Memories envelop me as I turn onto Lickety-Split. I didn't spend much time at that house with Penn, at least not after his mom went downhill. He preferred anywhere else to his home, and I knew it was because he didn't want me to see what his home life was like. He had me and our friendship, and then he had the other half of his reality, and he kept us on parallel paths.
The day he moved away, I cried the kind of ugly cry my mother calledunseemly. Penn and I hadn't seen each other in weeks by that point, because I'd been told not to see him after the accident. I'd agreed because my father was irate, and I believed the faster I went along with the consequence of my choices, the quicker he'd be to take back the ban on my friendship with Penn. But the call came that day, and Penn had saidMy mom and I are moving away. I'm sorry. For everything.He hung up, and ugly sobs wracked my body. My mother saidI hope you cry like that for me when I dieand I carried that with me until the day she announced her cancer wastoo far along to fight. That damn sentence moved like ticker tape through my mind, and soon after, Duke and I devised our plan.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, clearing my throat and straightening my shoulders. Even if that busybody Margaret got it all wrong and somehow it really is Penn come back to handle his mother's house, I would be just fine with that. I would shake his hand, maybe offer the slightest, friendly embrace, and that would be that. My heart wound has healed and scarred. Is there anything stronger than scars? Scars know. Scars have been there. Visible scars are like messages to others, and emotional scars are messages to ourselves. Like little pieces of information, they inform us.Stay away from that person, avoid that situation, keep them at arm's length, guard your heart.
And Penn? He left a long, jagged scar over the top of my heart, and the message it left is tattooed on my soul.
Is my breath quickening as I approach the Bellamy house, knowing somebody is in town with the specific purpose of handling affairs that concern Penn? Someone who probably knows him? Maybe. Do my knuckles turn white on the wheel until the joint aches? Possibly.
Creeping up to the Bellamy house with a belly full of cake and not nearly enough champagne was not on my agenda for today. But, here we are.
The truck parked out front catches my eye. It's a newer model, shiny black. And I recognize it. My eyes squint at the car parked beside it.
"Hugo," I whisper into my air-conditioned cabin. At least this confirms Peter really does know Hugo. I was not in danger of being made into confetti.
A waving hand catches my attention. Hugo, rounding the house and walking until he stops beside the porch steps. I slow but don't stop, delivering my best impression of a nonchalant wave. A man strides from the home, glaring at my car. Peter.
But...wow. Ok. He looks mad. Or maybe it's just unhappy. Either way, he scowls in my direction.
He strides to Hugo, those well-honed arms crossing as he settles into place. He's not in all black today. He wears a gray T-shirt, and light colored jeans. I know it's not Penn, but still, my heart hammers my breastbone, doing its best impression of a toddler banging on a drum. It's the house, playing tricks on me. Making me get creative and envision the man Penn may have grown to be.
For the briefest of seconds, I consider stopping and saying hello, but given the scowl that may have taken up permanent residence on Peter's face, I'll pass.
I tap the gas pedal, picking up speed and leaving the two men in the rearview. I don't know what I was expecting to find, what answers I wanted, or even what questions I had. I only wanted to see for myself what Margaret was telling people about.
For years I held back from trying to find him online, or ask Hugo if they were still in touch. I guess hearing that one mention of him from Margaret really tapped a nerve.
But I know better. Peter being hired to handle the abandoned Bellamy house changes nothing. Penn left without a trace, leaving not even a breadcrumb trail to follow. The smartest thing I can do for myself now is remember that if someone wants to be found, they'll make a way.
Penn must not want to be found, because he's not who returned.
Chapter 8
Penn
"Well, that didn't take long."Hugo shakes his head. He peels off his dirty shirt, reaching into his car for a clean tee.
He has row upon row of ab muscles, his arms nearly as well-defined as mine. The sport of fencing might not call to mind buff specimens, but Hugo has a gym at Summerhill. The Olympics are in his rearview now, but exercise has remained a part of his daily routine.
"Alright, alright," I say, delivering my best Matthew McConaughey impression as Hugo stretches his hands above his head, bare muscles flexing. "How much is my ticket to Thunder Down Under?"
"First show is free." Hugo threads his arms through his clean shirt. "Next show is even better, and I charge."
I look down at my own dirty shirt. We worked for two hours, making lists and picking through dusty detritus. Unlike him, I do not have a fresh T-shirt to change into. I'm sure people at the grocery store I'm stopping by on the way back to his rental won't be afraid to look askance at my filthy shirt.
"What didn't take long?" I ask, moving past the joke and referring back to his comment from before his strip show.
Hugo twists the top off a water bottle flavored with lemon-lime electrolytes. "Olive Township rumor mill."
"Margaret," I say matter-of-factly.
"Yep." Hugo stares in the direction of Daisy's long-gone car. "You feel like telling me why Daisy drove up to your old house?"
I scratch my jaw with the edge of my thumbnail. That was my first question, too, as soon as I got over the shock of seeing her in her car. Shrugging, I answer, "She must've been one of Margaret's first recipients of fresh gossip and decided to come see for herself."
"It's possible. She was cake tasting with my sister today."
"What the actual fuck is cake tasting?"
