August sits in the big swivel armchair at the far side of the room. Which is good because he didn’t sit next to me. And it’s bad because the position gives me a direct sight line to him.
He’s still watching me with a faintly amused expression. I refuse to twitch.
“Augie,” May says. “Help us pick out a movie.”
His attention is unwavering. “You never gave your choice, Penelope.”
This is for the very simple reason that no one here will accept my choice. I like classic Hollywood movies from the 1930s and ’40s. Movies my great-grandparents would have worked on when they were young. I watch them and feel connected. But those movies are best watched alone, when I can really sink into them. Here?
“I don’t think it much matters in this crowd. May and June will talk throughout—”
“Hey!”
“—and March will fill in all other silences with jokes.”
“True.” March salutes me.
“And you’ll fall asleep halfway through it anyway,” August says to me with a small smile.
I blink, a punch of surprise hitting me. “I don’t fall asleep.”
“Yes, you do.” This from everyone. In unison.
“It’s this couch,” I protest. “It’s always been too comfortable.”
No one seems convinced.
“Why don’t you pick, August?” I counter.
Leaning back in the chair, he sets his hands on his flat stomach and appears to think about it. The lamps are on low, and the only other light source comes from the flickering glare of the TV. Everything is muted and soft around the edges. Except for August. Finely delineated and sharp against the soft curved back of the chair, the colors of him—espresso dark hair against cognac leather, crisp white T-shirt pulled tight against golden-brown arms—is more vivid than anything else.
I’ve often wondered why it is some people shine and others don’t. But perhaps it’s the ones doing the looking that make it so. Perhaps, I only see August’s shine because I’ve been trying my whole life to ignore it.
Oblivious of my turmoil, August squeezes the back of his neck and squints into the distance. “How about,” he finally says, “The Fellowship of the Ring?”
At March’s groan, August grins but then glances my way. “We watched it last time we were all together.”
That he remembers is a shock. August barely paid attention to the movie at the time and spent most of it looking at his phone, “studying plays” he’d claimed. Regardless, his choice is accepted. Or rather, March shrugs with indifference, June immediately cues it up, as May does aLegolas dance, which mainly consists of wiggling in her seat and singing “Legolas” over and over.
June spreads a throw over our laps. My fingers curl into the caramel-colored chenille. The blanket is worn, buttery soft, and likely as old as I am. Everything in this room has a patina of age and care. Framed family photos and well-loved books grace the shelves. The papier-mâché carnival mask January made in elementary school hangs on the wall, battered but miraculously still whole. There is history here. Maybe that’s why we revert to children in this room, in this house: because we can. Here, in these walls, with these people, we’re safe and loved. I want that feeling in my life. More than I’ve realized.
“And all was right with the world again,” I say as the movie starts.
August’s grin is quick but wide. “If you fall asleep, Penelope, I’ll make sure these yahoos don’t mess with you.”
Sweet but... “I’m not going to fall asleep.”
Ifall asleep.
I come to this unfortunate conclusion when a gentle touch on my shoulder eases through warm layers of slumber.
“Pen.” Another touch. “Penelope.”
That voice. I know that voice. It’s like Pops’s favorite bourbon: rich, smooth, a hint of bite. I jump fully awake with a gasp and nearly knock heads with August, who’s leaning over me.
He lurches back just in time with an apologetic sound. “Jesus. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Something almost smug glints in his eyes. “But you weren’t waking up.”
Stiff with sleep, I fumble my way into sitting, surreptitiously wiping at my face to make sure I haven’t drooled. “No, no. It’s okay. I was just surprised because I...” The words trail off.
