“Yes,” he says slowly, drawing out the word in confusion.
I nod, wiping away tears. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Penn avoids addressing my dairy meltdown, turning to Ryan instead. “So, are you a secret fan of manpris or what?”
Ryan presses a fist to Penn’s shoulder, bringing out Penn’s most mischievous, gratified smirk. The familiarity—of them, but also ofPenn’s breakfast spread—has me clutching at my heart. I take a bite of toast, hoping carbohydrates will calm my frazzled nerves.
“Did she somehow knock into a tear duct last night?” Ryan asks Bridget. “I haven’t seen Ruby cry since she got a B-plus in theater.”
“It was Drama II. And I should’ve gotten an A-minus. I would’ve had a flawless report card that semester, but Mr. Jenkins didn’t appreciate the art of subtlety.” I turn to Ryan, tears filling my eyes again. “I’m so glad you remember that. We have so many memories.”
I chomp into my toast again, and the crunch seems to fill the silent room.
Bridget casts a warning look at Penn and Ryan, who seem afraid my head might spin all the way around at any moment. She pats my leg. “Yes, we do, Ru.”
Clearly concerned, she nudges the eggs toward me. As the plate moves, the book underneath it becomes visible, and I shift to read the full title: Starting a Business: Everything Entrepreneurs Need to Know (and What You’re Afraid to Ask).
I shove the dishes onto the comforter, crumbs flying, and raise the book as if it’s courtroom evidence. “What is this?” I ask, breathless, as I turn to Penn.
His face falters for only a second, and then he levels me with a look. “Yes, Wynne,” he deadpans. “I can read.”
That’s all he says, and it’s all I need to see when his nervous gaze drops to the floor.
He’s working on PennPals here, too.
—
Bridget leaves tograb our stuff from her parents’ house, and I finish my meal with renewed energy, invigorated by therealization that I know more about Penn that he could ever fathom. Likely afraid to leave me to my own nonsensical devices, he and Ryan stick around.
Penn sits at the edge of the bed. The old me would’ve probably snarked at him, insisting he leave. In fact, I might have army-crawled out of this place, or done whatever necessary to escape the confines of his bedroom. Instead, when I’m done eating, I lie back against his pillow, relishing in the cedar-citrus smell of his soft sheets. Closing my eyes, I may as well be back in the mansion, curled up in Penn’s arms, my face pressed into his neck.
“Who are you texting with that smirk?” It’s Ryan, talking to Penn.
My eyes flash open.
With a laugh, Ryan asks him, “Is it that cute redhead you were talking to at the bar? Or her friend, the blonde?”
I bolt up in bed, eyes narrowed at Penn. “I thought you liked brunettes.”
They both turn, surprised I’m listening.
“I thought you didn’t care,” Penn says. Then he slants a look at his wooden nightstand, his lips lifting into a wry grin. “Ah, that’s right. I forgot. You’ve been pining all along.”
I follow his gaze, my breath catching at the sight of the crinkled slip of paper that Bridget must’ve left there last night.
The MASH game.
Penn thinks he’s got me. That I don’t know thathe’sthe one who’s been pining all along. Me, I never knew how I felt. But he did, a long time ago.
“Right,” I say. “Me, pining. Says the guy who remembers everything I’ve ever told him?”
Penn blinks at me, baffled. Ryan huffs in disbelief.
I look for some sign from Penn that what I’ve said is true. I wait for his cheeks to color, or to catch a glimmer in his eyes. I’m desperate to find any secret cues that his feelings for me already exist here, too.
But he breaks eye contact to face Ryan. “Her name is Katie. The redhead? That’s Katie.”
I gasp, sure he’s talking about the same Katie I know—Earl’s Katie. If he knows her here, too, then pieces of the timeline must match up, even if the actual events aren’t identical.
