Mercifully, Penn’s only a sporadic guest star in my subconscious, but he does appear every so often. I try not to think about those dreams, though—especially one frighteningly vivid one that still makes me blush if I picture it for more than half a second.
“Does this mean I can’t come in?” Penn asks, exasperated.
Arms crossed, I jut out my hip, considering him. “Fine. You can come in. But only if you answer all my questions.”
He picks up his bags and scans me head to toe. “Will do. But I’m pretty sure you’re the one prompting questions here.”
Penn follows me down a long hallway lined with artwork, including the terrible watercolor unicorn I once painted for Mom. I laugh, delighted by the handiwork of my unconscious mind. But as we round a corner, I stop in my tracks.
“No. Way,” I gush, astonished by the holy grail of dream kitchens, Nancy Meyers–style. I count not one, not two, but three islands, all painted olive green. “This is, like, a kitchen archipelago.”
Penn drops his bags and side-eyes me. “A kitchenwhat?”
I scowl at him. “Of course you didn’t pay attention in geography.”
Ignoring Penn’s eye roll, I open the massive fridge. “Remarkable,” I mutter. It’s stocked like one of thoseafterphotos on a home-organization show, cans of LaCroix and Capri-Sun pouches neatly arranged in rows. Fresh produce sits tucked inside clear bins, and leftovers are piled in labeled Tupperware.
Leftovers.Huh.A nice, realistic touch.
I lift a container from the top shelf. On an orange sticky note, in the slanted cursive I haven’t used for years, are the words:Thursday Mac and Cheese. Briefly, I wonder what the food-poisoning rules are in dreamland. Better not to risk my luck.
“Aren’t you supposed to work today?” Penn asks. “What time are you going in?”
“No clue,” I chirp as I meander into a walk-in pantry. The shelves are packed with clear bins full of snacks: Fruit Roll-Ups,Goldfish, popcorn, trail mix. “Ohmygod,” I whisper. “Frosted animal crackers.”
Elated, I carry the bin to kitchen island number two and dig into my favorite childhood treat, relishing the salty-sweet crunch I haven’t tasted in years.
Penn stares, dumbfounded. “Is that your breakfast?”
“Sure is,” I say through a mouthful of sugar. “Why not?”
The coffee maker in the corner beeps, and I pump my fist. Shout-out to Dream Me for putting on the timer. I wonder if Dream Coffee will taste even better.
Penn and I move toward the coffee maker in tandem, but he beats me there, pressing into me to box me out while he rifles through one of the cupboards.
It’s familiar choreography.
Growing up, Penn all but lived at our house, like an overeager neighbor in a nineties sitcom. He was raised by his mom, and since Diane worked odd, early-morning hours as a local newscaster, Penn stayed home with his grandmother. By fourth grade, though, he was taking care of Nanna more than the other way around, and she passed a few years later. After that, Mom stocked Penn’s favorite foods in the pantry, and Dad gave him a key to our house.
As Penn combs through the quirky cup collection, I spy the Cubs mug Mom used every morning, plus a silly one Ryan bought Dad for Christmas when we were in elementary school. Penn chooses the latter and blocks me from grabbing my own. I let out a loud, pointed harrumph that he pretends not to hear while he pours himself a cup, acting like he owns the place.
When he’s done, Penn leans against the counter and watches me. Not even the hot-pinkCaffeine Queenmug can hide hisstupid grin as he says, “If I stay here, do we get to wear matching pajamas? I think I’d look great in purple silk.”
I pretend to gag myself, and he laughs.
“C’mon,” Penn jeers. “It’ll only be a few weeks. Three, four max. And I’ll be a great roommate. Promise. I’ll take out the trash. Wash the dishes. I’ll even bring that tie-dye Jeep to the car wash for you, and I’ll help you at work. Liven up the place.”
I freeze, mug halfway to my mouth, sure I’ve heard him wrong. “Tie-dye Jeep?”
“Don’t give me that look. This is a good deal. I know a thing or two about managing a restaurant from running Curly’s, and I have ideas for your little roller-rink restaurant. We can—”
My laugh bursts out of me like a popped balloon. “Oh my God.” I put down my coffee, pleasantly dizzy as another layer of understanding settles over me. “A roller-rink restaurant?”
Penn shrugs. “Roller disco. Rink-slash-diner. Whatever you call it.”
A tie-dye Jeep.
A roller-rink restaurant.
