The day we moved in, giddy and deliriously exhausted, we hauled the last of the boxes from my trunk, and Connor joked that our street was so wide and leafy, it looked like the set of an insurance commercial. I laughed. He was right. The city looked as hopeful as I felt.
That was three years ago. We’d been dating for a little over a year and we were ready for the next step. We were sure. With him, I’ve always been so sure.
Now I’ll have to leave our idyllic street and our sweet neighbor, Ned, who fills all the mailboxes in our building with candy on Halloween and remembers every tenant’s birthday.
My birthday.
I check my phone. It’s almost eleven, and although it’s even later in Florida, Mom and Dad sent a selfie on the family group chat, which Ryan renames with regularity. Today it’s calledAll We Do Is Wynne. With, inexplicably, a top-hat emoji. In the picture, Mom and Dad stand in their condo kitchen wearing pajamas, holding up three and five fingers beneath big, goofy smiles. Beneath it, Dad’s text:birthday nightcap here we go hope you’re having fun.
Someday he’ll learn to punctuate his messages.
Mom texted, too:We love you two the MOST! Cheers to the best year yet!!!!
I heart their messages, set down my phone, and put my headin my hands. I have no clue how to tell my parents about Connor. I can’t say a thing—not until I have a plan.
They’re both retired, and after decades as twin parents and doctors, my parents are relishing their free time. We have a family FaceTime call every Sunday, and I swear every other month we hear about a new trip they’ve booked.
I don’t want to worry them, and I’m not sure I could handle the inevitable concern I’ll find in Mom’s big, brown eyes. Or the lighthearted joke Dad will crack about needing to find a new golf buddy.
I groan into my palms.
Then I hear it, just behind me: a low, rumbling laugh.
Heavy dread presses me into the concrete as Penn slouches onto the step beside me, all six-foot-whatever of him crowding into my space the same way he used to invade our house every afternoon.
Wearing a self-satisfied smirk, Penn adjusts his backward baseball cap and faces me. He smells like beer and popcorn and something sweet. His skin is golden from the summer sun, the dark scruff across his jaw a little longer than usual. Annoyingly, it suits him.
I sigh. As my brother’s best friend, Penn Hayes is a problem to which I’ve grown begrudgingly accustomed, like a leaky faucet. Or an unfortunate chin hair that keeps reappearing.
A Spice Girls song plays in the bar, and he hums the melody, bopping his shoulder. He nudges my elbow, trying to get me to join in. I meet his eyes and scowl.
Penn laughs. “Happy birthday, Sad Spice.”
There’s nobody I’d rather avoid in my time of need. I’m irked he’s seeing me like this. I must be the saddest of sights.
Despair: A Still Life.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” I snap. Connor pushed me off the edge of an emotional cliff, and Penn’s is the very last hand I’d grab in hopes of climbing back onto solid ground.
I’m sure he’d love to learn that I’ve found myself suddenly unmoored. That’s supposed to be him, the one who treats life like an endless buffet, trying a little bit of everything and committing to nothing. As a kid, Penn ran a smattering of businesses and recruited Ryan’s help while ignoring my input on how to make them work. None lasted longer than a month, and Penn’s adult résumé isn’t much more consistent. In college, he studied film, only to graduate and pursue carpentry. That is, until he hooked up with a hotelier heir who got him a hospitality gig.
He landed at Curly’s only a few years ago after the owner retired and offered him both the management position and discounted rent on his nearby apartment.
Penn’s only plan is not to have one.
“C’mon, Wynne,” he says, bumping into my shoulder. “I always have time to antagonize my favorite stick in the mud.”
I’d love to tell Penn where to stick it. Instead, I say, “You know you shouldn’t serve peanuts. It’s a common allergen.”
He tilts me a look. “And you know you shouldn’t be so worried about a grown man who can take care of himself. Let your brother live a little, will you?”
I bristle at the familiar, infuriating refrain. Penn, of all people, should understand why I worry about Ryan the way I do. He’s well versed in the list of dos and don’ts Mom had taped to the fridge, and we both saw what happened when we broke the rules. Only one of us learned our lesson that day, though, and it wasn’t Penn.
“Not everyone gets to be the fun friend,” I tell him. “Somebodyneeds to close out the tabs, call the Uber, and text to make sure everyone gets home safely.”
He sighs. “Ryan’s my guy. You really think I’d throw him to the wolves?”
“I think you are the wolf.”
