Weston stands, and when Penelope wraps her arms around his neck, his eyes close and his entire body relaxes. His lips shudder with an exhale, and it’s as if the tension he seems to be carrying at all times rolls off him in waves.
I can’t help but wonder what Weston’s life looked like before he moved in with Carter and Penelope—and I’m curious what it must’ve been like to be in jail and on trial for the amount of time he was. What he must’ve done to get himself placed there.
It’s clear now that he must rarely feel safe, and perhaps that’s why he’s so guarded. Penelope must be a place of safety for him, and maybe I am intruding on something much deeper than I realized.
Penelope pulls back before facing me, smiling and hugging me too. “Hi, pretty girl. I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”
“Weston stopped in to get you those.” I nod to the flowers in his hand as I step out of her embrace. “So I thought I’d come say hello when he told me he was meeting with you for lunch.”
Weston’s gaze pins me from my periphery, and I wonder if he’s thinking back on the conversation he overheard, pondering if a simple hello was the only reason I followed him here, or if he too can read the desperation radiating off me to get away from the flower shop. He sighs before handing Penelope the flowers and pulling out her chair. She kisses his cheek, thanking him before she drops into it. Allie calls out that our drinks are ready.
While he’s grabbing them, Penelope turns to me. “How are you doing?”
“Better.” I smile, and it’s only partially a lie. I am better than I was a week ago when Penelope and the rest of my friends and family came over for book club. Physically, I am doing much better, but mentally—emotionally—I’m just as lost.
I’m so grateful I wasn’t the person to answer the phone at Honeysuckle earlier, and yet I still find myself wishing I’d heard his voice. If only just to know how genuine his tone may have been, if he may truly miss me. I still miss Parker at times, and I fucking hate myself for that.
I have brief moments where I wake up in the morning and I’m not even sure what I’m doing it for. I had a panic attack in the middle of the night this past weekend, because transfer application deadlines for the fall semester at most universities are at the end of this month, and I have no idea what the hell I’m doing with my life.
Berkeley had been my dream school since I was a child. I honestly don’t know why, maybe because of myHigh School Musicalphase and the belief the entire campus was crawling with the Troy Boltons of the world.
Maybe that’s why I fell for Parker so quickly too.
He was perfect, and I can’t seem to come to terms with the fact that all of it was merely a mirage.
I worked so hard to be accepted there. The idea of throwing it away because of him slashes through my gut, and I hate the feeling of walking around with my organs exposed. Part of me wants to be a stronger woman. Wants to face him and take back what’s mine—my education, my apartment, my fucking body.
I don’t think I’m that girl, though. I don’t think I can handle that. And for all the times Allie has told me that’s okay, that sometimes simply healing is the strongest thing we can do, it doesn’t feel like enough.
I don’t feel like enough, and I fear I’ll never feel like enough for anyone ever again.
“Better?” Penelope asks, pulling me from my thoughts with a raised brow. She looks so regal with her auburn hair slicked back into a low bun, lips painted a shade of berry that makes her green eyes glitter. She clasps her manicured hands on the table between us, then leans back in her chair as she crosses one leg over the other, causing her beige trousers to sway at the ankles, where her red-bottomed heel plays peekaboo as she shakes her foot. “Are you really?”
Penelope is the most educated person I know. A doctor. An archaeologist and professor. An artist too. She has degrees from UCLA and fucking Oxford. She’s a gallery owner who somehow found balance between academia, business, and creativity, honing all of it together to serve her perfectly.
I bet she’s never made a mistake in her entire life.
I kind of want to ask her about every decision she’s ever made so that I can mimic them, and maybe someday I’ll be more like her, and less like me.
“I guess I . . . feel a little lost?”
She smiles softly. “That’s okay. You’ve gone through something that threw you off the road you were on, and you might wander for a while until you find it again. Or...” She shrugs. “You might stumble onto a completely new path, and suddenly everything will make sense.”
“Actually... speaking of that.” I swallow. “I know you’re teaching that ancient art course at Golden State this summer, and classes have already started, so it’s too late to register, but... do you think it would be possible for me to?—”
Weston slides my s’mores latte across the table, setting Penelope’s drink in front of her before he sits down across from me and pops the lid off his coffee. His eyes lift as he brings it to his mouth, locking on mine while he blows over the top of the cup, snuffing out the billowing steam.
His lips look plush—soft when they’re pursed like that, and I’m suddenly very aware of the way breath feels when it skates over my skin. Goosebumps rise on the back of my neck as if that’s the place he’s blowing instead.
A chill bites my spine, and I’m forced to shake my head and look away.
“It would be possible for you to...?” Penelope drawls.
“What?” I ask, whipping in her direction.
Weston lets out a soft chuckle.
“You were asking about the course I’m teaching.”
