Except, he parks.
I pull over in the street and watch as Penn opens the trunk. He’s wearing jeans, a gray crewneck sweatshirt, and his go-to navy backward hat as he removes three bouquets of flowers fromhis trunk, struggling to hold them when he reaches back in for a paper bag.
“What the…”
He speed-walks through the main doors, and I let my head fall back against the seat.
I should leave. Abort the mission and interrogate him later, once I know what to say. When I have a plan.
But last night—all that teasing about making me jealous. The glint in his eye. I didn’t imagine it. The evidence was real, right in front of me: Penn felt something. I know it. And I have far too much riding on his feelings to let that spark go out.
I close my eyes and take a breath.
Then I make a run for it.
The automatic doors split open, revealing a lobby full of older people hunched over newspapers and coffee mugs. There’s nobody in here under seventy-five, which is why their heads must turn when I stumble inside.
Or perhaps it’s my iridescent shorts. And the Cucumber Melon scent coming off me in waves. And the push-up bra that even thirteen-year-old me would call “a bit much.”
I wave like I’m part of a parade, then break for the nearest hallway.
“Excuse me. Miss?”
I backtrack to the reception desk tucked into the corner, subtly buttoning my shirt as I stroll toward the short, confused man behind the desk. “Hello,” I say, too formally. I sound suspicious. “I’m here to see my…grandmother.”
Walter, according to his name tag, has concerned brown eyes and a mustache he brushes as he sizes me up. “Her name?”
“Betty Reynolds.” It’s a gamble, naming Connor’s grandma, and morally questionable at best, but I’m hoping the MASH gods understand my predicament.
Walter skims a clipboard. “She has another visitor. Your relative, perhaps?”
Oh, no.My stomach sinks into my toes.
“Please sign here,” he adds.
This is why I don’t break rules. It’s like they say about people who fear animals: Animals can smell it. Rules must know I don’t break them, so here they are, getting even with me.
“Right. Sure.” I tap the paper, stalling.
Behind me, someone clears their throat. “Ruby Wynne?”
Trembling, I turn and find Connor wearing his favorite sky-blue button-up, the hideous pleated khaki slacks I convinced him to donate in the real world, and a shy smile.
“Connor. Hi.” I’m breathless. I glance at Walter, flash him a reassuring grin, then gently guide Connor a few steps back.
He looks down at where I’m holding his arm, then at my chest. His cheeks flush, and I quickly pull my hands away.Accountant.He’s my accountant.
“Do you know someone here, too?” Connor asks.
“I do. Yes.”
He waits for me to elaborate, but the less I talk, the better. Otherwise, I might tell him to ditch the ugly pants, or maybe to go to hell.
Connor fiddles with the gold watch his parents gave him for his twenty-first birthday. On the back, there’s an inscription:Quack, quack.A nod toThe Mighty Ducks, the movie Connor loved as a kid. They adopted the fictional hockey team’s chant as a Reynolds family motto. A reminder to work hard and keep pushing.
I’m about to push my luck if I don’t exit this conversation immediately. Because ever since I landed here, I’ve been confused and frustrated, but seeing Connor—a reminder of who I actually am, plus all the mess that’s waiting for me back in reality—I’m only sad.
“Did you see my email?” Connor asks.
