Thankfully, Pen huffs with a smile and heads for her room. A lack of denial means she agrees with me. That’s what I’m sticking to, at any rate. I watch her go. Her posture is prim straight and correct, but her peachy butt sways like a pendulum. I want to take a bite out of it, out ofher.I settle for stopping the record and putting it back in its sleeve. I have no idea if the massive collection of records is Pen’s or her roommate’s, but I’m guessing the latter.
Hovering by the front door in case I need to escape a sneak frog attack, I try to see anything of Pen here. I can’t. Pen’s true place is back at her grandparents’ house. Not that there’s any of her things there either, but she can make it her own. I want that for her, and I want to be there to witness the whole thing.
The trick is convincing her to let it happen.
Eleven
Pen
August and I debate where to go the whole walk down to the car and while I buckle up. But finally, we settle on heading for the Santa Monica beach bike path. Mainly because it’s a perfect day, and we’d both like a bit of fresh sea air.
It feels good, though, to drive along with the windows down in Pops’s old Wagoneer and the radio playing. August chose The DoorsGreatest Hits, something my grandfather loved listening to as well, and I’m reminded of going fishing off the Pier with Pops. We’d end the day with a ride on the Ferris wheel, after which, he’d buy me a custard shake. Maybe I can convince August to get one with me later.
Speaking of August . . .
“Keep your eyes on the road, mister.”
August lifts his brows in a parody of innocence. “I am!”
He most certainly was sneaking looks at me slathering sunscreen over my arms and legs.
“You act like you’ve never seen anyone take proper precaution against sun damage before.”
“There you go with the grandma talk again.” He switches lanes, the corner of his lips curling upward. “It only turns me on, you know.”
“Glad to know you have a thing for grandmas.”
“Try again, Sweets.” He risks a glance, quick but hot. “AndI should be lecturing you on distracting the driver. Can’t you rub that on your legs when we get there? I vote for a slow and thorough application.”
“Ha. And no. Sunscreen needs to absorb twenty minutes before going out for maximum efficacy.”
He groans and takes a deep breath. “Killing me here.”
This flirty side of August is something I’d witnessed from afar but had never been subjected to. It’s surprisingly fun, and addicting. But he doesn’t need to know that. His ego is healthy enough.
Rolling my eyes, I cap the sunscreen but stick it in the bin between the seats instead of my bag. “If it wasn’t a safety risk, I’d say you should put some on now too. We’ll have to wait until we get there.”
White teeth flash in a grin. “You gonna rub it on me, Sweets?”
“Nice try, buddy.”
“Can’t blame a guy.”
With a dubious hum, I lean back and close my eyes, letting the wind hit my face. “LA Woman” ends, and The Raconteurs’ “Old Enough” starts playing, the bluegrass-rock version with Ashley Monroe harmonizing alongside Jack White. I know this because I played the song multiple times one year in high school. I have no idea where I discovered it, but it’s a nice surprise to know August likes it too.
As it usually happens when I hear the song, I start to sing along, taking the contralto notes. It doesn’t occur to me to feel self-conscious, even though I never sing around other people. Maybe it’s because August is strumming his thumb on the steering wheel in time to the beat and eyes bright with pleasure. But I’m not sure that’s it. Maybe it’s just him. Somewhere between him telling me I had nice teeth, eating sandwiches in the night, and me hearing out his wild false marriage proposal, I fell intotrustwith him.
“Okay,” I say when the song ends. “I’ll do it.”
The car swerves a little when his attention swings my way. “What?”
“Road!” I point, scrambling upright.
But he’s already corrected. “Focus, Penelope—” as ifI’mthe one driving all over the place “—you’ll do what exactly?”
It’s clear he understood me perfectly fine because he’s beaming, his smile so wide, he’s dimpling. But he’s not letting it go, his insistent gaze darting between me and the road, waiting for my answer.
Brushing an errant strand of hair away from my eyes, I repeat myself with a calm I don’t exactly feel. “I’ll go along with your crazy-ass scheme.”
