I scoff. “Oh, so you want to add an expense?”
Penn shakes his head and laughs, and I hate how it feels like he’s laughing at me. I’m not the one who got the business into this mess.
“No. I want to add some fun-loving humans into the equation so that your staff doesn’t outnumber your customers,” he says. “I might not own Curly’s, but I know how to fill the room, and in case you haven’t noticed, that bar doesn’t need any fancy trimmings to attract a crowd.”
“The focus should be on profits, and—”
“And to gain profits, you need to get creative,” he tells me, interrupting again. “Fine, you probably need new hours and fewer managers. Whatever. But you need to think outside the box, too. Revamp the menu. Try one that rotates with some local food items in the mix and see what sticks. Put some events on the calendar. Trivia nights. Theme parties. A magician for some kids—why not? And maybe now’s the time for that toga skate I suggested, too.”
I let out a snap of a laugh. Penn doesn’t even smile. “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“Togas? On skates? Do you realize how physically complicated that is?”
Penn sighs, crossing his arms over his chest, and dear God, the seams could not possibly pull more tightly across his biceps. “You don’t trust me,” he says. “Do you?”
I bite down, hard, grinding my molars. Penn might have some relevant work experience with Curly’s, but attempting to trust him, of all people—especially here, in this wonky timeline, with my entire fate, while considering such brilliant ideas as a “toga skate”—is like being dropped at the base of Mount Everest and instructed to climb it without any training whatsoever.
I must be silent for long enough that Penn gets his answer.
He nods, then lifts both hands. “You know what? You were right. Maybe this is a bad idea.” He stands, remembers he’s on skates, and grips the table for balance. Once he’s stable, he adds, “I’ll pick up my stuff from your house later. And I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”
“Wait.”
He tilts me an impatient look. “What?”
I take a deep breath, unsure what to do. I didn’t think this through. I don’t want to spend any more time with Penn than I have to, and I don’t plan to linger here long enough to see all of his wild ideas through, but I can’t afford to push him away, either. For one thing, I need his knowledge of MASHland. And if Bridget’s right, I might need him to get out of the game.
“Sorry. It’s just—”
Penn sighs. “It’s fine, okay? I get it.”
No. He doesn’t get it. And I’m unable to explain. Telling Penn about the game might break some kind of rule. So instead I twirl the feathery gel pen in my hands, debating what to say, and how.
And then I get an idea. One that might fit the teenage-generated equation.
I flip open my notebook, and in all caps, I write: DEAR PENN, I’M SORRY. PLEASE HELP ME—YES / NO / MAYBE?
I still don’t know the rules around here, but hopefully “dear” sounds enough like “other half” that the MASH overlords will give me some credit.
I rip out the page and fold it into a triangle, tucking in the edges. Then I stand and try to slide the note into Penn’s chest pocket, his puzzled gaze tracking the movement. But his shirt is too tight, so, absent better options, I nestle it into his chest hair instead.
His eyes shift from the note back up to me, and we hold each other’s stares in a challenge, our faces closer than I realized. I can hear his breath, and mine catches, sparking a mischievous glint in his eyes. It’s the smug, obnoxious look of someone who knows he’s just won something. Although I’m not sure what.
“What was that?” Penn asks, his voice low and too close.
“I wrote you a note.”
He nods. “And folded it. Quite thoroughly.”
“Any job worth doing,” I say, and shrug.
His dimple pops, just barely, and something uncomfortable swoops in my stomach, like a warning.
I’m trying to control the situation, but I have no clue what I’m doing. And, really, I don’t know who Bridget’s kidding with all that fairy-tale talk. Penn and I can’t even agree on what this roller rink should look like. True love? Between me and Disco Ken here? Or should I say Disco Penn? Yeah, no. Absolutely not.
I inch away, half-tripping over the chair at my feet as I grab my purse and tuck the notebook inside. “I—I better go help Theo.”
