“You’re not making it better,” Penelope teased him, but still felt the sting, deeper than she should have.
“Put it this way—if I put the book away tomorrow, would you think less of me?”
“Of course not!” Ridiculous question.
“There you go. That’s exactly what I mean. You’ll go on loving me despite what I do or don’t do.”
Penelope made an exaggerated face. “Oh, sure, you think we all just love you.”
“All of you but Bree.” Jack let out a laugh and turned back to the cabinet above the stove.
“Oh, stop, Bree loves you. She’s just . . . Bree,” Penelope said.
Jack retrieved bowls and filled them with chili and hot bread, sprinkled sharp cheddar on top, and set one in front of her. It smelled divine, rich and spicy.
They ate in silence for a while until Jack sighed. “Do you think I’m writing a book just to make my father proud?” He flushed and amended, “I mean, that sounds asinine. I’m twenty-two. My father doesn’t even read—at least not frequently. He’s the son of a Cuban immigrant. Owns a hardware store—that’s his whole life. I’m not sure he’s left his own block in fifteen years.”
“Everyone tries to make their parents proud, no matter their age. It’s not asinine; I think it’s totally normal.” Penelope took a bite of the chili and swooned—it tasted as good as it smelled, thick and cheesy.
“You don’t.” Jack aimed his spoon at her, grinning.
“I don’t have parents. They died in a car accident when I was nine. I lived with my mom’s sister, and I think she really just did the minimum. She kept me clothed and fed. She died a year ago, and I haven’t been back to her house since, although it’s still mine. I pay the taxes on it, at any rate.” She took a breath, not meaning to have revealed quite so much. The wine had made her chatty.
“Why haven’t you been back?” Jack asked.
“I just don’t . . . want to deal with it all. My aunt was a stranger to me. She was kind enough. But that house isn’t a happy memory or anything. It’s easier to be here, for now. Until I’m ready.”
“My point is, everyone who has a family builds a life with that family in mind, for good or bad.”
Jack thought for a moment, tugged on his earlobe. “My mom worked the hardware store in the mornings. Before she died, I mean. I’m sitting behind the counter counting nails, lining them all up—you know, with the heads facing the same way? They’re all different sizes. One is green, and I don’t know why. She’s handing me butterscotch hard candies, and she unwraps them first. Every ten minutes or so she gives me another one. Don’t chew it. That’s the only thing she said, and I can still hear her voice, but only those words. I don’t remember anything else—not her laugh, her mannerisms. Nothing.” He gave Penelope a crooked smile. “That’s the memory of my mother. You asked me once, and I never answered you.”
“You said you had only one memory, right?” Penelope asked. The whole room had started to close in on them; all she could see was Jack’s face, his sad smile, his eyes, blue and deep. She reached out, touched his arm, the air around them so thick she could scarcely breathe.
“That’s the whole thing. I’m not even sure how long after that she died. I do know that if I even smell butterscotch, I get completely overwhelmed. Like, I can’t even talk, my throat closes up,” Jack said. “You know, none of us have a real family.”
Penelope was startled to realize he was right. Flynn had been adopted by a Christian evangelical family in Ohio. Once, while drinking, he told Penelope he never told them he was gay, but they knew. It was why they never, ever called. He found reasons to skip holidays; they found reasons to justify it. When he was a child, and even a teenager, they’d loved him. Their rejection of him as an adult stung all the more for it. Flynn acted like this was fine, but he knew deep down it wasn’t. Penelope knew it too. When she’d taken his hand, tears in her eyes, had tried to laugh it off, something got caught, and it came out strangled.
Bree’s family lived entirely in Europe. She talked about them in a rush, the glitz and glamour of it all. Jack said once, Bree, tell them how your family are billionaires, not just millionaires. You know the difference between a billion and a million? A million seconds is eleven days, while a billion seconds is thirty-one years. But Bree had looked at him murderously and told him to fuck off. Penelope remembered later thinking, God, they never call her either.
Willa was raised by a mother who was actively dying of alcoholism. Willa’s mother definitely called, but Willa would see her name pop up on the caller ID and walk away from it, rolling her eyes. I’ll pick up when it’s the Pennsylvania state police, she joked.
“We have each other.” Penelope shrugged, like this was a small thing. It wasn’t—to her. For better or worse, the Spires were all she had for a family. Sometimes she found herself daydreaming about them living in the house together indefinitely. Holidays, birthdays, summers. Sure, it seemed unconventional, but if none of them had anyone else, wasn’t it better to go through life known and loved than adrift in a sea of strangers? When she thought about leaving them, her lungs squeezed tight. “It’s healthy, you know. To make your own family.”
“Ah, the resident therapist,” Jack joked, but his voice broke at the end, and he gazed at her tenderly. Penelope knew then that Jack thought about the same things: the five of them staying together, the skipping panic at the thought of the ending year.
“Right, because I’m so mentally stable.” Penelope laughed, thinking of her own self-doubt, the moments in the house when she’d felt like an outsider looking in, watching them all laugh and let loose, and feeling tied in knots.
“Why do you do that? Why do you self-deprecate?” Jack fixed his gaze on her with an intensity that made her squirm. “Is it an act? Or do you truly not know how much we all love you? Even Bree, who is barely aware of anything past her own face, loves you best. Even more than Flynn. You’re our Lachesis.”
“I never know what that even means,” Penelope said, dismissive.
“She measured out your fate. Determined how you would live your life. What you might become. The house mother, testing our mettle.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Not at all.” He took her hand, ran his fingertips along hers, along the blue veins running under her white skin. Without thinking, she lifted it, turned it over, and kissed his palm.
God, she should have been embarrassed. Humiliated! But the fourth glass of rosé had done her all in. Penelope—predictable, dependable, reasonable, logical. Sometimes it was so exhausting being yourself.
Why shouldn’t she throw it all in for love?
She felt the sharp intake of Jack’s breath and knew instantly that it would be too easy. Besides being easily seduced in general, Jack was particularly vulnerable to anyone who plainly adored him as much as Penelope did.
She stood, deliberate and slow, and moved to the other side of the island. He watched her, a shocked little smile playing on his lips, but he didn’t pull away when she held his hand again. When she kissed it again, this time leaning into him so they connected shoulder to hip, all she could think about was I might never have this chance again.
He closed his eyes and mouthed, Fuck, and then out loud said, “Pip, what are you doing?” and “This is a terrible idea.” Until she kissed his neck, the soft pulsing spot beneath his collar, felt the stubble of his five-o’clock shadow on her lips, and then moved up and pressed her mouth to his. His lips were warm and soft and tasted like wine and spice, and everything was suddenly, intently, on fire. Her mouth, her hands, a hot pull in her belly, the pulse between her legs.
And his rigid form went boneless against her, his hands finding her back, her thighs, lifting her up onto the counter, their mouths biting, his hands running the length of her legs, between her thighs, and somehow her shirt was off and she was pulling at his clothes, the fly of his jeans. She’d never known a moment like this in her life—marked entirely by lust, all her senses misfirin
g; she could taste his cologne, feel the salt on his skin, smell the need wafting off him; and she knew they wanted the same things.
“Upstairs, now,” Jack growled into her mouth, and she followed him closely as he took the steps two at a time, not even caring that she left her blouse in the kitchen for anyone to see. In his bedroom, they fell onto the bed, and the next thing Penelope knew, she was naked, their bodies bucking and writhing together until he slid inside her and she gasped, clawing at his backside, and he said fuck again, and it was the most passionate experience of Penelope’s life.
The next morning, she remembered precious little of it—waking with a brutal headache pushing behind her eyes. Jack’s arm was slung around her from behind, his thighs stuck to hers from the trapped heat of the blanket, and she peeled away, wrapping herself in a sheet before glancing at the clock.
7:52 a.m.
God, the others would be awake. She had no idea where her clothes had ended up, but she had to get to her room—Jack’s room was wide open to the great room. In the kitchen she could hear quiet movement—someone making coffee, the opening and closing of the refrigerator. She eyed the trapdoor in his floor and looked back at him, snoring softly as he turned over in her absence, his back to her now.
She felt sick—from the wine, she thought. Maybe it was also the fact that she’d slept with Jack! Her mind was scrambled, unable to make sense of any of it. What would happen now? Jack was a playboy; they all knew that. But still, they’d grown closer. Their walks to and from town, he told her about his mother. Was it unreasonable to hope? She had to get back to her room. She had to think.
She lifted the trapdoor and shimmied inside, keeping the sheet around her. She eased the door shut above her head and climbed down the ladder to the landing, then crept along the wall, feeling for the thirty steps with her toes. When she finally made it to the storage closet, she edged open the door to the basement hallway—just a crack—and peered out. The hall was empty. She slid through the crack, pulling the sheet behind her, and then turned to close it quietly. When she turned back, she gasped.
Bree stood behind her, in a long black kimono, twirling a single hank of red hair. Her smile was wide, teasing; her eyes flashed, and Penelope saw something flicker under the surface. Or maybe she imagined it. She looked up at the ceiling, toward Jack’s room and back to Penelope, still wrapped in the bedsheets, shoulders bare.
Bree said, “Where did you come from?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
February 24, 2020
Penelope woke up early Monday morning. Brett’s side of the bed was cool and bare—he’d likely been up for hours. He often left before dawn, preferring to work out when the gym was empty.
He’d been asleep when she came home last night, and she’d slid into bed, lying in the dark until well after midnight, staring at the moonlight glinting off her bedroom ceiling fan. Wondering at what point had she stopped being a conscious participant in her own life? She’d become so reactive.
She thought back to a mere three weeks ago, before Willa knocked on her door. All she could remember was a whirlwind of taking kids to activities, work, trying to squeeze in her own exercise, make dinner, clean up, go to bed.
She’d tried to stay awake, waiting for the telltale creak of the hallway floor, the click of the guest room door, but fell asleep first.
She woke up with a thought: I will take my life back.
She found Willa in the kitchen quietly making coffee. Willa wore a white sleep shirt, barely covering the smooth sculpt of her backside, her legs completely free of cellulite, tan and muscular. Penelope thought of those legs wrapped around Jaime’s waist a mere seven hours earlier, and felt a tang of bile in her throat.
Willa’s face had changed in the twenty years since college: the scar zigzagging from ear to chin was pink and taut in the bluish light, but her body retained the musculature of a twenty-two-year-old. She’d been rounder then, baby fat in her cheeks and thighs. Age had given her a leaner, more brittle look.
Penelope tugged self-consciously at her knit pajamas, long sleeves and pants, and felt matronly.
“You startled me,” Willa said with a soft laugh, not seeming startled at all.
“Been up long?” Penelope asked, pulling mugs down from the cabinet. If they were going to have this conversation, then it would be civil, over coffee.
“I have insomnia. I don’t sleep much. It’s gotten worse since college.” Willa shrugged, her long hair falling into her face as she dipped her head. Penelope had forgotten how beautiful she was, especially when vulnerable.
The Willa standing in her kitchen, quietly tiptoeing around to keep from waking Penelope’s family, seemed harmless. Which one was real—the woman from a few days ago, apologetic and sweet and slightly manipulative when Penelope confronted her about the birth control, or Willa now, quiet and contemplative in the early light? She’d kissed Penelope’s cheek, her perfume the same from college—something off brand with distinct musk—and sent Penelope’s head swirling. She’d taken care of everything—everything—for all of them. Saved them, really. Was Brett right? Did she owe her?
No, she didn’t. But, it was complicated. Their friendship years ago had been based almost entirely around Willa and Jack. Willa and Jack were the “show”—Willa’s fiery temper, Jack’s affable charm. Penelope was the straight man, the Moe Howard, the Zeppo Marx, the Bud Abbott. Penelope was the one to smooth them over when they fought, the one to talk them all off their own ledges. She laughed at their antics, even encouraged them, scolded them both when they made terrible choices—which they always did.
Until the choices they’d all made sealed their fate.
Yes. She owed Willa two weeks—a place to hide out, food, shelter, warmth, help. She gave her that. It was enough.
“I think we need to talk through a plan,” Penelope said. Her palms felt slick. She was nervous, and she didn’t know why. Confrontation was never comfortable, she supposed. Even if it was gentle.
“You want me to leave?” Willa asked, without looking up. She stirred a small dollop of milk into her coffee and took a sip before meeting Penelope’s gaze.
“I just feel like we all need a path forward. We have to be working toward something.” Penelope was and always had been goal oriented. She was a woman who must have a plan. She squared her shoulders and drank her black coffee and studied Willa, who smiled to herself and looked around the kitchen.
“God, you have such a beautiful house, Pip. Seriously. You’ve done so well for yourself.” It didn’t sound like a compliment. Willa’s mouth was a glossy pucker, her eyes scanning the ceiling.
Penelope didn’t say anything.
“I understand why you’d want me out. It’s a lot to have someone . . . in your space. In your life. Taking care of your kids . . . your husband. You don’t have to feel threatened, you know.”
“I don’t feel threatened. It’s not that, Willa.” Penelope heard the defensive note in her voice, helpless, and she hated it. She corrected it. “I know you’ve needed us. We’ve been here for you. But we need to find you a more permanent solution. A shelter, maybe. An apartment. Something to keep your life on track. For you.”
“Well, maybe threatened is the wrong word. I don’t mean it like that, of course not. I just mean . . . ” Willa took a deep breath and put down her mug. She took one of Penelope’s hands in both of hers and gazed earnestly into her eyes. She looked so sincere, so pleading that Penelope felt herself thaw, just a little. “You’ve done so much for me. I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable at all. I will find another place to go, okay? I promise.”
“I don’t need you to leave today, Willa. I just need to know what your plan is.” Penelope pulled her hand back a little, and Willa tightened her grip. “Obviously, this is not sustainable.” Penelope hated how formal she became when nervous. How stiff, uptight. They used to mock her for that.
“I know. I know! God. I’ve been racking my brain trying to come up with an idea. I had a frien
d keeping an eye on Trent, and so far, he seems fine. I thought for sure he’d come right after me, hunt me down somehow. But this . . . friend. She says he’s made no move, nothing. Goes to work at the garage every day like it’s fine. He asked about me, though. My friend, I mean.” She shook her head. “Trent always said he’d find me and kill me if I left him. I’ll come up with a plan, okay? You can even help me. I was thinking. What if I got an apartment under my old name? Willamena Blaine. Go by Mena. I mean, I’m not invisible then; I’m sure he could find a way to find me. He knows my maiden name.” She twisted her bottom lip with her manicured fingers. “I’ll find something, okay? I promise.”
Penelope suddenly doubted herself. Was she sending her friend out into open waters? Why did they not have enough room in their house? Five bedrooms. Plus an office. A finished basement. My God, strangers could move in here and live for weeks unnoticed. But they wouldn’t buy her children birth control, steal her jewelry, pay her bills, go through her stuff.
Penelope had always considered the house more Brett’s than hers. He’d pushed for it: new, cavernous, sterile. When the Realtor had shown it to them ten years ago, the kids still almost toddlers, drooly and thick legged, Penelope had felt a surge of repulsion. She’d wanted character, warmth. Character and warmth of this size, with all the amenities, are an extra three hundred thousand dollars. He’d been right—New Jersey was expensive real estate. It was either new, echoing, white, or real stone, filled with six-inch moldings and heart-pine variable-width flooring, but without air-conditioning. Same price. She balanced one child on her hip while she signed the closing paperwork—didn’t even remember which child.
“Look, Willa, wait. I’m not saying you have to leave effective immediately. I just want you to think about it, and we can talk about some kind of transition, okay?” Penelope felt a tug then—should she be a better friend? More forgiving, somehow? She heard Willa in her head: Do you have girlfriends, Pip? Was she inherently bad at friendship? she wondered.
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