plenty of tips, because Ryan’s planned a whole tour of New York restaurants for the holiday break. Connor offered to let Ryan stay with him, and I hope he does.
I say hello to Mrs. Baker and her niece, who’s being chatted up by Theo. Tonight he’s traded hisNoah and the WeekendersT-shirt for PennPals merch. He had it made himself: a branded green T-shirt, socks, and the most ridiculous bucket hat.
I’m waiting for another drink when I spot Penn entertaining a semicircle of guests, and it’s a rush, seeing him do what he does best: charming people, making them comfortable. He wants everyone else to have a good time because he genuinely cares. Watching him from across the room, I feel young and ridiculous and giddy, like I want to doodle his name in my notebook.
PennAndRuby4Ever
Finally, he catches my eye over a man’s shoulder, and his gaze lingers.
Penn excuses himself, still staring at me while he shifts through the crowd like he’s afraid he’ll lose me if he looks away. He’s wearing the outfit I helped him choose after he sent thirteen mirror pictures for my review. And he looks sharp: crisp navy pants, a gray sweater over a chambray shirt, brown leather shoes. His hair’s grown a bit longer, and tonight it’s tamed and tousled, the scruff along his jaw freshly shaven.
My hormones are managing a level-ten crisis by the time he stands in front of me, shamelessly letting his eyes drag slowly up my body to meet mine.
“Ruby.”
I feel a pang in my chest when my name vibrates in his throat.
He swallows. “I’ve never seen you in red.”
I can’t hide my smile, and I can’t pretend looking this good was an accident. I spent an hour on my hair and weeks scouring for the perfect dress: a red long-sleeve number that wraps over my chest with a deep V, cinches my waist, and hugs all the way to my knees. For a long time, I avoided wearing red, believing it a bit too on the nose, considering my name. But it suits me—I’m pretty sure Cheryl from the makeup counter at the mall would approve.
And it feels good to stand out.
Penn’s stare drops far below eye level, and when our gazes snag together again, my confidence morphs into a seductive sort of thrill.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” I tell him.
