“What’s your class schedule?” I ask.
Pen spots a trash bin and tosses the empty cup. “Class starts next Thursday on the twenty-fifth. I’m in class Mondays through Thursdays, but only until around three in the afternoon.”
“You up for a couple of dates when I’m free during the week, and attending home game days?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t expect you at my beck and call or anything. It’s more that my schedule is pretty full with training, practice, and games. Wash, rinse, repeat.”
She touches my hand. “August, it’s fine. This is what you asked of me.”
“Yeah.” I’m already regretting it. But I push it aside. Focus on the ultimate goal. It’s what I do best. “I talked to the guy who did the settlement on my house. Sean says he can set you up with a payment schedule so you don’t have to pay the taxes in lump sums.”
At this, Pen halts and blinks up at me. “You did?”
“I said I’d help.”
“I know . . . it’s just . . . thank you, August.”
“Don’t thank me just yet. It’s still a lot of money each month.” I peer down at her. “Do you have a job right now?”
Her cheeks pinken, and she nibbles on her bottom lip. “There was enough in the trust for me to set up a rental-living expense account. I could have used it for the taxes, but it wouldn’t have been enough, and I figured, double up on classes, focus on graduating so I can devote all my time to earning would be a good thing.”
“All right. Then I’ll pay off this year’s taxes—it’ll give you some room to figure things out,” I add when she stiffens.
“How about this. If I can’t figure out how to pay for it myself by tax time, you can help.”
“It’s your choice.”
“It is.”
“Okay, then. But the offer is always going to be open.”
“And I appreciate it. Truly, August. I do.”
We walk a bit in silence.
Her expression turns resolute. “If you do end up helping me, it will be just the one time. I’ll either sell the place or find another way to pay you back.”
“Okay.” It’s all I can say. Pen sees this as charity, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. It’s an attempt to give something back in gratitude for the public pressures I’m about to subject her to. That part, I don’t like. Only, I can’t back down now. I justcan’t.
I’m an intelligent guy. There are other ways I could go about fixing my tarnished image. But somewhere between finding her on my parents’ doorstep and hunting her down at the airport, I’d realized with absolute clarity that this is the play Ineed.Not only to help my career. But to get closer to Pen, something I could never do before, given that she’d flee any time I was around.
Our new ease together tentative at best. I need more time with her. I need to play this right. It’s a gamble. Anything worth having is. All that is required is a good strategy.
I take her hand in mine—friendly-like. “Meet me on Wednesday for breakfast?”
Twelve
Pen
One of the great things about LA is the classic Americana diner. There’s something comforting in knowing you can get a plain cup of coffee, bacon and eggs, waffles, a fluffy stack of golden pancakes, crisp hash browns, a tuna melt, whatever floats your boat, and it will always be served up the same. Hangover food, a family breakfast, works well either way.
When I was a kid out visiting Pops and Pegs, we’d go to the 101 Coffee Shop, a ’60s-style diner, with a chunky rock stone wall, hanging milk glass globe pendant lights, and faux wood-paneled counters. Amidst the scents of drip coffee, grease, and pancakes, we’d slide into one of the tan booths, the backs of my bare legs squeaking along the pleather, and settle down to calorie-laden fry-cooked paradise.
During the pandemic, the 101 closed. And with it, a slice of Hollywood history. I’d gotten a huge kick out of watchingSwingersone night, in my freshman year, and seeing the 101 featured, and knowing I’d often sat in that very spot, eating a short stack with a side of bacon. But time moves on.
Thankfully, it was saved and reopened under the new name of Clark Street Diner. It’s no longer a late-night drunken haven, but, seeing as I’d never been here after midnight, I’m okay with that.
