My big brother, famous for his dogged determination, waits patiently.
On the cold counter, my hand curls into a fist. May’s wailing lament returns inside my head.
I wanted it to be true!
Pen
“You’re dragging your feet.”
At August’s proclamation, I scowl at the phone. “I am not.”
Apparently, our united front in the face of his sisters’ wrath cleared away most of the awkward tension our denied practice kiss created. I still get flashes of want and don’t know how to make that go away. Baby steps.
“You could have cleared that room of yours out in a couple of hours,” he says dispassionately. “Yet you’re over there once again, picking through your stuff.”
“It’s been three days since she kicked me out. Stop rushing me.”
“Penelope, we both know you’re stalling.”
“I am notstalling.” I might be stalling. Just a teeny bit. With a huff, I pack up another bag. “Need I remind you that I have to transport things via my bike?”
“No, you need not remind me, Ms. Granny.”
Granny. Ha!
“My sisters are visiting you,” he goes on, “witha rental car. Why aren’t they helping?”
“They suckered Jan into taking them to Disney Land for the day.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?”
Because my first game day is tomorrow, and I’m suddenly nervous as hell. “Because I have to pack up my things. See?Notdragging my feet.”
“Then why didn’t you let me help you move everything when I offered yesterday?”
“I don’t know why this bothers you so much.” I toss an old playbill in the “Maybe” pile. “Unless this has to do with your ranidaphobia?”
He makes a sound of baffled amusement. “Rani-da-what?”
“Fear of frogs.”
He scoffs with dry humor. “Edward and I are cool. And maybe we should talk aboutyourphobia of accepting this very good change in your life. Got a clinical name forthat?”
It’s a well-known fact among the Lucks that I keep an ongoing list of phobia names. Not for any reason other than I like learning them.
“Metathesiophobia,” I mutter. “And I don’t suffer from that!”
“Thank God,” he intones. “Because it was a mouthful.”
Despite myself, a soft laugh escapes. “Okay, fine. I’m dragging my feet.”
“I’m marking this day down in my calendar. Penelope admits that I am right.”
“About this one thing!”
“Details.”
Our accord lasts about as long as a smile. August proceeds to tell me—make that order me—to have everything packed up by noon because he’s coming to move my things. I maintain that I can do it myself and he doesn’t have to help; I know howbusy he is. August finds this insulting, stating that he most certainly has time for me.
