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Then the daycare across the street, which once had graffiti all over the windows and chipping paint around the door, was purchased by an unknown owner.
Over a single weekend, the place was renovated from top to bottom. They even took over the abandoned lot next door and turned it into a playground for the kids.
Then the potholes in the street were filled.
Then extra streetlights were added.
Then, just as I was beginning to get a little suspicious, the Arts Center where I work received an anonymous donation of a million dollars.
A million dollars.
There aren’t a lot of people in this city who can afford to just give away that kind of money. Is it a coincidence that one of them just happened to start visiting the center a few weeks before that donation came in?
Somehow, I doubt it.
Since the first day I brought him, Penn has become my unofficial assistant teacher. He comes to every class, stays after to help me clean, and walks me home…. And that’s it.
As if the man needed to become more attractive, now he patiently helps teach children about painting and art, cleansandis my own personal bodyguard.
Great.
There have been no lingering touches, no dirty, drunk dials, and we seem to have reached a silent understanding not to discuss it.
I should be happy that it’s all behind us and that Penn is back in my life, but I’m not. I’m going crazy.
None of his behavior makes even a little sense. Would he be doing all this for me if he just saw me as a friend? For my Dad? Out of guilt?
Nothing quite fits, and with every day that passes, I get closer to blurting out the single burning question that’s on my mind all day, every day.
“Do you want me like I want you?”
At the thought, I glance surreptitiously across the classroom to where Penn is helping a group of three little boys wipe down the mess they just made of the floor.
He looks relaxed and happy, wearing paint-splattered clothes and sneakers that look like they’re about to fall apart at the seams. He’s dressed like any of the other men who work here, but anyone who even glanced his way would be able to see exactly why one of the biggest television networks in America decided to make him a star.
Tousled silver curls, perfectly square jawline, broad chest, hell,the man has dimples.
My stomach sinks at the thought. Whowouldn’twant to be with Penn? He probably gets attention from women all the time. Famous women, beautiful women, accomplished women.
Experienced women.
He could be with anyone. Why would he pick the too-young ceramics teacher who lives in a shitty apartment, is the daughter of his oldest friend, who somehow missed the sexual experimentation phase of art school?
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why I never wanted guys my age. After all, how could anyone measure up to Penn Adler?
The problem is,I don’t measure up to Penn Adler, either.
God, what is wrong with me? Even if he did donate that money, it was for the organization he’s clearly becoming passionate about, not for me. Why can’t I stop reading into every little thing he does, projecting my own desires onto him when the man is just trying to reconnect with me?
Penn wanting me in his life doesn’t mean he wants me.
“Miss. Daisy?” Asks a little girl, holding up a sagging mug, her bottom lip trembling.
I hitch a confident smile on my face. “We can fix that.”
That’s the beauty of clay. Nothing is truly beyond fixing until you put it in the kiln. I can’t make my relationship with Penn into what I want, though.
???
