I smirk. "It fits."
He shrugs. "I happen to think so." He peers around me into my house. "Are you guarding the entrance? Is there a password?"
"Penn," I blurt.
His head rears back like he's been sucker punched. Or,shocked.
"The password is Penn," I clarify. Following our text messages this morning, I decided that I would be brave and ask the question I've been too scared to ask. Maybe talking to Hugo tapped into a long hidden thirst, and now there's no going back. I need to know more about Penn.
He swallows. Hard. Runs his palm over the back of his neck. Clears his throat. I almost feel bad about his level of discomfort, but then I remember he's standing between me and learning more about the person who has plagued me for years.
"Hugo told me you know him. I mean, I figured you did, because you were hired to clean out his old house."
His lips press together for a moment, peeling apart as he visibly swallows. Given the preamble, I'm expecting a long response. But what he offers is a simple, "Yes."
I step back and pivot ninety degrees, so my back is pressed up against the open door. Gesturing, I say, "Come in. It's a mess."
Peter gives me a weird look. "Of course it's a mess, Daisy. You're remodeling."
So, here's the thing. I'm surprised I allowed him here at all, given the state of my home. I've been very careful not to tell anybody what I have going on inside my house right now. Including Duke. Most of the time we spend together is for the visual benefit of others, which means we are almost never alone together in one another's homes. We will be soon enough, Isuppose. After the wedding. We've worked out most of the finer details, with me planning to move into his home but keep this one. Maybe one day I'll use it as a rental, but for now the plan is to keep it as a secondary place. An escape.
I lead Peter into the living room, the one place that's not an absolute disaster. "Can I get you something to drink?"
He shakes his head. "I'm not here to be entertained. I'm here to help you."
"I was just being polite," I grumble.
He crosses his arms. We stand across from one another, my wooden coffee table between us. "You wanted to talk about Penn?"
Was that a wince? Did he justwincewhen he said Penn's name?
My arms cross too, body posture mirroring his. "I know he's the reason you know Hugo. And you're here in Olive Township because of him."
He nods. "Correct on both counts. What is it you want to know about him?"
Now that I'm here, asking the questions and looking Peter in his eyes, I'm not sure what I want to say. What I want to ask. Fearing I'll sound stupid and whiny if I ask the one question I really want an answer to, I say, "Hugo said he doesn't think Penn is happy."
One of Peter's eyebrows lift. "Is that right?"
I blow out a hard breath. "I guess what he said was that he doesn't know if Penn is happy. Definitively."
"And you want him to be?"
I nod, one long strand of hair escaping the clip holding back half my hair. "Of course."
Peter is quiet for a long moment, and it hits me this is probably weird for him. It's entirely possible Penn nevermentioned me, and honestly, why would he? How many guys sit around and talk about their childhood best friends?
Do you want a beer? Have you seen the new movie about the Roman Empire?Somehow I don't thinkLet's sit in a circle and bare our hearts about our childhoodsis something a single one of them says.
Which means Peter has almost certainly never heard of me. I have to ask though. I have to know. The answer might decimate me, but this is my chance to ask, and if I don't take it, I might not get it again.
Heart in my throat, I say, "Has Penn ever mentioned me?"
I see it in the micro movements of his face, the fractioned squinting of his eyes. He feels bad for me.
"Forget it," I say, waving my hand. My cheeks are hot, and the heat spreads up and out, to my forehead and my neck. "We were friends back in the day, but we were kids. Practically babies." It sure didn't feel like it at the time. It felt big, overwhelming and all-encompassing. My friendship with Penn did not exist in its own lane, but rather a thread woven into the fabric of my life. He was there. Always there.
Penn.
