Champagne turns sour in my mouth. I set my phone down and rub at my sternum. A hard knot formed there weeks ago and won’t go away.
“Are you going to tell me what was so important that you paid for my upgrade?” Pen doesn’t look up from her book, but I know all her attention is on me.
“For the record, I would have upgraded you regardless. What kind of...” Friend? No, we’re not friends. Childhood relations? That sounds horrible. “...person would I be if I let you sit back there when I’m up here?”
A small smile curls her pink lips. With her oval face and shining brown hair shot with red-gold flowing around it, she’s a Botticelli. “You’re stalling. Sweet, but stalling.”
Sweet? I never.
“I decided I don’t want to talk about it now. We’ve got nearly six hours together.”
Pen sets the reader face down on her lap and turns toward me. “Thought that far ahead, did you?”
“Obviously.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Maybe it’s worse.” I pull at my collar. It’s a T-shirt but it smothers all the same.
Pen simply stares. She’s always done this. Looked at me with solemn brown eyes, so glossy and big, and fucking serene. I’d never been able to stand it, knowing that if I ever truly looked back, I would be lost.
I pick up my glass and swallow the dregs.
“You know,” she says, “this past day and a half is the most we’ve ever spoken to each other since we were little kids.”
“What? No.” I mentally try to recount all our past conversations. “It can’t... well, hell. It is, isn’t it?”
She nods, and a lock of hair slides along her cheek. My fingers twitch.
“That’s kind of shit, Penelope.”
Pen shrugs. The tiniest movement of her shoulders.
I clench my hand. “We’ve known each other our whole lives. We should have talked more than this.”
“Well, we know each other, but we were always going different directions, I suppose.”
And why was that?
I clear my throat. “Still.”
Her gaze lifts and collides with mine. I feel it in my solar plexus. As strong as any blindside hit. A soft flush colors her cheeks. Penelope isshy. I’ve known this in a vague way, but I didn’t trulyknowuntil now that being at ease with others doesn’t come naturally to her. Pair that with my instinct to retreat anytime I encountered her disapproving expression, and you have one big, uncomfortable void.
“We didn’t really have any reason to talk,” she adds.
Another hit. I resist the urge to rub my chest again.
Glancing at her book, I take a breath and start. “I hate reading books. My mind wanders two sentences in. But I love audiobooks. I don’t know why it’s different, but I can let go and dive into the story when it’s audio.”
Her brow knits for a fraction of a second, then clears. “I’m the opposite. I read every chance I get but if I try to listen to audio or a podcast? Poof! I’m already gone.”
My grin is wide. “What’s your favorite book?”
Her nose wrinkles. “That’s like asking your mother who her favorite child is.”
“I know that’s me, so . . .”
“Whatever gets you through the day, August.”
